Page 113 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

The steadily blowing wind eases for a moment, and their scent smacks me in my face. Quarry Pack. And Salt Mountain.They circled our camp to approach from the east, staying upwind.

I crouch, readying myself to spring and buy Annie time.

The wolves stop at the far side of the field, a huge, golden-eyed male in the lead. Killian Kelly. He’s come for my mate. He can’t have her.

My wolf bares his fangs.

And then his balls shrivel in their sack.

Annie runspast us, toward the Quarry Pack alpha. The breath is torn from my lungs.

“No, Killian,” she shouts as she runs, waving her hands, the rancid scent of her fear trailing behind her like a train.

My wolf bolts after her.

“He’s my mate!” she yells at her alpha. “He’s my mate!”

Killian’s wolf doesn’t understand her. She’s running to him, and he smells fear. He does what I would do.

He tears toward me through the wildflowers. My wolf, no coward, rushes him. They crash mid-air, a collision of hard muscle and bone, and fall to earth, grappling and snarling in a frenzy of fangs and claws.

Killian’s claw slashes through my flank, slicing through the scar left by the feral that killed my sire, as I sink my fangs into his haunch, ripping through muddy fur and flesh.

We plow through the field, tearing chunks from each other, rolling and fighting for dominance, but neither of us can hold position. He’s bigger, but not stronger. I’m quicker, but nothing slows him down.

The broken stalks drip with blood, and the other wolves hang back, watching, while my wolf sinks his teeth into Killian’s shoulder, and his wolf shakes himself free. His wolf slams into my flank. Mine twists onto his back, dragging his claws along Killian’s wolf’s underbelly as his momentum carries him past.

The world around us fades, and the daylight dims, the other wolves’ howls muting as if lost in a thick fog. Time slows. There is nothing but this alpha and me, nothing but the taste of copper in my mouth and the cast iron certainty that even if I’m skinned to the bone and gutted, I will win this fight.

I can’t lose.

Annie is mine.

As the minutes pass, and even the muted howling fades, it becomes clear—my wolf can’t lose, but he can’t win, either.

And neither can Killian’s.

My wolf clamps his jaws around a foreleg. Killian’s wolf sinks his fangs into mine. In perfect synchronization, we shift to human form. Killian throws a punch at the side of my head. I duck and kick out at the leg I had in my mouth a split second ago.

We trade blows, landing some, blocking others, discovering each other’s weaknesses and exploiting them, recovering and compensating, faltering and rebounding in turn. We flash between forms, throwing punches while we snap our fangs, leaping with four legs to bowl each other over with our full human bulk.

Killian’s talent and experience can’t overcome my intuition. My instinct can’t prevail over his skill.

We will kill each other in this field, watering the wildflowers with our blood, before either of us wins. Or concedes.

Killian slams his fist into my side at the same instant I drive an uppercut into his chin. And then, in the distance, screams cut through the red mist in my mind.

Females. Pups.

Killian and I both whirl to face the direction of the screams, our ears lengthening. They’re coming from camp.

Annie is gone, but so are a dozen of the mud-matted wolves. The ones who smell like Salt Mountain.

Killian and I leap and land on four legs, and we race toward the sound of screams.

16

ANNIE

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