Page 25 of Preacher

“Yeah.” Crowbar nodded. “He took the motherfucker down but not before disarming him.”

“And he got cut.” My gaze darted to the blood still oozing from the wound. Preacher—there was no longer a doubt in my mind it was him in a fur coat—was in pain and bleeding because he didn’t want to frighten me.

“Knife. Caught him in the shoulder.”

“Who?” I glanced back at him. “Who hurt him?”

“Thought you wanted me to walk you through Candyland?”

“I am hanging onto my sanity by a very thin thread, Crowbar. We can discuss the mechanics of Candyland later. Right now, Preacher is my priority. He’s bleeding, and I want to make it stop.” I took a deep breath, slowly releasing it. “Who hurt him?”

He studied me, and I could tell he’d rather chew glass than give me a name, which meant I knew the person or he wouldn’t have clammed up.

This was because of me. Preacher was hurt because I’d stupidly named his garage in a moment of panic.

“Don’t, princess,” Crowbar said. “Ain’t worth the energy.”

A tear slid down my cheek, and I didn’t bother swiping it away. “I caused this, and you want me to just shrug it off? That’s not how I’m built. He stepped up and took on my fight, and this is how I repay him?”

I wanted a name, but didn’t. The way I was feeling right now, I might grab one of Crowbar’s weapons and end up sharing a cell with my father. That level of violence shook me to my core.

The wolf moved closer, blood smearing across the floor. Without thought, I met it halfway, hand hovering over the matted fur. “How do I help you? Tell me what to do. Right, you don’t have a mouth at the moment. Thump your tail once if I’m supposed to call a vet or something.”

Crowbar snorted.

The wolf eased his head onto my lap.

“This is scary. Not the wolf thing, not really. I mean, you’re Preacher Deluca. Intimidating biker/mechanic/president/wolf/badass.”

“That’s a mouthful.” Crowbar grinned.

“You, shut it.” I glared at him. “Where’s my caramel chews?”

“You’re not crashing.”

“That was a hint you clearly didn’t grasp.” I sighed, knowing this was my life now. “Scram. I want to be alone with Preacher.”

With a wink, Crowbar straightened and walked out of the room.

“How do you put up with him?” My hand lowered into soft fur, and I found myself gently stroking his head.

Amber eyes met mine.

“I need you to get human again. I’m not digging through fur to examine your cut.” More than once I’d had to stitch up Mike. Sadly, I’d gotten pretty good at it. If I could minimize Preacher’s scar, I wanted the chance.

Chapter Eight

Trent

The wolf held my gaze for a long beat, eyes full of resignation, like he’d been hoping I’d let this stay vague a little longer. Tough. The blood was already pooling on the floor, and my hands were itching to do something useful for once in my godforsaken life.

“Don’t make me beg,” I whispered. “I’m running on fumes and trauma here. Have mercy on me, okay?”

He pulled back, paws scraping a little as he repositioned himself. I scrambled out of the way, dragging the leather jacket with me. It had become my leather emotional support.

The air around him got weird—not visibly, exactly, more like the way a room felt right before a thunderstorm broke. The hairs on my arms lifted. My ears popped.

Then the fur was retreating, melting back into skin the way frost retreats off a windshield. Bone slid under muscle, the long muzzle shortening, the wide chest narrowing, the spine resettling into a shape I knew. It happened faster than I could process and slower than my brain wanted. I caught flashes—a paw becoming a hand, the sweep of ink down a forearm that hadn’t been visible thirty seconds before.