Page 20 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

No consolation.

And no mate.

3

ANNIE, AGE EIGHTEEN

As soon asour mate is far enough away that my wolf feels that she has a good head start to escape him if he changes his mind, she tears off in the opposite direction. She runs as far and as fast as she can, racing along the river until she can’t stand the exposure anymore, and then she crosses into the woods, barreling through the undergrowth.

When her thin legs give out, she hides. Somehow, she finds her way to the blackberry bramble where we used to hide. She wriggles through the stickers, eyes squeezed shut, oblivious to the thorns scraping through her fur.

She knows he didn’t follow us, but it doesn’t matter. His words hurt, sharp as knives, and she might not quite understand them, but she knows she’s been attacked, so she reacts accordingly.

When she’s as deep in the thicket as she can get, she twists until she’s facing the trail we blazed and primes herself to fight.

If he comes back, you won’t have a chance against him.

The voice and I are stuck inside my wolf together now in this strange nowhere place. The thicket is close and dark and barbed,sticky with the sweetness of overripe berries rotting in the black soil. Its words ricochet, amplified, booming like proclamations.

But he doesn’t want you. He hates you. Did you see his face? You disgust him.

I saw his face—it’s burned into my mind—and I can alsofeelhis disgust, flowing through the bond. Horror. Loathing. Revulsion.

I can’t breathe. My wolf is gasping, but there’s no air in here.

He probably wants you dead. He’s coming back to kill you. You need to run.

He’s not coming back. I can feel him getting farther and farther away, and it’s a relief—itis—or it would be, if I could breathe, but I can’t.

Can you suffocate inside your wolf? What happens then? Does your wolf run around with the spirit of your decomposing body inside them? Would that smell better or worse than my constant, unrelenting stench of fear?

My wolf bares her teeth, raising up on her haunches so that she can better launch herself against whatever’s threatening us, but like always, it’s me, my thoughts, my utter inability to defend myself.

I let him touch me. Itoldhim to do it.

I can’t think about it. It didn’t happen. It will be another bad dream.

Icanbreathe. Iambreathing, even if it doesn’t feel like it. I’m inflating my lungs, and if I’m really not, if I’m dying, then what will it matter if I’m lying to myself once I’m dead?

“You’re not dying,” a familiar, raspy voice calls into the bramble.

My wolf scuttles backward, snagging herself on a tangle of prickers. She whines.

“I mean, we’re all dying, in a sense, but you’re not dying right now. Probably. The odds are against it.” Abertha clears herthroat. “Well, it would be really ironic if youweredying.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Or would that be a coincidence? I can never remember the difference.”

My wolf plasters herself to the ground, trembling. For once, the voice in my head has nothing to say. She recognizes the witch as a greater power.

“Is this going to be a long one?” Abertha waits for a response, but my throat is swollen shut, and so is my wolf’s. “Okay, I’ll assume that’s a ‘yes.’ I’m just going to have a seat on this handy fold-em-up stool then.” There’s a scuffling sound and a long sigh. “Take your time, Annie-girl,” she says and then mutters, “Goodness gracious, my dogs werebarking.”

The first jab of shame pierces my panic.What a sad female you are. I don’t want such a pathetic coward for a mate.

I don’t want to be cringing in a bramble yet again with no choice but to wait it out and feel lower than dirt afterward. I don’t want to have to scrub one more humiliation out of my brain.

I am so tired of being sad and broken. I can’t take myself another second.

Fueled by nothing but self-disgust, I force my wolf to crawl forward, inch by inch back out the tunnel she made on her way in, and she doesn’t want to leave, but my will is stronger than hers. I drive her out of the dark thicket into the glaring late afternoon sun.

Abertha is perched on a plastic, three-legged stool, legs crossed, packing a pipe. She blinks, surprised, and smiles, flashing the gold tooth in the back of her mouth. “Atta girl, Annie. I thought we’d be here at least ’til dusk,” she says and slaps her thighs. “Let’s go put the tea on.”

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