Page 35 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

If I hurry, I have time for a cup of tea before I’m expected at the lodge.

Or.

The weather is beautiful. Patches of stark blue sky are framed by the low, stout clouds shaded gray from the fading daylight. The cottage’s clearing and the fields and woods around it have settled into the kind of quiet that’s punctuated with a rustling breeze and the dwindling calls of birds as they wind down and return to their nests.

Like I said, I don’t have to rush.

I could walk home along the river.

My heartbeat quickens.

I always take the same path home—along the tree break beside the wildflower meadow and then down our well-worn track through the wood to the ridge behind the charredfoundation of our old cabin. The traitors burned it down as a distraction on the day they tried to trade us to the Last Pack.

I know the way home like the palm of my hand—every exposed root, every place where the dirt washes out the trail when it rains. I know to the minute how long the walk takes. There’s no section of the path that’s exposed. If I had to run, I know exactly where I could hide.

The voice in my head is silent. She doesn’t think I’ll do it. Even the idea is twisting my stomach in knots.

The land beside the river is wide open. A few years ago, Killian cleared it all so the patrols have a clear view. Going along the river would actually take me away from the commons for about half a mile before it turns south. The river and its far bank are our territory, though. After the humans kidnapped Mari, Killian expanded our boundaries all the way to the rural route a mile to the north. Our territory is safe.

The voice snorts.

I have no reason to go home a different way today.

So you better not.

There she is. She can’t let me make a decision without her.

Ferals can swim.

I can’t even consider taking a slightly different path home without my brain conjuring the worst-case scenario.

Humans can swim. They have boats. Guns. Numbers.

What would happen if I didn’t torment myself for once? An aquatic attack of swimming ferals and a fleet of gun-toting humans in boats? Beating myself up with my fears has no magic power. It can’t stop Fate. Bad things still happen.

Remember last time by the river. You begged for a knot on your hands and knees in the dirt.

I gasp at the memory and stumble where I stand, alone in front of the shed. Shame burns my face. The voice is playing dirty.

I’ve walked by the river since then. Only a few months ago, during a full moon, Kennedy stayed on Quarry Pack territory for once and shifted. When the pack took their usual path eastward, he ran along the river.

Usually, on those nights, I’d shift and hide in my room, curled in a corner with the curtain cracked so a sliver of moonshine would fall in the window, but that night, something got into my wolf. She followed Kennedy’s at a distance, trotting silently in the huge footprints he left in the frosted grass. If Kennedy noticed, she never mentioned it, and neither did I.

I’ve been to the river plenty of other times, too. I went a few days after the mating to hide whatever was left of my nest, but there was no sign of it. No whiff of scent left, neither his nor mine. The wind had blown it all away.

He was wrong about me. I’m not a coward. I’m afflicted with fear, and most of the time, it wins, but not always. They say courage is being afraid and doing it anyway. And I do. Sometimes.

So why not now?

I wipe my sweaty palms on my corduroy skirt and take off toward the north.

Don’t be reckless. Don’t be stupid. You know what happens. Fangs. Fists. Sightless eyes. Twisted mouth.

I lengthen my stride and pick up my pace. The voice is bringing out the big guns.

Most of the time, I hate her. But once in a blue moon, like now, I’m so sorry for her that my heart breaks. She can’t ever be brave, even a little bit like I’m being right now.

I hurry along the edge of the nettle field, passing the trailhead where I usually turn and taking the next one a few yards further on instead. It’s a patrol path, so it’s as well-worn as the one I usually take. It goes straight up a steep incline at first, so I’m panting by the time I hear the river rushing in thedistance. My heart pounds, harder than it should. The hill is steep but short.

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