Page 2 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

My wolf whines and trots her worn path inside me, back and forth, deepening the rut with her pacing. The beaky, pecking voice drowns her out, but I know what my wolf grumbles low in her throat—run and hide, run and hide, run and hide. That’s all my wolf ever says. But run from what, though? And where? And hide from whom? How?

You can’t stop heat. It’s a greased metal chute into the unknown. Like life.

I stretch my neck and peek over the seat in front of me at the back of my classmates’ heads, many of them male. None of them seem special or different. I glance up at the rear-facing mirror over the driver, and I can see a few more males behind me, laughing and messing around, chewing food with their mouths open, propping themselves up with a knee on their seats, as closeas they can get to standing without getting hollered at to sit down.

I sink as low in my seat as I can without looking weird. None of the males make me feel anything except scared and uncomfortable, and I always feel that way.

It’s going to be worse when one of them owns you. It’s going to be hell. You need a plan. Now.

My wolf adds her standard two cents—run and hide, run and hide, run and hide.

I blot my slick forehead with a damp sleeve as we careen around the last bend before rumbling through the Quarry Pack gates. As we pull into the commons, I gather my bag so I can bolt as soon as the bus rolls to a halt.

Mari and I have this part of the ride choreographed. She sits in the seat in front of me. As soon as the bus’s brakes screech and the door opens with a whoosh, she pops into the aisle, and I slip in behind her. She leads us down the steep steps and away from the crowd that spills out behind us.

We used to be permanent seatmates, but during one of our honest, late-night conversations between fellow insomniacs, Mari admitted that my fear stench was a little overpowering by the end of the day. Now we sit together on the ride to the Academy, but we split for the ride home.

It’s fine. I get it. I can’t stand my own smell, either.

Mari glances back at me. “Ready?” she mouths.

I nod.

The brakes screech, and the door whooshes. Mari hops up. I fall in behind her, stumbling forward when a male’s swinging gym bag whacks me in the back.

Run. Run. Run!

The pecking voice joins my wolf and becomes a blaring alarm in my brain. I ball my fists. My muscles tense, preparing to bolt. I slam my foot on my own internal brakes.

No.

I am not under attack.

It was an accident.

I force my balled hands to relax. I’m okay. Nothing is wrong except this bus is a freaking oven, and it smells like everyone has a piece of rotten fruit in their lunch box that’s been in there since the first day of school.

I take another second, and as soon as I’m confident that I’m not going to freak out and try to fight my way off the bus because I got bumped by a duffel bag, I hustle down the aisle.

As soon as my boot hits the ground, I scurry clear of the crowd spilling from the bus and drag in a lungful of fresh air, lifting my flushed face toward the late afternoon breeze rolling down from the hills.

It’s fresh. Heavenly. There’s an odd note in it, and it’s not bad at all. An earthiness. My cheeks cool, and my stomach muscles relax.

Mari grabs my hand and takes off toward home. I let her drag me along.

Whatisthat scent? It’s not a usual November smell, not dry leaves or waterlogged wood. It’s closer to freshly tilled garden, but it’s also rich and spicy like the inside of the crone Abertha’s trunk or the cabinet where she keeps her oils and unguents.

“Do you smell something?” I ask Mari.

“Yeah,” she says, grimacing. “Don’t worry. You can have first shower.”

My cheeks heat again, and I pick up the pace.

Our cabin isn’t far, but it’s past the commons and up a fairly steep hill. Killian, our alpha, doesn’t want us lone females living close enough to the unmated males to tempt them into doing something they shouldn’t. That’s why we have to dress modestly and serve at meals instead of sitting at tables with the rest of the pack.

In my opinion, the rules are mostly in place to give Killian a false sense of security. Clothes aren’t armor, and if a male wants to hurt you, he’s not going to decide against it because he’s got to hike an extra quarter mile uphill. I don’t chafe against the rules as much as my roommates Mari, Kennedy, and Una do, though.

A quarter mile is a head start.

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