Page 1 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

1

ANNIE, AGE EIGHTEEN

There’ssomething wrong with me.

Beyond the usual.

It’s November, and I’m sweating through my long jean skirt.

The yellow school bus bumps along, winding back to Quarry Pack territory from Moon Lake Academy, and I slide back and forth on the plastic bench, leaving streaks of sweat on the dark green seats. I scrub the dampness away with the cuff of my flannel shirt, but then the bus takes another hairpin turn, and I’ve got another streak to swipe.

What if it’s wasting sickness?

A memory flashes into my head—the stink of camphor, Ma’s rattling lungs, the white sheet almost flat on the mattress except for the knobs of her knees and ridges of her hips.

But it can’t be wasting sickness. The big brains at Moon Lake cured that years ago. Besides, sweating isn’t a symptom.

The sharp, pecking voice that lives in the back of my head pipes up. It can never be silent for long.

You know what causes sweating.

The bus barrels around a curve. I brace my knees against the seat in front of me and press my spine into the back so I don’t slide.

It’s heat.

If I ignore the voice, it’ll get louder and more insistent until I melt down. If I listen to it, I’ll work myself into a panic attack. I don’t know which is worse. I’ve tried to experiment, but I don’t make a good scientist when I’m balled up in a corner, rocking and digging my nails into my forearms.

Sometimes I hate myself. I want to unzip myself like a pair of footie pajamas, step out of my skin, and walk away.

I want to cut the nagging, beaky voice out of my brain with a pair of scissors. I know the voice is me, but I hate it because it’s always full of doom and gloom, and it’s always right.

Heat causes sweating. And it makes unmated males stink. What’s that smell, Annie? You smell it. I know you do.

It’s three dozen kids at the end of a long day, crammed into a metal can with windows that only open halfway.

No, it isn’t. It’s different. Mustier. Nastier.

My stomach gurgles queasily. I switch to breathing through my mouth.

I’d give anything for a knob that would turn the voice off. Or down. I’d take down.

You’re in heat. You know it. Your mate is here. Time’s up.

If the voice had a body, I’d take a tire iron to the back of its head. In this pack, I’m the shyest and quietest female my age, the scaredy cat who wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouth full of it—but if the voice were a person, I’d crack its skull open.

Your mate could be any one of these males. You don’t get to pick. Fate decides, and you have to take it. And then he can do whatever he wants to you.

The pecking voice throws up images of the worst males I know—Lochlan Byrne, smirking as he slinks out of a broomcloset, tucking himself back into his gym shorts while a female with raccoon eyes follows in his wake, head high and defiant, her face sickly white and her hands shaking.

Alfie Doyle, shoving little Frankie Duffy down the steep bus steps, laughing when the poor guy sprawls in the asphalt.

Brody Hughes, leaning on the fence beside the track while we run past during human sport class, jeering at us to pick up our feet while he ogles our chests.

Somehow, my innards twist tighter. I wouldn’t have figured that was possible. My stomach already hurts worse than it usually does at the end of the day. I’m too scared to use the bathroom at the Academy—not around females from other packs—so I’m always bloated and crampy after lunch. If I poke my lower belly, it’ll be rock hard.

I need privacy and a shower. Then I’ll feel better. Maybe I’m making myself hot. I do sweat when I freak out.

Not this hot. Not this much sweat. And what about that smell?

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