Page 49 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

They hold themselves the same way, and wear the same type of worn, low slung pants, but based on looks, they could have come from a half dozen different packs. Some are Black, some are brown-skinned, some are pale and ruddy. They’re all tall, cut, and have the same natural confidence that Justus does.

They all have tattoos like Justus, too, the same intricate maze of lines and spirals that wind around the simple outlines of boats or trees or fish, draped over their right shoulder, arm, and torso like a shawl. The older the male, the further their tattoos stretch down their right sides to their thighs. Some have tattoos all the way down the tops of their right foot. Even the oldest males seem willing and able to shred an interloper to pieces.

There are so many cocks nestled in such thick pelts.

Where are the females? The pups?

The brawling males reach us first, pausing a few feet away the instant Justus’s rumble takes on a note of warning. Like Justus, both of these males are in their twenties and wear their hair and beards long, but that’s where their similarities end.

The taller one is brown skinned, and there’s a glint in his dark eyes. He’s smirking, his canines denting his lips. The only wolves I’ve seen with his exact coloring were some of the males from North Border who came to Quarry Pack to train with Killian.

North Border wolves don’t have a single look, but they all carry themselves in a certain way so you can recognize them from a distance—like they’ll attack first, without provocation. This male doesn’t carry himself that way, though. He gives off assurance, maybe even cockiness, but not aggression.

The other brawler—the one with the injured ear—is pasty, red-headed, and freckled. He’d fit in fine at Quarry Pack. He has the confidence of a young, B-roster fighter, the kind of arrogance that reads as distemper and smells like bravado.

Both of the brawlers’ expressions are suspicious, and their posture is almost hostile, but they toe the line Justus set with his rumbling. They clearly want to get into our space, but they stay back, pacing that invisible limit, nostrils flaring, tails whipping.

The other males gather closer, too, circling behind us, blocking the way out. My heart pounds faster.

They’re cutting off your escape. Fight. Fight!

My wolf’s fur bristles. She’s with the pecking voice.

“This is my mate, Annie,” Justus says calmly and sets me on the ground like he’s presenting me to them as a gift.

He does it so quickly that there’s nothing I can do. One moment, my wolf is cradled in his arms. The next she’s standing on her own four, wobbly feet on the plush, mossy ground, mere feet from the prowling males, surrounded on all sides, frozen in terror.

See. You can’t trust anyone.

My fear explodes.

The redhead’s face instantly contorts like he’s sucking lemons. “What did you do to her?” he asks as he tries to wave the smell away from his face.

Justus sighs. “She just smells like that sometimes. You get used to it.”

“The females won’t like it,” the redhead says.

Justus doesn’t reply, and I can’t read his face. I’m paralyzed, staring at the pack as they circle us, gathering closer and closer. How many are behind me now? How close? I still don’t see any females.

What have they done with the females?

Panic claws up my throat.

The redhead pinches his nose and asks, “Did you trade Kelly for her?”

“No trade. She’s my mate.”

The other brawler snorts. “You stole her.”

“She’s my mate, Khalil,” Justus repeats more firmly. “I didn’t steal her.”

The redhead’s pacing becomes more agitated. The gathered males mutter to each other, glowering in our direction. They look like the illustrations of ferals in the Moon Lake Academy textbooks—long, wild hair, lengthened fangs that dent their lower lips, furry chests, and wolfish ears and tails.

In the illustrations, ferals are always slavering or lunging or swiping at a cowering female with their claws. These males aren’t acting like that at all, but they definitely aren’t like Quarry Pack or Moon Lake males, either. I don’t know quite how to describe it except that they don’t stand like a pack at all.

Back home, when the males gather, they face the leader, usually Killian, and stand according to rank, higher in the front, lower in the back. This group is all over the place.

One lanky male is eating a drumstick. Toward the back, two younger males bump into each other, riling up the others nearby, trying to egg someone into a fight. A few elders have crouched to watch the proceedings from under the shade of an elm. Periodically, they bark when the others block their view.

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