Page 114 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

Run!Run! Run!

I squat as low as I can in the wildflowers and tear off my clothes.

A few yards away, Killian and Justus are murdering each other. Tye, Ivo, and the rest are just watching, and no matter how much I scream, no matter what I say, their wolves don’t listen.

And the Salt Mountain wolves are up to something. They’re edging away from the fight toward the trail to camp. Quarry Pack is so intent on the fight, they either don’t notice or don’t care.

I have to get to Khalil, and my wolf is faster.

Run into the woods! The woods!

I huddle in the tall grass and summon my wolf. For the first time in my life, she’s ahead of me, bursting through our skin before I’m ready, assuming form like she’s surfacing from water rather than tearing herself free from bone and muscle.

She runs away from the woods, toward the trail. The Salt Mountain wolves have gotten ahead of her, so she hangs back, keeping low and downwind.

Turn around! Now!

What are they doing? They can’t think to attack Last Pack. They’ll be vastly outnumbered. By old Rodric and timid Elis and Tarquin the cook and sweet Max and—

They aren’t fighters. Not like Quarry Pack and Salt Mountain. These skulking males who reek of aggression are going to spill into camp, and if our males are at the bonfire, maybe Alroy and Khalil and the others can head them off, but if the Salt Mountain wolves head straight for the sycamore, they can get to the females and pups before anyone has the chance to stop them.

My heart sticks in my throat. I need Justus. I need to get him to help. I’m not big or strong enough on my own, never, never strong enough. I scream and scream, and it’s like my voice is the crickets chirping.

Hide! Hide!

Get Khalil.

The Salt Mountain wolves pace so stealthily, and every second I’m watching them, Killian might have killed Justus. My mate might have killed my alpha.

Turn around!

If I turn around, what can I do? I can’t stop them. I’m too small, too weak.

Hide!

The voice throws up a memory, the underside of an old leather couch, the warped slats, the dust cover ripped at the seam. My stomach revolts. My wolf swallows the puke down. No time for this. No time.

The Salt Mountain wolves have reached the crest of the hill and are gathering at the narrow entrance to camp. They exchange greedy, sly glances. Their rancid eagerness wafts behind them, singeing my wolf’s nose, searing her eyes.

What do I do?

WhatcanI do?

I’ve got no witch, no knife. I’m small and weak and alone. Again, again, again.

Go back. Hide. The voice is whispering now. Cajoling.

On some silent signal, the Salt Mountain wolves burst into motion, streaming through the gap in the rocks, howling a rally cry that echoes off the hills and freezes the blood in my veins.

Turn around and run!

In the distance, a pup screams.

I run.

My wolf pumps her legs so fast that she skitters and stumbles and then staggers forward until she regains her balance, and then she sprints into camp, straight for the sycamore.

At the bonfire and smokehouse and work sites and tents, Last Pack males shift, their wolves racing for the pups and females, too, but they’re coming from every direction toward a single place, in essence, funneling themselves, and the Salt Mountain wolves anticipate it.

---