Page 86 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

When we walk by the dancers, they holler and howl and call to Justus. He smiles and waves them off, but two females—Ashleen and Brigid, two young mothers who spent most of the afternoon chasing after their pups—make their way over and block our path, their feet flying, sweat streaming down their smiling, ecstatic, moonlit faces. Several males follow in their wake, stomping out their part of the dance, winding between and around them.

“Come on, Alpha, Annie!” Ashleen calls.

“Alpha! Annie!” the others echo.

I freeze. There is no way my feet can do what theirs are doing. They’d twist off at the ankles.

“Not tonight,” Justus says kindly.

“Come on, Alpha!” a male shouts, and then his wolf bays, calling Justus to join the pack.

Justus shoots me a rueful grin, and then as smooth as butter, he breaks into the steps. His shoulders dip, his feet stomp, his rhythm perfect. Effortless. The dancers erupt in shouts and howls of approval. Justus throws his head back, tossing his hair. It’s the first time I’ve seen him cocky.

My lower belly winches and something flutters in my chest.

I’ve never seen a male dance up close before. I’ve spied from the kitchen at Quarry Pack when our mated females put music on the radio after dinner. If they’d had enough to drink, some of their mates would dance after they got the sparring out of their system. There weren’t reallystepsto their dancing. They’d kind of grind on the females and grab whatever part of them was closer at hand—boob or butt.

This is different. These males had tolearnthis. The females, too. And it doesn’t look like foreplay at all. It’s more like a model you make in science class—the females are the sun, the males are orbiting planets. The females are the nucleus. The males are electrons.

Justus winds in a figure eight, looping the other females, and then looping me. The males fall in line behind him, their wolves’ sharp yips punctuating the drumbeat.

My heart thumps. The males are big and loud and close.

Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Or run? Maybe run?

I’m an island in a stream, and I’m scared, but also, I’m outside of it all. This is so far beyond my experience that I can’t do anything but watch and listen and try to orient myself in this strange, strange moment.

Life is work, right?

Bed, bath, kitchen, garden, greenhouse, beehive, kitchen, bath, bed.

Work, punctuated with episodes of sheer, unfounded terror.

Life is swimming, and if you stop, you drown, and if you think about what might be underneath you, you’ll sink.

You don’t leave your work out on the table or your pipe on the seat of your chair. In order todance.

I don’t know how it’s dangerous, but it has to be. Mysoulsays so.

Justus passes behind me and then in front of me again. He stops, the males fanning out behind him, furling into a new configuration. He steps forward and back, one foot, then the other, his lips curled up in invitation.

I suddenly feel disproportioned. My feet are cafeteria trays. My arms are fence posts.

He does the sequence of steps again, a shuffle closer, a quick hop back. Isn’t this what male birds do to attract their mates? What do the female birds do back? Stand there awkwardly and wish they’d stop?

Close by, a female yips.

Behind you!

Ashleen appears at my side and bumps me with her hip. “Like this, Annie. Look at my feet.”

She slows her steps, so gracefully, until it seems she’s dancing in slow motion. “There are eight bars.” She begins to clap. “One-two-three and two-two-three and three-two-three and four-two-three.”

She bounces in time to her counting, and since she’s watching my feet, and I’ve always been the most well-behaved student in any class, I bounce, too.

“Okay, now, start with your left. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Tap, tap, tap, tap.”

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