Page 87 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

I heel. I toe. I tap. My feet are clunky wooden marionettes at the end of strings.

“You’ve got it,” Ashleen says. “Now dip with your knees between the heel and toe.”

That’s when it falls apart. My feet stutter to a halt. I’m already flushed and breathless, and now my cheeks are on fire.

“Oh, no, don’t give up. Here, let’s do it how we do with the pups,” Ashleen says and slides in front of me, so she’s facing Justus. She swipes behind her back to find my hands and plantsthem on her hips. “Okay, now do what I do with my feet, and when you feel me dip, you dip.”

My wolf rumbles. She doesn’t like Ashleen between Justus and me.

Ashleen lets out a gusty peal of laughter. “Settle down, lady. Tell that wolf of yours I don’t want your male. I’ve got my own, and he’s trouble enough. Now, on three. Ready? One, two, three.”

It is easier to follow the steps with her in front of me, and after a few minutes, I can let her hips go, and a little after that, she calls, “Double time!” and I don’t completely fall apart.

Then she dances off, and the males who’d been weaving around us trail after her like the tail of a comet, and I’m left alone with my mate. His eyes fall to my lips, then slip helplessly to my breasts, and finally plummet to the calves and ankles I’m showing by holding up my gown.

I watch him take me in like I’m extraordinary. A statue come to life or a Pegasus. Something that defies the laws of nature. Scary like that. Jaw-dropping like that.

His feet come to a rest. He’s breathing hard, his bare chest rising and falling, his tanned skin flushed ruddy in the white space between his tattoos.

He’s tall and strong and hewn like rock, but staring up into his gentle, smiling face, with the sparkle in his eye, I can see the pup who brought his dam a skunk. My lips curve. I can’t help it. He’s happy.

He’s happy to be herewith me.

He grabs my hand and lifts it, pressing my knuckles to his lips, only for a second, but I feel it deep, deep down, like I’m a whole other Annie who’d been raised in a place where it was safe to want to be beautiful, to want a sweet, wild male to kiss her in the moonlight.

I want him to kiss me again. On the mouth this time. I want a restart. What’s it called in golf? In human sport? A mulligan. I want us to starthere, instead of where we did.

Justus squeezes my hand. “Let’s keep going,” he says and leads me on.

We pass a group of rambunctious pups who’ve been left to their fathers’ care, and it’s pretty much a scrum of enormous male wolves being climbed and ridden like horses by punch drunk little ones up way past their bedtime.

When the pups see Justus, they race to him, and he drops my hand to toss them in the air or carry them like a package under his arm for a few steps while they squeal and howl. Then he puts them safely back on their feet, shoos them to their fathers, and takes my hand again. Each time his fingers twine with mine, it feels less strange, and more—safe.

Nothing is ever safe. It’s a trap.

Lest I forget, the voice flashes pictures in my mind—the basement’s low ceiling, the old leather sofa, the green and white checkered tile floor, the pool table, Aunt Nola, Iona Ryan, Orla Sullivan and the other females, everyone, everything, familiar and safe. And then boots sound on the stairs. Then the door slams shut.

Pool of blood. Sightless eyes. Twisted mouth.

My clammy skin goes cold, my fear scent erupting from my pores.

Justus holds my hand tighter and swings our joined arms. “Whatever you’re afraid of, I am strong enough to kill,” he says, soft and sure. “And if I can’t, I have a pack behind me.”

For a minute, I don’t think I’ll say anything, but then, surprising myself, I do. “It’s just in my head,” I whisper.

“Good,” he whispers back. “If I had to ask Alroy to back me up, I’d never hear the end of it.”

He smiles again. I can’t smile back, but the small muscles in the corner of my mouth twitch, and I get the sense he can tell, even if he can’t see.

We keep walking. The moon rises, and the temperature drops. I’m not tired at all.

Toward the edge of the clearing, by the stream, we come across a group of males sitting on overturned crates, playing a game with cards and what looks like piles of buttons and human coins.

“Alpha,” they all say as we pass. Justus’s wolf grumbles in his chest.

“Nice kill.”

“That’s one big bull.”

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