Page 10 of What a Wolf's Heart Decides

She licked her lips. “Why me? I mean, there are other latent females who’ve made the Turn.” Was there something wrong with this guy that his mommy had to write letters angling for dates?

“It’s a good question,” Max said, rising and circling his desk. He pointed at the huge map that hung on the wall behind it. Hand-drawn on parchment, it predated the U.S. Constitution by fifty years. Humans would recognize the general outline of North America, and some of the state boundaries were roughly the same. But the similarities ended there. For one thing, there were sixty territories instead of fifty states. The biggest difference, though, was the lack of a border between the United States and Canada. In the werewolf world, that line didn’t exist. It was the reason Max’s territory spanned both New York and Quebec.

He walked from one edge of the map to the other, drawing an imaginary line from the North Atlantic to the Pacific Northwest. “This is the Washington Territory.” He made a circling motion around the squarish shape of the human state. Then he drew another line upward, landing on a spot near the coast. “This is Vancouver.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “British Columbia. That’s in Canada.”

“Yes, I know.” Good grief, she wasn’t that bad at school stuff.

He faced her. “How much do you know about the Washington Territory?”

Uh . . . The question tumbled around her mind. Living her whole life on the East coast, she hadn’t given it much thought. “It rains a lot?”

Max didn’t smile. Instead, he looked at the map, his face thoughtful in profile. “It’s the most sparsely populated territory in the New World. Only Europe has fewer wolves.”

That didn’t mean much. Like every other wolf forced to sit through lectures about werewolf lore, she knew the story of how the European wolves had battled and bickered themselves to the brink of extinction. It was the reason the survivors who crossed the Atlantic centuries ago had vowed not to repeat the same mistakes. Each Alpha picked a Beta—an advisor and confidante who was supposed to check their worst impulses and help them rule. They also surrounded themselves with Hunters who patrolled the territory so the Alpha was free to look after his people rather than defend his borders.

It worked. Most of the time.

Max went on. “Birth rates are down in every territory, but no part of the country has numbers as dismal as Washington. There hasn’t been a birth or a mating in over ten years.”

She looked at the map. “No matings?”

“None,” he said, his tone grim. He turned and settled behind his desk once more, then propped an elbow on one of the arms and rested his chin in his hand, his gaze almost . . . troubled.

But it was more than that. For the first time Haley could remember, he looked older. Careworn. Tired.

On impulse, she leaned forward and said, “It really bothers you, doesn’t it? The population problem.”

If he was surprised by her candor, he didn’t show it. “Yes,” he said simply. He hesitated, then added, “But what bothers me more is I seem to be the only Alpha trying to do something about it.”

“Like talking to the witches.”

“Witchborn,” he corrected. “They’re careful to make that distinction, considering most witches call them an abomination and want them dead.”

Ouch. “That’s not very family friendly of them.” She still had a hard time wrapping her head around the idea of “witchborn wolves.” In her defense, no one had known of their existence until three years ago. Apparently, the witch covens were even more maniacal than werewolves about keeping their bloodlines pure. Only the leaders of the great magical houses could approve a match, and they rarely allowed witches to marry for love.

But that hadn’t stopped their members from finding romance. In some cases, they’d found it with werewolves, resulting in hybrid offspring with interesting powers. For reasons Haley wasn’t privy to, the witchborn had appointed their de facto leader—a mysterious wolf named Damian Blackwood—to approach Max and orchestrate a “coming out” process for the witchborn.

She’d met Damian a handful of times over the past three years. He’d seemed nice enough—until she saw him pin a subordinate to the wall with nothing more than the flick of a finger.

Max offered her a tight smile. “Family ties don’t matter to the magical houses. Witches are ruthless. They only care about blood when it can bring them power. Most only have children to solidify alliances.”

Haley’s stomach lurched. “How can they use their own children in such a despicable way?”

“No idea. But my guess is they might see things differently if confronted by the same fertility issues we face. Fortunately, the witchborn seem immune to our struggles in that area.”

“Which is why you’re talking with them.” It was just a guess, but it made sense. He’d been conducting not-so-secret meetings with Damian for close to two years. Rumor had it the witchborn were capable of producing multiple children. Max claimed the witches were ruthless, but so was he—possibly even more so.

He was up to something. She could sense it.

In response, he gave her another enigmatic smile. “We all have to do our part.”

Huh. That was a non-answer if ever she’d heard one. Her gaze fell on the letter he’d left on the desk. “Including me?” An uncomfortable thought jumped into her brain. Was this his way of getting an undesirable wolf off his hands? By unloading her onto a territory desperate for new members?

“If it’s what you want,” he said. “There’s no harm in meeting new people. And if you and this wolf hit it off, I think we’d all welcome the possibility of a mating and, eventually, a child.”

The uncomfortable feeling grew. She dared to meet his gaze—and hold it. “I don’t like the idea of being a brood mare.”

He gave her a mild look. “No one is suggesting you become one. You know as well as I do how important it is to be certain about a potential mate. Forever is a long time, Haley.”

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