Page 6 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

And that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know exactly what button to push in my brain to keep me vigilant.

What if they decide you’re only worth one thing? Better go anyway. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself.

The only people who’d notice if I was missing are Mari, Kennedy, Una, and Old Noreen. I’m furniture in this pack, and that’s how I want it. It’s safer.

You’re never safe.

And you’re boring, I want to say, but the voice doesn’t care about what I think any more than my belly button or my left foot does. Argument is futile. Ignoring is the only thing I can do.

“Are you sure you’re cool to cover for me?” I ask my roomies.

Mari and Kennedy both nod. “Take a long bath and veg out,” Kennedy says. “You’ll feel better.”

“Everything’ll be fine,” Mari adds, and they both head to their respective rooms to get ready to leave.

Neither of them actually believes what they said. If this is heat, I won’t feel better until I let a strange male mount me, and then I’ll be stuck with him for the rest of my life.

Killian Kelley. Lochlan Byrne. Alfie Doyle. Brody Hughes. Vaughn Lewis. Art Floyd. Dangerous, cold, mean, cruel, violent, heartless—it won’t matter who or what he is. Fate decides, and that’s that. Females get on their hands and knees and beg for it. If you somehow manage to resist the urge, the male descends into rut and makes you.

My stomach roils. The tea sloshes.

I push up from the table and trudge down the hall like a zombie. I need a shower. Ice cold. Maybe I’m lucky, and I just caught some human flu. I’ve never heard of it happening, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.

Some of the tension seeps out of my shoulders after I pop the lock in the bathroom. It’s not strong enough to keep anyone out, but if someone forced the door while the shower is running, it’d be loud enough to give me warning. I slide the wicker hamper in front of the door for good measure, wedging it as best I canunder the knob. Then I get the wooden broom out of the linen closet and lean it on the wall next to the tub so it’s within reach.

I know a male shifter can burst through a standard door like it’s nothing, and this broom would probably break if I hit him with it, but I need the ritual so I’m strong enough to ignore the voice and take my clothes off.

What are you doing? You can’t get naked. What if you have to run? You’ve got no shoes. Nothing between you and them. Nothing to stop them.

I undress quickly, hanging my skirt, shirt, bra, and panties over the towel rod so that I can slip them back on as soon as I dry myself. I am a very efficient bather. Even with turning the water off a couple times to listen for phantom noises, I can wash, shave, shampoo, and condition in five minutes flat. The key is using shaving cream as soap and buying a two-in-one for your hair.

I actually stay a little longer than usual under the spray and run the water ice cold. For several precious minutes, the relief is more powerful than the voice. After I turn the faucet off, I press my palm to my chest. My skin is still rosy and hot to the touch, and my breath is shallow.

It’s heat. Run before you’re trapped. Get the hell out of here.

And go where?

The voice is silent. It always is when I call it out. It doesn’t have answers, just fear and hysteria and prophecies of doom and disaster.

I wish I could carve it out of my brain. Skewer it with a hot poker. Kill it with fire. Give it what it wants.

What does it want?

I pat myself dry and pull my skirt and shirt back on. I can’t bear the thought of squeezing my tender breasts into an underwire bra, and my underwear is ruined. I shove them deepin the hamper, covering them with one of Kennedy’s oversized sweatshirts and Mari’s flouncy party dresses.

I splash my face with cold water and brush my teeth. Like always, I dribble on my shirt, but there’s no help for it. I’m not about to stand in the middle of a room in nothing but a towel.

I moisturize and comb out my wet hair. It’s brown, like my eyes. I’m a very ordinary-looking female. I have a long torso, and my arms and legs are kind of gangly, but other than that, I’m pretty unremarkable.

My left breast is a B cup, almost a C. My right breast is a C, almost a B. My butt is square. My hips exist. Barely. I have a few moles, but none that show when I’m dressed.

I tie my hair back into a tight ponytail and check the effect in the mirror. Bland. Commonplace. Garden variety.

Will my mate be disappointed? Will he want me to wear crop tops and short skirts like Haisley and Rowan and the other young, mated females?

Acid rises in my throat as my adrenaline spikes.

He can make you do whatever he wants.

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