Page 8 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

He pads across the lawn. A yard away. Ten feet. Five. A soundless scream escapes my throat, nothing but air.

At the last moment, he veers right and dashes to the perimeter of the yard, following it until he disappears around the cabin. Before my lungs can finish a gasp, he reappears around the other side and skids to a halt in front of me.

He stares at me, his bushy brow furrowed, leans forward in my direction and sniffs. His lip curls, showing black gums and shiny white fangs. I whimper.

His head snaps left, then right, like he’s trying to catch someone sneaking up on him. Finally, he bounds away up the slope to the ridge and stands there, outlined by the setting sun, surveying the landscape in three hundred and sixty degrees.

What is he looking for? What’s out there?

I need to run while he’s distracted, while he can be a decoy for whatever bigger danger he’s looking for.

I dig deep inside myself for the strength to move, but all that’s down there is blind terror, so I stare at the strange wolf, helpless and small and frozen.

Again.

He’s huge. Well, not as big as Killian, but still—massive. And he’s mangy. His mottled fur sticks up randomly in tufts, and it’s matted along his left haunch. Is that a twig stuck in it?

He’s not a natural wolf—he doesn’t have that way about him—but he’s not a pack shifter, either. Is he feral?

The sunset bathes him in light, and I can make out smaller details. The edges of his ears are ragged, and he has a bald patch on his side that runs on either side of a puckered scar. He’s young, not much older than me, but his body is battle worn, like the older generation in Quarry Pack who came up under the old alpha. They had to fight for food. Not in a ring, but for real.

How did this wolf get onto pack land without the patrols catching him?

The bottom drops out of my stomach. If he’s here, so far into our territory, I’ve been right all along. Safety is an illusion.Patrols can be dodged, locks won’t hold, doors won’t stand in anyone’s way, the alpha’s assurances are lies.

The voice is right. Itknows.

I need to call for help, but the fear strangles my throat too tightly.

High on the ridge, the strange wolf takes a long final look around and trots back down the hill. When he comes to the yard, he keeps coming, but he slows down. Like he’s trying to be stealthy.

Like he’s stalking prey.

No. That’s not exactly right. He lifts his paw so carefully that the move is almost comical, and then places it daintily down before he lifts another. A wild thought pops into my mind. He looks like a pup playing red light, green light.

What is he doing?

He reaches the circle of dead grass where the bird bath used to be before Kennedy’s wolf accidentally bowled it over during one of her angry shifts. He’s close enough now that he could be on me in a single bound. My shoulders rise to my ears while my hands curl into fists.

He stops, his eyes trained on my face. The gold is so smooth and bright that they hardly seem real. They certainly don’t match the raggedy rest of him.

Slowly—very, very slowly—he lowers his hulking body to his belly.

I let out a shallow breath that I can’t hold anymore.

With exaggerated slowness, he rolls onto his back and cocks his rear leg.

I can see his butthole. And all the rest of his business, too. My face catches fire.

He cranes his neck and studies me, his ears perked.

His belly fur is filthy. The small patches on his back and haunches that aren’t matted and caked are a nice pale tan, butthere aren’t many of them. It looks like he deliberately rolled around in a mud puddle.

Is he a lone wolf, on his way to going feral? Or is he Last Pack?

I desperately try to remember everything I’ve heard about them. They sleep in dens and feed on rodents and grubs and the occasional deer or hog. They live like animals, spend most of their time as wolves, and they kidnap females, who are never seen again.

What happened to their own females?

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