Page 36 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

Turn back. Now. Before it’s too late.

Too late for what? A nice view?

I square my shoulders and trudge on, eyes on my muck boots. If I look at the rushing river or the darkening woods past the far bank, I might lose my courage, and it’s not like this should requirebravery.

I’m tromping through an overgrown field, stirring up crickets. Una attacked Haisley and claimed Killian in front of the entire pack. I’m taking the scenic route home.

And all I can look at is the green rubber toes of my boots peeking from the threadbare hem of my skirt.

Run. Home. Now.

The voice brays at the top of her lungs, but where’s my wolf? She’s quiet. Watchful.

Expectant.

She’s on her feet, nose pressed to the border between us. Staring at the river.

Don’t look up. Run.

My wolf whines. Softly.

I glance up. My feet sputter to a halt.

Run, the voice screams. A fresh surge of adrenaline crashes through my veins, sending my heart thumping into my breastbone. I moan.

He’s there.

My hands clutch my skirt, my teeth sinking into my lower lip.

My mate is standing on the other side of the river.

Glaring at me.

My wolf is afraid to move. She plays a statue, her tail motionless in mid-air. Watching me.

I let go of my skirt, letting my shirt cuffs fall over my fisted hands. I should run.

Why am I not running?

Justus’s long brown hair is snarled, but loose strands still fly when the wind picks up. His gnawed ears poke from his tangled mane, pointed and furry. Wolf ears.

His face is hard, every angle sharp, every plane spare. His beard hides his mouth. He’s wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants and no shirt. My breath catches in my lungs. His chest isfascinating.

He’s bigger than he was when we mated, but he’s not beefy and bulging like our males. This must be what the wordsinewymeans. He’s not pumped up; he’s honed. Before, his right pec and bicep had been covered in tattoos, but now, every inch of skin on the entire right side of his body is covered in black ink. From this distance, I can’t make out the individual pictures and patterns. It looks like latticework. Or lace.

His veiny arms hang loose at his side, but his chest rises and falls like he sprinted here.

And he’s angry. His whole body declares it. The way he stands. The angle of his chin. The line of his jaw.

I can’t get enough air. I need air.

The voice shoutsrunin the back of my head, like always. Like the boy who cried wolf.

She can’t save me, though, can she? She can’t make anything better; she can’t protect me. All she can do is scream.

My mate waits, stock-still, but neither my wolf nor I are fooled—he’s calculating. He didn’t come this far to look at me. He’s coiling, preparing to attack.

Our eyes meet. I can’t tell the color or expression. He’s too far away. But I can feel him in my chest.

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