“I won’t. I promise.”
“Swear it.” I hear the growl of the wolf in his voice.
“I swear.”
He looks at me a moment longer, then releases my hair. “I’m gonna ask for help here. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, or you’re damn sure I want you to. Got it?”
Got it. Bo is in charge.
I can roll with that.
I can definitely roll with it.
He turns and stalks toward the back entrance of the club. I have to hurry to catch up with his long strides.
“No entrance here,” the bouncer growls as we walk up. “Go around front to get I.D.s checked.”
I.D.s. Shit.
“We’re not coming in. I just need to talk to a manager. Is Jared here? Or Tank?”
The bouncer looks at him closer, taking in the torn, bloody shirt and blood-stained jeans. He leans forward a little and sniffs.
Okay. Another wolf, then.
I look at the sign over the back of the club. Eclipse. A moon reference. So this is a werewolf club.
He touches a comm unit in his ear. “Jared, I need you at the back gate.”
A huge tattooed guy appears from the building, his attention trained on us. He examines Bo as he walks up. “Fenton. Winslow’s brother, right?”
“Yeah, Bo.” He holds out his hand, and the two shake.
“I’m sorry, man, but you’re like, what? Seventeen? I can’t let you—” His nostrils flare and his gaze drops to the blood on Bo’s shirt. “Fuck. Are you in trouble?”
“Yeah. Is there some place we can stay the night while I heal?”
Jared swears again. “Yeah.” He opens the gate and walks out. “You have a ride?”
“I have my bike.”
“Good. Follow me.”
We walk back to the row of parked motorcycles, and Jared climbs on one. I pull the helmet back on and climb behind Bo.
It’s a short ride—less than a mile—and we pull up at a tall downtown apartment building. Jared lets us in, and we ride an elevator up to the fifth floor. When we get there, he unlocks an apartment. It’s furnished, but there’s nothing personal in it. “This one is empty. There’s no food in the fridge, but you can order in.”
“Thanks, man. Hey, can you do me one more favor?”
Jared’s eyes narrow. “What’s that?”
“Don’t tell the mayor yet?”
His eyes slide to me, like he’s trying to figure out if I know what they are. “I don’t work for the mayor. But my, uh, boss, definitely needs to know what’s going on. You need to talk to him— tomorrow morning. Don’t fucking leave before you do. Understand? Do I have your word?”
Bo swallows and nods. “Yeah.”
“All right. You need anything else?” His eyes travel to me again, and his nostrils flare like he’s sniffing me. “She hurt?”
“Yeah, she’s hurt. I’m gonna take care of her.”
“With what, my man? Hang on.” He leaves the apartment and comes back a few minutes later with a med kit. “Here. This should have the basics in it.”
“Thanks, Jared. I really appreciate it.” Bo offers his hand again, only this time they clasp forearms.
“Glad to help. I gotta get back to the club, but I’ll see you in the morning.” He releases Bo’s arm and points a finger in his face. “Seriously, man. If you bail before talking to Garrett, you are toast. Understand me?”
“I won’t bail.”
“Give me your phone.” Jared takes his phone and sends himself a text, judging by the resulting chime from the phone in his pocket. “‘Kay. You got me now, too.”
“Thanks again.”
When Jared leaves, some of the tension drops out of Bo’s shoulders, but his face is still a tight mask.
“Sit.” He points to a chair in the kitchen.
Again, I’m more turned on than mad that he’s so curt. I sit in the chair, and he sets the med kit on the table and opens it, scanning the items like he’s never seen them before.
Ha. He probably hasn’t.
“Just some ibuprofen would be great.” I snag a packet out of the box.
He opens the refrigerator and produces a can of Sprite, which he cracks open and hands to me. “I smell blood.”
“It’s probably yours.”
He pulls my shirt over my head and curses when he sees my shoulder and arm. I wince a little, too, because it’s one big raspberry.
“Fuck, Sloane.” He slams his fist down on the table, making the med kit pop into the air. “I did this to you.”
My heart pounds from the aggression, but I answer him with snark. “You took two bullets for me, Bo. We’re good.”
He rifles through the kit and produces alcohol wipes.
“I’ll do it.” I try to grab them out of his hand, but he holds them out of my reach.
“I’m fucking doing it.” He rips it open and dabs at my road rash with total concentration.
“Jesus, Bo. Why are you mad?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I’m not mad. I’m…”
It hits me then that this might be Bo scared. It’s full warrior mode, ready to slay our foes if they return. But maybe he’s just ready to slay me for getting him into this.