Page 22 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

Abertha plonks the teapot down on a trivet and returns to her kitchenette, coming back a minute later with a tray crowded with mismatched cups, saucers, a sugar bowl, a cream pitcher and a package of cookies from the store in Chapel Bell still in the wrapper.

I keep my hands on my lap. They’re shaking like crazy.

After giving me a once-over, Abertha pours. She dumps a huge spoonful of sugar and a big splash of cream in both of our cups, gives me another look, takes a flask from her pocket, fills our cups to the brim with its contents, and then carefully pushes my saucer across the table.

I wrap both hands around the warm china, holding it close to my face so the steam bathes my cheeks and nose. I inhale. Valerian root and whiskey. Everything feels a tiny bit less dire. That’s the power of tea.

For a few, long minutes, Abertha levels me with her cool gray gaze. Is she not sure what to say? That would be a first. She doesn’t always make sense, but she’s never shy about speaking her mind.

Finally, she blows across her cup and says, “So, I suppose the most urgent issue before us is—do you want a pup or not?”

My jaw drops. My stomach follows. “Pup?”

My hands fly up to cover my mouth. Quicker than should be possible, Abertha lunges for a mop bucket and swings it onto the table beside my teacup. The pail hits the oak with a solid thunk, startling me enough that the urge to heave disappears. My wolf yelps and hides her head under her paws.

I lower my hands back to my lap and straighten my shoulders.

“We good?” Abertha arches a thin, gray eyebrow.

I nod.

“All right. So, circling back to the subject—pups?”

Dear Fate. Pups? I can’t think about pups. I can’tfathompups. I can’t wrap my brain around this moment, right here, right now. I’m not even wearing underwear.

What if I’m leaking? It feels like I’m leaking. The denim of the skirt should be thick enough to absorb it, but I’m not sure. At least the chair is wood. It’ll wipe clean. I don’t want to leak on Abertha’s furniture. I want to go home.

I’m filled with a male’s seed, and he’s my mate, and I don’t know his name, and he hates me, and I don’t want a mate from a pack that lives like animals, but every angry word he said also sticks in my chest like a dozen knitting needles.

Sad female.

Coward.

Stink like prey.

A female like you would make weak, spindly young.

I can’t think about it. It didn’t happen.

Are Una and the others worried about me? How long have I been gone? I have no idea. In order to figure it out, I’d have to flip back in time, and I won’t. I’m erasing it.

I’ve known for a long time how to make things go away. It’s simple. Every time your mind tries to go to the past, you yank it away and give it something else to think about. Anything else, but worries work really well.

If you do yank every single time, eventually, your mind doesn’t go there anymore, and if it does, you quickly give it something else to worry about thatcouldhappen. You tell yourself that if you don’t worry hard enough, itwillhappen. And that’s how you deal with the past. It’s simple.

Not easy.

But simple.

It’s warm in the cottage, but I’m shaking like a leaf. Am I getting sick?

I lost my shoes back by the river. How am I going to walk home? What if I come across a rabid natural wolf? Or a feral? How will I run?

“Can I borrow a pair of boots?” I ask Abertha.

The corners of her eyes crease, the steely gray gentling, but her jaw sets. “Not yet, Annie-girl. No shoving this into a deep, deep worry hole quite yet. You’ve got to deal with the issue at hand.”

“I don’t want to,” I say softly.

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