Page 60 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

When he comes back, he lights an oil lamp, and instantly, the den feels different. Shifters can see pretty well in the dark, even in human form, so I don’t see anything new, but thefeelof the space totally changes.

The curl of smoke from the match twists mid-air like a thin, twirling ribbon, and the glowing flame is soft and warm, casting velvet shadows on the wall. I can pick out the colors of the rug now—coral and goldenrod and burnt sienna. The basket is made of willow, and Justus’s sheets aren’t plain white. They’re super-faded robin’s egg blue.

Justus returns to his seat barely past the den’s entrance and goes back to watching me, so casual, like he could do it all night. I’m feeling the effects of a belly full of stew on top of a kidnapping. I need a bed.

Where am I going to sleep? Where ishe?

“When are you taking me home?” I blurt because I don’t dare ask him about beds.

His shoulder blades snap together. That amazement in his eyes flickers out. My stomach sinks. I’ve made things heavy again. I curl my toes into the rug and hug my knees tighter.

“Later,” he says.

Never. They have you now. You’ll never see Una or anyone from home again.

A fresh wave of fear bursts from my pores, overpowering the lingering scent of stew. Justus’s jaw clenches, his lips curling back in a grimace.

“But you will take me back, right?” My voice rises with each word, my anxiety taking off like a shot, running wild, coloring everything until it’s ugly and menacing—the den is a trap, Justus is my jailer, the bed is a threat.

I can’t breathe. I gasp for air, my hands reaching for something to help myself, but there’s nothing, nothing. I look to Justus, pleading with my eyes, my throat strangling my ability to speak.

“I will,” he says, holding my gaze, his face both fierce and terrified at what’s happening to me. His mouth turns down and his skin grows pale like I’ve asked him to do the unthinkable. Like he’s my hostage. “I promise you that I will take you home when you ask. I swear it to you on my dam’s grave.”

My throat eases. Air fills my lungs.

I recover more quickly than he does, but then again, I’m used to panic attacks. There was a time when I’d have them almost daily. The trick is to tell yourself you’re not really dying, and if you are, at least it’ll end. This was a quick one, and I didn’t go into a full-blown meltdown. Thank goodness for that.

I glance around the den to avoid Justus’s eyes. I don’t like that they’re guarded now. It felt safer before, when I could read them.

It was actually starting to feel almost good.

I can’t get in trouble for just thinking it. Not every positive thought can be a jinx. That’s what I tell myself while I practice my deep breathing and search for something to say. My gaze falls on the apple crate.

“Where did you get the books?” I ask.

It takes him a second to realize I’m sweeping the past few minutes under the rug, but considering, he catches on pretty quickly. “The hedge witch. I trade her.”

“You mean Abertha? You know her?”

He nods.

“What do you trade?”

He shrugs. “Meat, mostly. Odds and ends. Herbs. Stones. Eye of newt, toe of frog.”

Oh, gross. “You cut off frog toes?” Our people will eat a fat toad if they come across him as their wolves, but they wouldn’t pluck him apart for pieces. That’s vicious. And besides, do frogs even have toes?

Justus’s lips curl. It’s a bashful smile, not mocking. “‘Toe of frog’ is from a book. A play, actually. It was a joke.” He glances down. “A bad one.”

Now I toss a shoulder, my cheeks warming. “I don’t read plays. Or books like yours.”

“You looked through them?”

Oh, no. What am I doing, admitting I went through his things?

He’ll be angry. Shut your mouth before you make it worse. No. Beg forgiveness. Now. Before he loses it.

“I’m sorry,” I rush to say. “I shouldn’t have.”

---