Page 25 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

I couldn’t tell her to leave me. I couldn’t make a noise.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” The crone’s boots appeared next to Aunt Nola. The hem of her flowy skirt was stained with brown blood, already drying.

Abertha lowered herself into a squat and peered under the sofa. Her face was gaunt and grim, but her gray eyes flashed like steel.

“Why is she down here?” Abertha asked.

“I left my bag on the table when they called me. She thought to bring it to me.”

Abertha hissed softly through her teeth. “You were quiet as a mouse, weren’t you?”

I was.

“Good girl. You did right. But you’ve got to come out now.”

I couldn’t.

“It’s not safe here,” Abertha said. “The males are still blood mad. They’ve left for now to deal with the fire, but they’ll be back. It’s not time for quiet mouths anymore. It’s time for quick feet.” She snapped her fingers, and her bangles jingled.

The voice in my head had nothing to say. Abertha was right, but I still couldn’t move. Nothing worked, not my legs, not my arms. Even my fingers were frozen, curled around the wooden slat.

“Oh, hell,” Abertha sighed. “Can you lift the couch, Nola? Maybe I can grab her…”

Foot falls sounded on the ceiling above us. Aunt Nola moaned in fear.

“Shit. Get out of here, Nola. Now. I’ve got the pup.”

Aunt Nola swayed. The scent of her fresh terror lashed my face.

Abertha pushed her. “Go now. I can’t see to both you and the pup. Go! I’ve got her.” Her voice was as hard as stone.

Aunt Nola stumbled in the direction of the stairs, and then she ran. Her bare feet left trails in Orla’s blood.

For a moment, the crone just stared at the couch, as if she was gauging its weight, but then she sighed and said, “I’ve got an idea.”

She reached under her skirt and took a knife from her leather ankle holster.

She held it so I could see, and then she placed it solemnly on the tile in front of her, hilt toward me. “The tip is poisoned. You don’t even have to stab someone. Just nick his skin, and he’ll die in agony.”

My gaze homed in on the blade. I wanted it so badly. It was so close. So sharp.

The crone nudged it forward. “You know who gave that to me? Darragh Ryan. The Mercenary. The Haunt of the Hills.”

I’d heard of him—everyone had—even though he’d left the pack before I was born. The males got shifty when his name came up, but their dismissive laughs always rang false, like they were whistling past a graveyard.

“Go on, Annie-girl. Take it. We have to get out of here before they come back even angrier.”

The voice inside me had nothing to say. Abertha was telling the truth.

All I had to do was reach out and take it. Let go of the slat and grab. It was so close.

I willed my fingers to let go of the slat. To reach and wrap around the knife’s handle.

I sucked in my belly and scooted out from under the sofa.

Abertha held out her hand, her eyes pleading. “Good girl. Come on now.”

Boots pounded down the steps, so quick, too quick for me to do anything but look at a huge male skid to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, his mouth curling into a sneer.

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