Page 56 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

If it hurts my heart, it’s only because of the reminder that I’m not going to get what other females have. A mate. A pup. A home of my own.

I could never belong here, even if Justus decided to keep me, which he wouldn’t. There aren’t anydoors, any locks. There’s nothing to hide behind.

Long enough.

The pecking voice won’t let that rest. She wants to know—long enough for what?

I worry, and my wolf squirms. Justus sets her down. She wanders away from the ledge-side path, through a small, mossy patch with two skyrocket junipers growing like sentries beside a crack in the rock.

The place smells like Justus, as if this is where his scent comes from, this is the earth that exactly matches his earthiness. The ache in my heart turns to butterflies in my belly.

There’s a rickety stool outside the den with a book sitting on it, a paperback that’s gotten soaked and dried at least once, opened like a fan. A bookmark made of braided grass is tucked between the pages.

He reads?

What is he reading? My wolf can’t read. All she can do to satisfy my curiosity is sniff the pages. They smell like they’vebeen dew-dampened and baked in the sunshine many, many times. She bumps it off the chair with her enthusiasm, and Justus rescues it from the ground.

“Go on in,” he urges her, nodding toward the low entrance. His voice has dropped an octave, but it’s also shaky, in a rough, raspy way.

Is he nervous? He can’t be, right? He’s the male, and this is his territory. I’m female, smaller and weaker and surrounded byhispeople. And if I walk into his den ahead of him, I’ll be trapped.

Still, I think he’s uneasy, too. He thumbs the pages of his waterlogged book and stands in a very posed, very nonchalant way. Like he very much wants me to go into his den, and he’s very worried I won’t, and he doesn’t want me to know that.

What’s in there?

My wolf prowls a few inches closer to the entrance and pokes her nose in. It’s dark inside and smells even more like him than the grove out front.

As my wolf’s eyes adjust, the outlines of objects rise from the gloom. A pallet. A big, round woven basket with a lid. An apple crate full of books. A braided mat made of rags.

My wolf sniffs and takes a step forward. The pallet smells like sweet grass, and linen, and Justus—like the things he must do there, under the sheets. My cheeks heat. Whatever he does, he does it alone. His scent is the only one in the den. My wolf is pleased. She draws in another, deeper breath.

The basket is willow. The books smell like the one on the stool outside, but these also have a hint of tart sweetness, maybe from the apple crate. The rag rug looks clean, but it smells exactly like a long-faded version of the scent of the whole pack gathered around us—wolfy and earthy and warm. Homey.

Without a second thought, my wolf pads over so she can get a better sniff.

No! Stop! It’s a trap!

My wolf whirls, but it’s too late. Justus has followed us in, blocking the entrance. My fear explodes, the stink obliterating the straw, the apple, the mat, the sweet grass, the linen—everything.

Justus immediately drops to a crouch and raises his hands, but for once, his face doesn’t show even the slightest reaction to the smell.

He’s blocking the exit. You’re trapped. Hide. Hide!

The voice shrieks, but my wolf doesn’t take her eyes off Justus. She’s well aware that there is nowhere to hide. She stands in place and waits.

We’re afraid, but then again—we’re not. He’s not going to hurt us. She knows.

Iknow.

The voice is incapable of knowing that we’re safe. It’s a blaring alarm. That’s all. It doesn’t have some kind of insight that we don’t have.

The night of the coup, when our cabin caught fire, Fallon rolled up on his ATV, saying Killian sent him to take us to safety, and the voice didn’t warn me that he was part of the plot.

It can’t see the future, and it can’t read minds. It can only scream in the back of mine.

“Annie, please come out. Talk to me,” Justus says, deliberate and calm, but rough underneath. Not with impatience. With yearning?

He lowers his arms to brace them on his thighs. My wolf is very quiet, like she’s faded into a spectator.

---