For the next few days, Bailey took up Matt's offer of clean clothes and a warm shower. Jess was happy enough to serve him breakfast and wash his filthy things, but he went just as quickly as he came. Somehow still, he was around just when Matt needed him most and just long enough to ward Jess off.

It was almost like he had a knack for flying in at the right time and then slipping away unnoticed. Still, Matt shared only a few words with him in the days that passed—until Friday night when he came home from work to find Bailey sitting on the arm of the couch. He smelled strongly of soap, his loose wet hair tucked behind his ear. His arm moved vigorously as he sketched shapes to paper. To Matt it looked like nothing more than nonsensical shadows.

"What is that?"

"Art." When Bailey laid his book down in his lap and Matt noticed the shirt he was wearing. The same shirt that could be seen in every one of Matt's senior year photos. Save a horse, ride a cowboy, it said.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Your wife gave it to me." Bailey dug a dark, tilted line into the page. "Knew you owned a shirt like this. Felt it in my bones."

"She's not my wife. And that shirt's one of my biggest regrets."

Bailey flashed Matt that devil smirk if just for a moment. His dark eyes fell back to his page and he shadowed in a strange curve with the edge of his pencil. "I kinda like it."

"Keep it, since you have a thing for stealing my shit anyway. Why are you still here?"

"Your place has good lighting." Bailey feathered his pencil across the page, not looking up to meet Matt's eyes. "Besides, she's been waiting for you in the bedroom. Smells like candles and flavored lube. Sad you need that."

A sudden panic flared in Matt's chest and his throat tightened hard. Staring at the hallway to the bedroom suddenly felt a lot like a walk down death row.

"So what is it?" Bailey asked. "She gotta set of teeth down there or something?"

Matt dropped down onto the sofa beside him, hands raking back through his mussed hair. "It's not her, it's..." But a thought made him pause. His goal here was to learn about Bailey—make sure he wasn't dangerous. Not to spill his own secrets to the one person in this world he doesn't trust with 'em.

He looked to Bailey's sketchbook instead. "You have anything else in there?"

The hound paused, pencil still dug into the paper. After a moment of hesitance, he flipped one page back in the book and passed it on to Matt. Deep graphite marks had been poured into every inch of the paper. Lucy's black-and-white spotted face stared back at him, tongue curled up toward her nose. He'd gotten everything right, down to the ink-spattered shape on her forehead.

"When did you make this?"

"This morning," Bailey said.

He hated to say it, but Matt was impressed. He'd drawn her long lashes so prominent, her dewy eyes wet with sunlight. Her nostrils were even a bit squished on one side, just like the real Lucy. "You're good."

"I know," Bailey took the book back and stood from the couch. He had a weird way about him that never needed announcing. Always seemed to leave without a goodbye or even an acknowledgment.

Before he could go though, Matt asked, "Do you only draw animals?"

Bailey turned to look at him—cowboy shirt too short for the shape of him. Wet at the shoulder from his undried hair. "No," he said. "I draw the things that make me feel alright." There was something so different about him when he said it. Even the way he stood there threw Matt off. Maybe it was the too-tight shirt, or the baggy sweats he'd borrowed, or the way his hair looked when it was wet. But Bailey didn't seem like Bailey. He seemed like...Bailey's less-evil twin.

He turned to leave, but as his toes hit the front mat, Bailey paused. He looked back over his shoulder at Matt. "Hey. Got a text from Bronx today. We're heading out to the first den this weekend."

"I have to work."

"Call in sick."

"Do you know what honest work is? It ain't that easy."

"It ain't my problem," Bailey said in a twang that mocked his own. He reached for the door, but as his long fingers curled around the handle, he paused there a second time. Then Bailey let out a breath and lowered his head, like he was givin' in to himself. "Not that I care about your hetero bullshit, but you should probably man up and tell your wife you don't want to fuck her. Let her find someone who does."

"Why do you keep calling her that? She's not my—"

"She might as well be," Bailey said, shoving the door open. Then he shut it behind him, so much softer than Matt expected

Matt woke to a call from Quentin at six the next morning. Their first den to tackle was a large cabin in the heart of the Oregon woods. It was a meeting ground for the rogues, but their summer convergence had ended weeks ago. "There will be no one there," Quentin told him. "So you don't have to worry about getting caught or hurting anyone. Take Bailey with you—if there are stragglers, he'll smell them."

So come Saturday morning when his father usually went soft on barn chores, Matt loaded gasoline into the back of his wrangler and they took the three hour drive down i9.

By noon, Matt was in Oregon, staring into the window of an empty cabin. The inside was dark, the walls covered in black sheets that made his heart jump when they swayed to the wind coming through a crack in the window. When he couldn't spot anyone inside, he stalked back uphill to the Wrangler where Bailey sat. He wasn't to leave the vehicle, according to Bronx. Stepping one foot on the ground could leave his scent for the rats.

Matt climbed into the driver seat and watched the cabin in the distance. Someone built that place. Someone bought it. Someone was payin' the rent and someone kept all their shit inside. Someone's life was there and he was about to burn it to the ground. He needed reassurance that he was doin' the right thing. Even if it meant asking the one question he'd been reluctant to ask.

"What kinda stuff do they do here?"

Bailey seemed surprised by the question, the shape of him tensing in his seat. He looked to Matt, that same bored expression in his eyes. "Sure a southern belle like you could stomach it?"

"If I'm destroyin' someone else's property, I wanna feel good about it."

"You don't need me to convince you rogues are shit people. You saw it for yourself."

"But I don't know anything about 'em," Matt said. "What's their game?"

"They collect." Bailey said. "That's what rogues are in the end. Collectors. They find people—wolves who can give them what they want and they collect them. No different than rich men, buying people with money. Rogues just use violence instead."

"Do they kill people?" Matt asked.

Bailey brought his knees up, heels of his boots pressed into the edge of his seat. Matt hated to see his interior dirtied, but there was an uneasy shade to Bailey that he hadn't seen before. He was bristled, like a cat in a kitten-tick. So Matt didn't say a word as Bailey crossed his arms over his knees and watched the cabin like it might come to life at any moment and swallow them both up.

"People are too precious a resource to waste," he said. "Everyone can give someone something. But when things go sideways, yeah. They kill people."

"Anyone you ever know die?"

Bailey looked to him, dark, unmoving eyes casting their slow gaze back to the cabin. "They killed Danny."

"Were you close?"

Bailey pressed back against the headrest, and whatever worry was in him turned agitated. "Can't it be enough that they enslave people?"

Matt almost started at the sound of his voice; it was angry and loud when he usually never spoke above a murmur. "Yeah, I mean—I guess I just don't know what they're like. I saw 'em that one time, but—"

"They're monsters," Bailey said, softer now. "A den is nothing compared to the shit they've taken from me."

For a moment, Bailey was that same small boy, slouched against the balcony door of that fancy hotel in California. Matt remembered Gannon and that too-trusting smile of his. The way he talked to Bronx like he was puppet still tangled by the strings. Matt should've asked that night what Gannon did. Why Bailey looked so small.

He didn't though. 'Cause it was none of his business.

"Alright. I believe you."

Bailey raised his head—looked to Matt in the strangest way. Head tilted just a few degrees, brow twisted like he'd spoken a spill of Latin and not a few simple English words with one distinct meaning. Maybe he just wasn't used to bein' believed.

Matt climbed out of the Wrangler with gasoline in hand. He started by rounding the house and breaking the smallest window he could find, then he clamored inside to the musty stink of an old bathroom. Outside, a skinny hall led to the cardboard-covered windows at the front of the cabin. It was dank with the smell of wet wood and darkened by the black-out curtains eclipsing every set of window panes.

It seemed the power had been shut off and the wolves planned to stay gone for a while, but something in Matt screamed to hurry. Even without him around, Raven's words echoed in the metronome of a heartbeat. Instincts, princess. Instincts.

Matt went to work checking every closet and bedroom and when he was sure the place was empty, then he held a flashlight between his teeth and laid the gas down over every towel and blanket and sheet of paper in the place. When the gasoline was emptied, he climbed back out of the window and tossed a match inside. It caught first on an unspooled roll of toilet paper, then the filthy rug.

When the shower curtain caught fire next, Matt turned from the successful arson and headed back up the hill, fire burning behind him—popping in fierce, sky-born echoes. The flashlight was still in his mouth as he made his way to the Wrangler, fighting off the gloves on his fingers. When he looked up, Bailey wore a look of mirth, leaning on the frame with his chin in his hand.

"Ain't that a picture," he said.

When he realized he was talking about the flashlight, Matt tossed it at him through the window and climbed into the driver's seat. "Shut the hell up."

They watched the fire eat and grow and destroy, and for a long moment in the ocean of silence that followed, Bailey didn't look so bored. He watched the way most people stare at paintings. Like it was somethin' beautiful worth writing to memory.

He should'a driven away then, but Matt hesitated on the ignition. The flames glinted in the black of Bailey's eyes and he watched. Watched and watched without a word. Matt wondered, if he could in fact feel, what was he feeling right now? Seein' this hellhole burn to the ground should've felt like something. He wanted to ask—God he wanted to, but something told him to bite his tongue. That he wouldn't get an answer.

That again, it was none of his business.

They stayed in that silence couldn't risk hanging around any longer, then Matt turned the Jeep around and headed home. Hardly a word was spared between them, but occasionally, Matt caught a glimpse of the sketchbook in Bailey's lap as he outlined the tips of trees and the low floating clouds on the horizon. A darkness stained beneath his eyes that Matt didn't notice before—a night without sleep, probably. He didn't think to ask, though—not until Bailey was nearly throwing himself from the Wrangler window and demanding Matt stop the car.

He pulled into the nearest rest stop and Bailey hardly made it more than two steps before he was vomiting in the brush. Matt shut off the engine and stepped out of the Jeep to the chatter of birds and a cool breeze through his hair.

He'd been here before on a fishing trip with his pop, back when they did things like that. Back when he still had a boy to mold. It looked the same in every sense—several benches cemented on a grassy hillside, water fountains erected by walk-ways. Posters and warning signs about the wild animals and what to do if you spot a bear during camping season.

The nostalgia didn't settle well in him. He turned his eyes to the hunched wolf, heaving the last of his stomach out in the grass-side of the parking lot.

"Thought wolves didn't get sick," Matt said, back pressed against the passenger door.

"Carsick." Bailey had finished but he was still squatting in the grass, fingers in the dirt like he might vomit again. "Anything can get carsick, dumbass."

"You sure?" When Bailey didn't respond, Matt crossed the grass to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, maybe we should—"

His hand was ripped away hard. Bailey stood to his feet, wiping his mouth on the inside of his shirt. "Don't touch me," he said, sick and breathless. But his face was washed and the nausea was obvious. So when Bailey turned away and cut the park to a picnic bench, Matt locked up the Wrangler and followed after.

"The hell's going on?" Matt asked. "We haven't been driving long enough for you to be carsick."

"We've been driving all fucking day," Bailey said, dropping down into a bench and stuffing his face in his hands.

"We've been in the car twenty minutes tops since the den." Matt slumped down in the seat across from him, trying to get a look at his face through the tangle of black locks between his fingers. Maybe he really was carsick. Something about the thought seemed damn near impossible, but at the same time, Matt hoped it was true. It'd humanize him a bit, if anything.

And if it wasn't true, then Maybe it was Matt's fault for the questions he'd asked earlier. "Was that Danny guy—"

"I don't want to talk about that," Bailey said, shoving his hair back, only for the lock to fall back over his eyes. "No more questions, just leave me alone for ten minutes and then you can go back to your cow shit and your bad sex and your fuck-head dad."

"Jesus."

"Then don't ask," Bailey said. "I'm just carsick. Leave it alone."

"Alright." Matt stood from the bench and took in a breath. The park was empty of people, but the grass was lush and the trees served as good shade from the sun. The fresh air bit at the sweat on the back of his neck. He wouldn't mind sitting around for a while. "We'll stay 'til you feel better."

Again, Bailey looked at him in that strange, confused way. He splayed his arms out on the table like he was going to lay his head in them, but instead stared down at his hands—red and beaten from his work on the farm. "Danny was my bunkmate in Ricco's circle." His words caught Matt's attention and lowered himself back into his seat. "He was going to help me get out. We had a plan in place—waited for the summer storms to roll in. Storms fuck with our senses. Put us on edge. We were going to flee East and seek asylum with Leo, but..." he shoved his hair back again and this time it obeyed, slicked back loosely on his crown. "I did something stupid: Got cocky with Ricco. I was sixteen at the time and you saw how big he is. Snapped a rib, I couldn't move right for days until it healed. Danny left without me."

"Without you?"

"I wouldn't be able to keep up—that's what he said. 'Sorry, Bai. Take care.' They caught him before he could even make it to Leo's territory."

"Jesus," Matt said. Crows careened in the sky above him, and he half-expected to hear Raven's voice in his head. For a moment, he wished the intrusive bastard would pop in. Advise him on what he was supposed to say next. "That's why we're doin' this isn't it?" Matt asked. "Burn up the dens, run them out."

"We're doing this because we're getting paid to do this," Bailey said. "You can lie to everyone around you Cowboy, but don't lie to yourself. It's pathetic."

The words cut deeper than Matt expected. He stared down at the perforated table, the metal hot from the mid-day sun. Lying to himself was all he seemed to do nowadays. Maybe Bailey didn't have secrets. Maybe he was lyin' to himself about that, too.

"That money you took from Ricco wasn't for you, was it?"

"What would I use it on?" Bailey said, that humorless laugh baring a sliver of white teeth. "My penthouse in Miami?"

"Why'd you take it to St. Terrance?"

"Was where I stayed after my mom died. Only place where it didn't feel like someone was out to get me. Rent prices increased, they were going to have to close the house. All those kids would have gone to fucked foster families like I did." When he finished, Bailey leaned back in his seat, slick black eyes narrowing on Matt. "I don't like you, Cowboy. Do you know why?"

"Because I'm an acquired taste?" asked Matt.

"Because you ask me questions I don't want to answer. And for some fucking reason, I can't help myself." Even in the light of day, his dark eyes bit into Matt. Binary stars, galaxies out of his reach. "I loved Danny and he left me fucked and beaten. Even after he died, when Ricco handed me a shovel and made me dig his grave with a broken rib, I blamed him for how it hurt. It felt like my chest was being torn open from the inside. Danny died and the piece of shit took me with him. So for the love of God, Cowboy...stop asking me questions I don't want to answer. Because I will. Understand?"

Matt didn't know what to say. He opened his mouth to apologize, but his words choked halfway out. He swallowed any remnants of them down and nodded instead.

"Good. Let's get this over with," Bailey said, shoving himself up from the bench and making his way back toward the Wrangler. He walked with his arms crossed over his chest, and though it was discreet, Matt caught the way his hand cupped his side beneath his bare, folded arm. Cradling his ribs like he could still feel the broken bone.

an; again i'm sorry for the wait/quality of these last 2 chapters. these past two weeks have been terrible and I'm just trying to survive right now.