Page 62 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

“But you’re the alpha. Aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t matter if I was, and I’m not.”

I’m not sure if he’s lying or not. The pack sure acts like he’s in charge, albeit not at all the way we act around Killian at Quarry Pack. “Your people call you Alpha.”

“To annoy me.” He sighs, leans his head back, and stares at the low ceiling for a few seconds before he explains. “I’ve told them a hundred times—in nature, wolves don’t have alphas or betas or whatever. That’s a human thing. Humans put wolves in cages, and when the wolves didn’t have enough room to breathe, and they couldn’t hunt for their own food, they lost their minds. The strongest took everything he could for himself, and the others lived in fear. That’s where alphas came from, and it’s notthe natural way of things. As shifters, it’s sure as hell notourway.”

Yes, it is. That’s exactly our way. The strongest gets whatever he wants, and everyone else gets to be afraid. A snort that I meant to keep in my head somehow comes out my nose.

Justus raises his eyebrows. “You disagree?”

Never. Not with a male his size. I put the book down and pick up the next in the stack. “What about this one? What’s this one about?”

His lips quirk. “Are you changing the subject again already, Annie?”

My heart rate kicks up another beat. He says that like he knows me. He doesn’t. But the way he says my name like he’s accustomed to it—I don’t hate it.

I hold the book a little higher.

His lips curl higher. “It’s about what packs should do instead of claiming to own land.”

“Are all the books about the same thing?”

“Pretty much.”

I return it to the stack.

“You’re not interested?” He’s still smiling. It’s not a grin or anything, more like a soft curve, but he’s clearly enjoying this—talking to me.

I shift position to rest on my other butt cheek. My fingers twitch. I wish I had my knitting.

“I like fiction,” I say.

He kind of lights up. “Oh, I’ve got something you’ll like,” he says and makes to come over. Before I can tense up, though, he catches himself. “There’s a book at the bottom I want to show you.” He glances toward the crate. “All right?”

He waits until I nod and then prowls over slowly to sit beside me. His earthy scent follows him, filling my lungs, making me feel strangely greedy.

Quarry Pack females always complain when a male’s wolf rolls in his kill and then trots into the lodge to let everyone know what he’s found. I never understood why the males insisted on doing it since they could just shift and tell people what they caught. I get it now.

I want to roll in this scent. Wear it like a coat. Snuggle deep into it. I inhale quicker so I can get more into my lungs. It’s not a particularly good smell—no one would make a cologne out of it—but it eases my chest and makes me feel languid and weightless, like I’m floating in space.

I’m hardly paying attention as Justus takes all the books out of the crate to get a hardback at the very bottom. I hadn’t noticed it earlier. It’s an old children’s book.Thumbelina. The fabric cover is threadbare in places, and the gold embossed lettering is tarnished.

I remember the story vaguely from the early years at Moon Lake Academy. It’s a human fairy tale.

Justus resettles himself on the pallet so that his thigh is pressed to mine. Now we’re both perched on the edge, but I’ve folded myself up as tight as possible, and he’s manspreading, knees bent and wide open, totally comfortable. And why wouldn’t he be? It’s his den—despite what he says—his bed, his pack, his territory. Whatever he wants to call himself, it’s clear that he’s the strongest here, the top of this particular food chain.

The pecking voice should be rattling off these facts, but she’s grown eerily quiet.

“Look at this,” he says, flipping to a full-page illustration.

A tiny woman, Thumbelina, is kneeling on an enormous lily pad. In the murky water underneath, huge wide-mouthed fish with bulging eyes swim among the reeds. She covers her face with her hands in despair. A monarch hovers in mid-air, gawking at her while she cries.

The colors are lovely in the lamplight—butter yellow, crimson, olive green—but I don’t like the picture. Thumbelina is scared and alone, and the butterfly just gapes at her while the fish swarm underneath, horrified surprise on their fishy faces. Something terrible is coming, and she can’t see it.

Justus smooths the page with a calloused thumb. “It reminds me of you. That’s why I traded for it.”

I feel like I’ve been socked in the stomach. “I have brown hair,” I argue. The woman in the picture is a blonde, but I know why the sad, weeping lady stranded on a lily pad reminded him of me.

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