Page 64 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

The patrols at Quarry Pack whistle when they pass our cabin or Abertha’s cottage, so I’m not startled. Is it a common thing, or did he pick it up from them when his wolf was stalking me?

He nuzzles my palm. His beard is coarse. I let the pad of my thumb rest on his bottom lip. Itissoft.

He nips my thumb, gently, grinning for a brief second when I squeak. I snatch my hand away. But not too far. He chases my palm with his cheek until I cradle it again. Our faces are closer now. Inches away.

How did I end up sitting so close to him? I blame his scent; it’s turned my brain muzzy.

It’s a trap.

The voice is so far away, it’s a whisper on the wind.

I raise my fingers to his long hair. It’s thick and coarse, too, but it’s not dirty and knotted like when I first saw him.

“This was all matted and tangled before,” I say.

He hums in agreement. “I mudded it up.”

“Mudded it?”

“To hide my scent.”

“You did that on purpose?”

“You thought I kept it that way?” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Because I’m ‘Last Pack’ as your people say? And we’re wild animals.”

I drop my hand to my lap. Thatiswhat we’re taught.

Justus’s mouth curves down, his face shuttering. I clasp my hands in my lap.

“Worse than wild animals, I guess, since animals keep their coats clean.” He braces his forearms on his thighs and stares across the den.

The air between us sours. I shift so our thighs aren’t touching.

I stare at the picture of Thumbelina riding the bird. I can feel through the bond that his pride is bruised. That’s when males are the most dangerous.

The voice is missing a trick. I had to remind myself this time.

Justus sighs. “I guess your pack only comes across us when we’re, uh, hunting. I see where they might have gotten the impression.”

Hunting or stealing females. I keep my eyes on the book.

Justus rumbles and tugs at my wrist—coaxing, not demanding—and I’m so thrown by the touch that I let him lift my hand.

“Don’t stop because I’m proud and bad with words,” he says, pressing a bristly kiss to my inner wrist and then covering my hand with his and returning it to his cheek, cradling it there.

“People do say that about your pack,” I admit.

“Is that why you didn’t want me?” he asks tightly.

My hand trembles. Justus guides it lower to press against his bare chest. His heartbeat thumps against my palm.

“I was afraid.” I splay my fingers, stretching them across his breastbone. His muscles tense. The line where his tattoos ends cuts straight down between my middle and ring fingers. He keeps his hand pressed on top of mine. Like we’re staunching a wound.

“That I’d be rough with you? Or that I wouldn’t be able to care for you?” His rumble grows jagged.

“That it would hurt,” I whisper. “And other things.”

“What things?”

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