Page 66 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

“Open it,” he says.

I’m scared. A male has never given me a gift before, and I think that’s what this is, even though the box is plain white cardboard. I look up at him.

His hands are firmly braced on his thighs like he’s ready for something to go down. “Go on. It’s for you,” he says.

I take a deep breath and lift the lid.

It’s yarn. Lots of yarn, hand-dyed, and by the look and smell, homespun, too. I raise a skein to my nose. Merino. I brush it against my cheek. It’s so soft.

“Keep looking,” Justus says, his voice low and gravelly, and nudges the box closer to me.

I pile the skeins on my lap. The colors are almost too bold for natural dyes, which must be what Last Pack uses. They aren’t blue and red and green; they’re indigo and crimson and emerald. “They’re so beautiful. Who spun them?”

“The females,” he says.

No shit. “Which females?”

He looks caught for a second, and then he says, “I’ll find out. Keep looking.”

I take out the rest of the yarn, and underneath, there’s a rectangular leather case, about the size of a laptop. It looks handmade, too. The stitchwork is very neat and even, but not perfectly uniform like you’d get from a machine.

I unfold the case, already knowing what I’ll find, and I’m right. There are slots filled with every size needle and crochet hook you could want, as well as a pouch with a thimble, scissors, and a random assortment of safety pins, straight pins, buttons, and a few threaders for good measure.

I take out a needle for a closer look. It’s hand carved, either rosewood or maple, with little acorns carved into the tops. They’re not perfect, either, but they’ll work fine. “Who carved the needles?” I ask.

“I did.” Justus’s voice has gone downright gruff.

He’s staring intently into the hatbox, and doesn’t even look up when I ask, “What about the case?”

“Max made the leather. I did the cutting and sewing.”

“Who’s Max?” I don’t remember meeting him earlier.

“He’s Elspeth’s mate. Gray wolf. Missing half his tail.”

I vaguely remember a wolf like that watching the proceedings from under a tree, lying on his side and idly flicking his half of a tail.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Will you tell him thank you?” I feel like I’ve got a leak inside me—my heart is swelling, and my eyes are welling, but I’m too on guard to let myself cry in front of him.

My fingers flit from needle to needle. Their shapes aren’t quite uniform, but they’re all sanded perfectly smooth.

“There’s more,” he says.

I fold the case up carefully, and keeping it on my lap, I reach back into the box. The next layer is all small tins and wooden boxes.Tea.

I take them out, one by one, stacking them like blocks. Each tin and box is absolutely charming. There’s a red tin of Jasmine tea with a sailing ship on it. A tin of herbal tea with a koala wrapped in a blanket, pouring a cup in a eucalyptus tree. Several are decorated with flowers and birds—flamingos and hummingbirds and hibiscus and lilies.

I crack one of the boxes open. It’s full of tea, wrapped in a wax paper pouch. I give it a sniff. Chamomile. My clenched stomach relaxes, and my cheeks flush.

A male has never given me a present before. There is no explicit rule against it, but Killian definitely wouldn’t be okay with any of the males approaching an unprotected female that way. It’s different for those with fathers or brothers. They have someone to tear a chunk out of a male’s hide if he oversteps.

Even if it were allowed, males don’t notice me like they do females like Haisley and Rowan, and I’ve never been anything but grateful for that.

I’m not sure what I feel right now.

“Where did you get all of these?”

He coughs, and with his eyes still averted, he says, “The others know I’ll trade for them.”

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