Page 4 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

I shrug. “There was at least half a box left last night.”

Mari glares at Kennedy. Kennedy stares back with wide-eyed innocence as she pops another piece of cheddar into her mouth.

Mari huffs, drops into a chair at the kitchen table, and snaps into her meat stick. “Is Una still up at the cottage?” she asks Kennedy.

Kennedy takes her snack to sit in the chair across from her. “Yeah.”

“What did y’all do today?” Mari asks.

“Brought in the last of the squash, and then we canned apples. Una thinks they’ll move at the market.”

“Everyone sells canned apples.” Mari scarfs down the last of her snack, licks her fingers, and looks longingly at Kennedy’s cheese.

“Yeah, but ours were grown, picked, and canned by real, live shifters.” Kennedy waggles her eyebrows. “That puts a premium on them.”

I will never understand humans. They’re afraid of us, but they’re also fascinated. The humans with booths at the Chapel Bell farmers’ market resent us for stealing “their” business. They tell stories behind our backs about how we go on killing rampages during the full moon, but darn if they don’t make sure to come by our stall before we sell out and get themselves a few of whatever we’ve got on offer. They probably resell our stuff online with a three-digit markup.

I hate going into town. Sometimes my nerves and my wolf won’t let me, but if I can take my turn, I do. The money we make buys my tea and yarn and Wi-Fi and our streaming services. Without my little coping mechanisms, I’d be even worse off than I am. I’d have nothing to drown out the voice.

I dab my sweaty forehead with a dish towel and flip open my wooden tea chest. I need something to cool me off. Mint? Lemon? I draw in a breath to let my nose choose, but there’s that strange scent again, wafting in from the cracked window above the sink. Maybe because I have tea on the brain, I feel like I can make out notes of oolong or yerba mate.

My stomach unfurls, somehow making more room for my lungs so I can take another, deeper breath.

The kettle screams.

My heart explodes.

I fling my arms into the air. My legs skitter on the floor tiles, and then I drop, crouch, and tuck to protect my soft parts, huddling against the oven door.

The knife! In the block! Grab it!

Run and hide, run and hide, run and hide.

The voice and the wolf shout louder and louder, trying to top each other.

Oh, hell. I forgot to flip the whistle up on the teapot.

I curl my fingers around the handle on the oven, squeezing until my knuckles blanch so I don’t snatch a knife and bolt out the back door.

I don’t need to run.

There’s no one to fight.

It was only the teapot.

I try to talk myself down, and it’s like talking in the middle of a hurricane. Nothing in my body—not my nerves, my muscles, my adrenaline, my cortisol—nothingis listening. I’m not fleeing the cabin like my heels are on fire, though, so it’s a win.

I used to run all the time when I was a pup. Once, the door was locked when I had a freak out. I hit it at full speed, and it didn’t give, so I bounced backward, landed flat on my butt, and bruised my tailbone. My brain broke, and I crawled under the kitchen table and wouldn’t come out for hours.

Eventually, Una crawled under the table after me, despite her bad leg. She dragged me out and held me on her lap, rocking me until I fell asleep. She couldn’t walk the next day, her leg was so stiff. That was the last time I made a run for it because of a sudden loud noise. Sometimes, shame is more powerful than fear.

Sometimes.

In the here and now, Mari and Kennedy politely ignore me while I force my fingers to release the oven door and take a few deep breaths. The weird smell is stronger. When I finally riseon my shaking legs, I peer out the window. There’s nothing but the deck, the flower bed, our tiny yard, and then beyond it, the steep bank to the ridge that runs behind our cabin. I don’t see anything.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t smell like danger. That’s a change of pace. Usually, everything unfamiliar smells like a threat.

I unwrap a bag of orange pekoe, pour the water, and carry my tea to the table. My hand is still unsteady, so the cup rattles in the saucer. Kennedy pushes my chair out for me with her foot, and I sink into it with as much grace as I can muster.

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