Page 7 of Lamb

“Six.” Wolf sighed.

“Six!” Anna hissed. “Six stitches! And what? You can’t even look after your son for five minutes?”

“Look, this is cute and all”—Wolf gestured with his free hand all over Anna’s body—“but I got business, so are you going to take him or not?”

“He’s your spawn, too.”

“He—”

“Fine,” I interjected, having seen this go on long enough. “I’ll take—”

“No.”

“No.”

I frowned. “That’s rude.”

They gave me a horrifying glare as Anna reached out to heft the child toward her. The monstrous six-month-old now lookedlike a giant in Anna’s small arms, but she miraculously managed to cradle him against her with some effort.

“He may be a spawn”—Anna ran her fingers through the small cow licks curling around the sides of Dimitri’s head—“but he is stillmyspawn. I won’t let you affect him with your ...” Anna’s eyes narrowed, raking along the length of me. “Evil.”

“Wow,” I deadpanned. “How motherly of you.”

Wolf rolled his eyes, glancing toward me instead of acknowledging her antics. “Come with me.”

“Yes, boss.” I stood from the chair, ready to follow my president. My first step, however, was punctuated with a shower of metal rattling onto the wooden floor. I looked down. Three screws rolled toward my feet, bouncing off my boots. Only a single screw sat haphazardly in its hole, the sole support holding the chair together.

Anna didn’t even spare us a glance. She turned with her child in hand and sashayed away.

“Should’ve just let her get the wine,” Wolf grumbled, looking at his wife’s sabotage efforts.

I grinned. “Never.”

“So, boss …” I followed his heavy steps away from the clubroom and toward the president’s office, my eyes examining the familiar worn and faded leather cut I knew like the back of my hand. The skull’s wings branched over the wide expanse of his shoulders and rippled with each easy swing of his stride. I noted the new creases, scratches, and stains of the sun-bleached leather. It had aged. “What do you need me for? Other than my amazing good looks.”

Wolf didn’t respond.

He swung open the door to his office, leaving it wide open, and stepped around the small room, toward the beat-up desk. I followed him in, and with another look at his stiff posture circling his chair, I closed the door behind me.

Wolf took his seat, the chair creaking in protest at his mass, hands steepling on the desktop. Varnish peeled away from the wood, curling with age and abuse, leaving little more than a thumbprint of space that wasn’t scratched, chipped, or burnt.

“Are we calling church?” I probed, eyeing up a small crack on the base of the desk; a bullet had once lodged itself there and, to my knowledge, remained.

“No.” Wolf released a strained sigh. “The less people know, the better.”

My attention was piqued.

Wolf stood from his chair, on the move again, circling to the front of the desk. His thick thighs blocked the view of the crack as he purchased himself there. The furniture gave a creak of protest, but otherwise held up the enormous man’s weight.

I explored Wolf’s face—his furred brow, shadowed eyes, and the tightness of his lips. His jaw ticked with untapped frustration, and his fingers hooked tight around the lip of the desk, knuckles white and arms braced. “You seem … mad?” I proffered, pursing my lips. “No … disappointed?”

“Both,” Wolf growled, the anger sharpening that steely glint in his eyes as they leveled on my face. I traced my finger along the edges of my jaw, cogs moving.

“At me,” I concluded.

Wolf’s expression didn’t change, but it was enough confirmation.

“Why?”

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