Page 112 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

I’m mostly successful. I’m not sure whether Rodric can’t hear or see my posturing—or whether he doesn’t care—but when we pass the bonfire, he bellows, “Why is your pretty mate up and out of the den so early, Alpha? Speed isn’t a virtue in everything, pup. Sometimes you’ve got to take your time.”

Thankfully, Nessa has the grace to intervene and calls us over to join her at the breakfast table. Annie winces when she sits on the hard bench, and I make a note to send Griff for a pillow before lunch.

Efa is excited as always to see her favorite female. The pup has decided to be on her best behavior this morning. She sits primly next to Annie and makes a game of offering Annie every other bite from her biscuit. Annie thanks her for each piece, rubs her stomach and exclaims, “Yum. Thank you. So delicious.” For some reason, Efa finds this to be the best entertainment ever.

When Efa runs out of her own biscuit, she steals mine by ordering, “Look away, Affa.”

She’s such a confident little thief that she doesn’t even wait for me to turn my head before she nabs the biscuit from my plate.

After breakfast, Annie and I continue on our rounds. We accept the elders’ congratulations, Annie smiling prettily as the females make the effort to stand and embrace her. The females are more ribald in their comments, and I don’t dare growl at them, and they wouldn’t mind me if I did. When we leave them, Annie is flushed bright red.

I chase a few squealing, giddy pups up the sycamore as we pass, and then we swing by a secluded bend in the stream for a quick dip. Annie makes me turn my back when she slips under the water, and I don’t even sneak a peek. She has me leashed. I would follow her to the ends of the earth.

As the hours pass, she becomes more talkative, and I am more and more enraptured. After lunch, when she asks to go back to the wildflower field to pick some lavender, I’m happy to go.

The afternoon is as beautiful as the morning. The air is fresh, the wind carrying an earthy note from last night’s rain. Annie picks flowers, and I pretend to do the same, but really, I watch her and wonder at my luck.

“This is purple. Is this lavender?” I hold up a bluebell. I know damn well it isn’t. I just want to see her hide the smile that saysfoolish male.

“Lavender is light green this time of year. It doesn’t bloom until June or July.”

“What are you going to do with it now then?”

“Make a sachet. The scent mostly comes from the oils in its leaves.”

“Make a sachet for who?”

I wade through the tall grass to stand close to her and inhale her sweet rainy scent.

“For the den,” she says, glancing bashfully up at me from under her thick brown lashes. She’s wearing my old sweater and another pair of my drawstring pants. Her pulse flutters at the base of her throat. She’s excited, too.

Maybe we should cut this trip short and head back to the den.

Or take a detour into the woods.

She probably wouldn’t do that, but I think she’d agree to return to camp. I draw in another deep breath. Her arousal teases my nose.

My wolf snarls.

Annie startles.

It takes my brain three seconds too long to catch up.

Underlying the rain and slick, there is another scent. Earthy, yes, but not therightearth. It doesn’t belong. I’ve smelled it before. A long time ago.

I sniff deeper with my shifted snout. It’s not mud. It’s muck. Like from the bottom of a lake. And every second, the stench is getting stronger.

Lakes don’t move.

I grab Annie’s arm, spin her toward camp, and bark through my wolf’s descended fangs, “Run. Raise the alarm. Intruders. Go to Khalil. Go!”

She’s frozen in place, staring over my shoulder, her eyes growing larger and larger.

I spin.

At least two dozen wolves, caked in muck from head to tail with moss and leaves stuck to their matted fur, stalk out of the tree line, no more than three or four yards away.

“Run!” I roar at Annie as I shift.

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