Page 39 of Banished From the Pack

“Why does Callan know if you don’t? Does he use these and not you?”

The woman in front of us yanks her bags from the cashier, shooting us looks of disgust and abject pity before stomping off.

“No, he doesn’t use those,” I say to Luna. “He’s a man. You use tampons when it’s your… Moon cycle.” I’m starting to sweat in this frigid, ice-chilled store. I shoot her a meaningful look, trying to shut her up, and shove a handful of clothes onto the counter.

“My moon cycle?” Her brow stitches together. “Ohhh. You mean when I’m bleeding.”

“Right. That.”

The cashier is a young, pimply-faced kid, barely out of diapers if his whisker-free chin is any indication.

Luna’s still clutching the damn box of tampons. “What do I do with them?”

“We pay for all this shit and leave,” I say, batting the box onto the counter.

It’s official. I’ve been unmanned by this pipsqueak of a girl, and I don’t like it—not one bit. I don’t know what I can do about it except to climb back on my motorcycle and resist the sensation of her hot pussy pressed against my lower back as I take our stray back home where I’ll blow my load in the shower, picturing her skinny legs spread wide and my thick cock wrecking her tight little cunt.

Chapter Sixteen

Callan

It takes the better part of an hour to cleanse and tend Ethan’s wounds. That vampire did a number on him, barely missing his carotid artery, or I’d be a twin now, instead of a triplet.

Bloody towels fill the kitchen sink, and crimson spatters cover the floor, but at least my brother is alive.

I had to break out our best liquor to stitch Ethan up good and proper. Now that he’s shit-faced, I tie off the last thread on his neck and pat his shoulder. “Good as new.”

Ethan opens his eyes—he’s kept them squeezed shut with a grimace on his face while I’ve stitched his neck. “You fucking done?”

“Just about.” I grab the can of spray antiseptic we keep for moments like this and spritz some onto his wound. “The scar’ll leave you uglier than you already are. Want to see?”

Ethan takes another swig of whiskey and shakes his head. “Nah. I trust you.”

“Then let’s go deal with the body.”

Pushing to his feet, he winces. “Damn. That fucking hurts.” He lifts his hand and touches my artistry sewn into his flesh. A whistle leaves his lips. “Hoo, baby, I thought I was a goner there for a minute. But, damn, that was fun.”

I place the medical supplies back in the canvas kit and shove it back in the cupboard where we keep it.

“We’re going to have to wash all this shit,” Ethan says, moving right past the mess. “After we deal with the dead guy.”

“By ‘we,’ you mean ‘me,’ right?” I kick a red-streaked towel out of my path as we head toward the back door.

Ethan grunts. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

“It’s your blood,” I remind him.

“You’re better at it than me,” he says, nudging the screen door with the toe of his shit-kickers. The door flies open and whacks against the wall. Ethan exits, and I catch the door before it pops me in the face.

“You know how to do your own fucking laundry.”

Ethan turns to grin over his shoulder at me. “We could teach Luna to do it.”

“Fuck you. She’s not our maid,” I say, following him toward the trees lining our property.

“She could be,” he counters. “I wouldn’t mind seeing her on her hands and knees.”

“Your dick’s going to get you killed one of these days.”