Page 4 of The Wolf's Mate

I fucking hate when people talk about me behind my back. It sets off my rage as if a switch flipped inside me. I must have taken a step toward the gossiping crowd because The Guardian’s hand wraps around my forearm.

“I advise you to keep your anger in check. Need I remind you that you are amongst shifters? Wolves, to be exact. You’re out of your depths here, Ms. Ortega.” He manages to make his firm tone sound gentle.

Wolves? I read and reread the contract at least a million times and could never find out the supernatural entity The Guardian alluded to in the contract. But his alpha comment from earlier now makes sense. And the “dogs” walking around the town…aren’t dogs at all. I wait for fear to set in, but my emotions are all over the place right now.

Feeling like a chastised child, I nod once because The Guardian is right. I’m way out of my league here. I’m no stranger to fights, but that was back in Grym Hollow. This is quite literally a completely different world, and no matter how much these people may look like me, they aren’t human. Not entirely.

“Come. The packhouse is this way.” The Guardian takes off in the direction he points to.

“A packhouse?”

“Yes,” The Guardian says, and I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. This man is obscenely obtuse.

“What’s a packhouse?” I try again, keeping my tone light.

“It’s a house for the pack.”

I fucking lose it.

Or I would if this man didn’t scare the living shit out of me. So instead, I silently scream, clutching my bag to my chest and follow after him.

Grass, clearly annoyed with my slow pace, runs up to The Guardian and barks playfully. “Traitor,” I whisper, and I swear The Guardian laughs.

We walk in silence the rest of the way to the packhouse, away from the small market. We pass more paved dirt roads that branch off into what look like small neighborhoods with more cabins. Some have laundry hanging from a wire outside, while others have beautiful gardens or a firepit.

It’s all so strange and yet…comforting in a weird way.

The Guardian stops abruptly, and Grass does the same. I nearly trip over my dog’s tail and curse under my breath.

In front of us stands a large wooden castle. It’s the only way I know how to describe it. The house is at least three times wider than the ones we passed, and two, maybe three stories tall. It reminds me of a cozy hotel, the ones run by an elderly couple who feed you stale cookies and burnt coffee.

“This is the packhouse,” The Guardian says, and this time, he elaborates, “Think of it as what you would call a city hall. It’s also the home of the King Alpha, so it will be your home too.”

My jaw drops. “You’ve got to be joking.” Surely he doesn’t mean this extravagant house will be where I live.

“No. I hardly ever joke.” His serious tone nearly makes me boil over with anxious laughter.

I have only ever lived in one house my entire life. A shitty two-bedroom home that gets too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. Clarissa and I shared a room, but it’s so small that only one bed fits in there comfortably. My parents’ room is even smaller.

Still, my parents took great pride in that shitty house, doing their best to keep it clean and free of clutter. Even after my father passed, my mother did her best to keep the house running as normal. Because I knew how blessed they felt to even have a home, I never complained about our living conditions. At least not to my family.

But looking at what will be my new house, it now seems…excessive. Does one man really need all this room?

I mutter the question out loud, and The Guardian answers, “He’s not the only one who lives here. He has a room for his second-in-command, one for his family, and the employees have staff quarters they are permitted to live in if they so desire. Plus, it’s open most days for the pack to come and go as they please.”

That makes me feel a little better, but only marginally.

“Lady Blanchette, welcome to Lycan Forest,” a deep voice says, and I immediately snap my attention to the front entryway of the house.

A man stands at the top of the stairs, an inviting smile on his face. He looks no older than me and carries himself with a sense of importance. Certain. Collected. The man has dark short-cropped hair, deep umber skin, and eyes that remind me of storm clouds, a beautiful shade with specks of gold.

The man is shirtless, showing off his well-defined muscles, abs that look chiseled from stone. He’s also tall. Like really tall. His body eclipses the door, and I bet he has to duck his head to get inside.

While I stare at this man like a fucking moron, he descends the steps of the packhouse. Then, because I apparently live in a Jane Austen novel now, the giant man bows. I’m left to look like a damn idiot. Am I supposed to bow back? Curtsy? High-five?

I settle on a tight smile and the slightest nod, which seems to not offend him.

“Ender, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” the man says to my companion.

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