Page 57 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

“I’d like to hear your voice again.” His lips curve in a rueful smile, there and then gone.

His eyes are so somber.

Behind him, the sun has sunk, its last rays backlighting him, falling across the center of the den, and illuminating the fadedcolors in the worn rug, so clean despite the packed earth floor. He must shake it out a lot.

The sun picks out gold streaks in his long brown hair. It’s not groomed, per se. He clearly hasn’t done more than run his fingers through it, but it isn’t hopelessly matted like it was when his people tried to trade the Byrnes for us.

Come to think of it, none of the males in the camp are as unkempt as that crew. Last Pack males don’t look nearly as recently showered as Quarry Pack males do, but they’re notdirtydirty. I guess they look like folks who live in dens, bathe in a stream, and spend most of their time naked and outdoors.

“Where’d you go, sweetling?” Justus asks, a brief, soft twinkle in his eyes. “Won’t you come out?”

How did he know I drifted off?

I’m so curious, and I’m not used to it. I don’t usually have the bandwidth to have questions. I have to keep my eyes peeled. Be ready. Run down the list of all the horrible things that can happen, over and over again, ticking them off like the elders with their prayer beads.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says. A shadow crosses his face. Regret? Shame?

There I go, wondering again.

I could shift. Talk to him. Ask him when he’ll take me home. If it goes to hell, I can shift back.

I prod my wolf for reassurance, but she remains quiet and passive. She’s tired. She’s had our skin for such a long time now. Quarry Pack wolves don’t spend this much time in our fur. I’m going to have to shift back at some point.

Don’t. You need claws. Fangs.

Even the pecking voice sounds tired.

If I shift, I’ll be naked. In this small den. With a male. My mate.

The last rays of sun outline his wide shoulders. His upper arms. Sinewy. It’s such a funny word, but that’s what describes him. Sinewy and self-possessed and still.

“Listen,” he says, rising to his feet. “I’ll go get our dinner. You can think about it.”

No.

My wolf stiffens. She doesn’t want him to leave us alone, but he’s already turning, and then he’s already gone.

She whines and lowers herself to her belly. The silence is heavy. At the entrance, the wind blows faintly and the cedars’ needles rustle, but the center of the den has that close, warm quiet that you make when you pull your winter comforter over your head.

Out of habit, I scan my surroundings, but there’s no place for anyone to hide. I suppose a wolf could hide in the big basket, but I don’t smell anyone except Justus.

Better check it anyway to be sure.

I don’t see how I can unless my wolf knocks it over. The lid is battened on with straps looped over the handles. If she knocked it over, he’d know we looked.

Still, better check. It’s a big basket.

There’s no nefarious, scentless wolf hiding in a basket. I’d hear him breathing.

Better check now.

This is the kind of baseless worry that I’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring. My common sense tells me it’s bullshit, and the voice’s heart isn’t really in it. She’s just doing her job.

But whatisin the basket?

And what books does he have in that apple crate?

If I shift, I can snoop. Not in the basket—that would be an invasion of privacy—but the books are out for anyone to see.

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