Page 5 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

For a second, we’re silent, and then all three of us exhale a long sigh in unison. Mari drops her head back and closes her eyes. Kennedy slumps forward and slices herself another hunk of cheese.

I know exactly what they’re thinking. It’s been a long day already, and we’re not even halfway done. In a few minutes, we have to head down to the lodge to prep for dinner. Then we have to serve and clean up and prep for breakfast, all while ducking and weaving around the meathead males of the pack.

I’m so hot and sweaty. I feel like a wrung-out washcloth.

I slump forward, push my teacup forward with the tips of my fingers, and lay my cheek on the cool linoleum table.

“What’s wrong with you?” Kennedy asks.

“I think I have a fever.”

“Shifters don’t get fevers.” Mari reaches over to feel my forehead. Pups get fevers, but we grow out of it by the time we’re old enough for the Academy. I haven’t had one since before Killian became alpha and moved me in with Una and the others. “You’re really hot.”

Kennedy reaches over and feels my face for herself. “Gross. You’re all wet.”

I blow out my cheeks. “I know.”

I can’t see Mari and Kennedy exchange looks, but I hear them shift meaningfully in their chairs. Neither dares to say it for a minute, but finally, Kennedy takes the leap.

“Do you think you’re in heat?” she asks.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t know. How can you tell?”

There is a long pause before Mari ventures an answer. “Well, I guess you get really hot and turned on, and you recognize your mate. Do you know who he is?"

I moan. “If I knew who he was, I’d know that I was in heat.”

There should be a class on this at the Academy. I can solve for X, and I know that iambic pentameter has ten syllables made up of alternating stressed and unstressed syllables, and that each of these pairs is called a foot, and each foot is called an iamb, and the opposite of an iamb is a trochee, but my body is burning up, and I have no idea if it’sheat, and I don’t even write poems.

“Well, are you horny?” Mari asks.

I turn my head so my nose and lips are mashed against the cool tabletop. Your mother is supposed to tell you this stuff, and if she’s not around, then your grandmother or your aunts. My aunt lives in Salt Mountain, and even if we did talk, I’d never ask her about this in a million years.

I don’t think Una knows any more about heat than we do, and I’d feel weird asking her about it. She’s kind of like the nun from the movie with the singing children. And besides, if we talked about it, I’d let on that I’m terrified of the whole thing. My brokenness makes her sad, so I try to play it off like I can’t wait for a mate like Mari.

“Well, do other males smell bad to you? I’ve heard that when you find your mate, other males stink until you do the deed.” I can picture Mari’s turned-up nose from the tone of her voice.

“Do any males smellgood?” Quarry Pack males smell like unwashed gym socks. High-ranking Moon Lake males smell like too much human cologne, and the low-ranking ones smell likepipe tobacco and swamp water. Salt Mountain males smell like chewing tobacco and gasoline.

You know they do. Don’t pretend. Face facts. It’s heat. You need to run.

Kennedy snorts.

“Well, when we get to dinner, you can take a good whiff, and that’ll be your answer,” Mari says, her chair screeching as she shoves herself back from the table.

Suddenly, the idea of doing the usual—showering, changing, hurrying to the kitchens, rinsing, chopping, mixing, serving, sweeping, wiping down, mopping, all while trying to stay invisible as I trail fear stink all around the lodge—feels unbearable. Insurmountable. I sigh, and my breath fogs the tabletop.

“I can’t do it tonight,” I say quietly. I’m never one to complain or shirk. The voice would never let me. If I’m not useful, I’m expendable. Maybe even a liability.

“Then don’t,” Kennedy answers like it’s nothing. “We’ll cover for you.”

Don’t you dare. You don’t want them to think you’re slacking. What if they decide you don’t need to eat since you’re not working? What then?

The voice flashes an image of the lodge basement in my mind, frozen in time ten years ago when the old alpha was alive.

It’s enough. I hoist myself up.

I feel like wilted lettuce. Right now, I can’t summon up any worry about getting my food cut off. The thought of eating anything makes my stomach churn, and besides, my rational mind knows that sort of thing doesn’t happen anymore now that Killian is alpha. Most of the time, my rational mind wins out, but that doesn’t mean the voice shuts up.

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