Free Frostbitten by Kelley Armstrong Page A

people, because that fit the way I wanted to see him. But I’d always known it wasn’t the truth. For Clay, beating a recalcitrant mutt was like brushing his teeth. It wasn’t something he liked or disliked—he was just doing what needed to be done. A swift beating helped stop the spread of respect-decay, the kind that led to strikes against the Pack and its Alpha.
     
    That’s why Clay and I made such a good team. I played good cop and no one thought it a sign of weakness because, well, I was a woman, so naturally I’d be the soft touch. When a mutt wouldn’t listen to me, he had to deal with Clay’s fists. The mediator and the enforcer. It worked fine until half the team wasn’t around.
     
    So as I approached the door, I rubbed my face, erasing any sign that said I regretted anything Clay had done to Reese.
     
    “Door’s open,” Clay called.
     
    I found him pacing inside, cell phone at his ear. Reese sat on the edge of the bed, with a bloody towel around his right hand.
     
    “I didn’t do it,” Clay said.
     
    I motioned to the phone.
     
    “Jeremy,” he said. Getting medical advice, I presumed.
     
    “What happened?” I asked Reese.
     
    He glanced down at his towel-wrapped hand, as if startled to see it. His pupils were dilated and he blinked hard, having trouble focusing on his hand, still holding it up and staring. I glanced at Clay, but he’d turned his back to me as Jeremy gave instructions.
     
    When I took Reese’s hand, he didn’t resist. His skin above the towel was clammy, despite the warm room. I slowly unraveled the towel until I saw his hand, and winced. Two finger joints of his ring finger and the last joint of his pinkie had been cut off.
     
    “I didn’t do it,” Clay said.
     
    “Feel the need to make that perfectly clear, do you?” I said.
     
    He grunted and tossed the phone onto the bed.
     
    “What happened?” I asked.
     
    “No idea. I haven’t gotten that far. Jeremy says we need to get him stitched up. We can get the details after.”
     
    * * * *
     
    Clay retrieved my bag—with my first-aid kit—from the car. He had one in his luggage, too. Jeremy would sooner let us travel without clothing than forget emergency medical supplies.
     
    I got Reese’s hand cleaned, stitched and bandaged while Clay played nurse, taking away the dirty cloths and getting new ones. As for how he lost his fingers, Reese was staying mum. It seemed more shock than reticence, though, so Clay and I tried to distract him by discussing the latest injuries in our lives—our kids’ fall.
     
    “Logan wouldn’t talk,” I said. “But I finally got Kate to admit what happened, which was exactly what we thought.”
     
    “They jumped because they’d seen us doing it.”
     
    I explained to Reese. “Our kids have realized that our days don’t end after they go to bed. We go for walks in the forest, we talk by the fire, the food comes out…”
     
    “Especially the food,” Clay said.
     
    “Naturally they felt left out and kept getting up. Rather than turn bedtime into a battleground, we started going to bed at the same time, then sneaking downstairs or outside.”
     
    “Only they heard us if we went downstairs,” Clay said.
     
    “Being so young, they shouldn’t have secondary powers. We aren’t even sure they’re werewolves—one or both or… it’s complicated. Anyway, at this age, we don’t know whether they have enhanced hearing or we’re just louder than we think we are. But we thought we were safe, avoiding the stairs and jumping out our bed room window. Apparently not.”
     
    “They tried it?” Reese said, his first words since I’d come in. “Are they okay?”
     
    “One sprained ankle, one sprained wrist and one very guilt-stricken parent.”
     
    “Two,” Clay said. “We’re going to have to come up with another solution.”
     
    “Other than tying them to their beds?”
     
    “That’ll be option two.”
     
    I cut off the bandage. “I know, we