Page 9 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

You know what happened. They killed them. You know what males do.

Another wave of panic crashes through me, spiking my blood with a fresh hit of adrenaline.

The wolf sniffs, his face screwing up like he’s caught a whiff of something foul. A tendril of embarrassment worms its way through my panic. My fear is really pungent.

He stares at me. I stare at the ground, neck tilted and bared, but I track him from the corner of my eye. He sprawls on his back and wriggles in the grass, his enormous balls drooping, not an ounce of shame or modesty. He’s not afraid.

Why would he be? I’m not a threat.

After a few more rolls, he gets bored and flips onto his flank to check my reaction. I’m not stupid. I know this is a display of submission, but I also know it’s a lie. He’s easily twice my size, and under the filthy, matted coat, his muscles are honed. If he attacks, I won’t have a chance against him.

He scrambles onto four feet.

I try to make myself even smaller, tucking my forearms to my chest and dipping my chin to emphasize my own submission.

I’m on my own here. No one will be home for hours. Which is good. I don’t want anyone else to be in danger. I need to pull it together enough to run.

I’ll head away from the commons. Lead him toward Abertha’s cottage. She’s old, but she can handle anything. She has nerves of steel, and I’ve smelled metal and gunpowder in the back of her pantry.

My brain sifts manically through escape routes while my body cowers and the strange wolf trots over to the flower bed with an exaggerated nonchalance.

What is he doing now?

He sniffs a sunflower and then glances over his shoulder to see if I’m watching. I am. I can’t tear my eyes away. He’s the clear and present danger. For once, it’s not in my head.

He casually wanders to a hydrangea bush and sticks his muzzle deep into the pink blossoms. The flowers are on their last leg, so when he delves his snout into a bunch, a handful of petals flutter to the ground. He sneezes. Another bunch of petals burst into confetti and drift down, sticking to his fur.

He glares at the bush, startled and a little put out. Then he casts me another look. This time, it’s expectant.

What does he want me to do?

He waits.

My stomach knots tighter and tighter the longer he stares. If my intestines were rope, they’d be frayed close to snapping.

Sometimes I marvel at all the ways I can mess up my body with the power of my mind—all the parts of my body that I can make ache. My belly, my head, my neck, my shoulders, my jaw. I wonder which part I’ll break first. Probably my teeth from grinding them while I sleep. And anytime I’m around the males of the pack.

I am so tired of myself, and I’m tired of cowering here, soaked in sweat and terrified, while a feral wolf makes a mess of our flower bed.

“Just do whatever it is you’re going to do,” I call to him. In my mind, my words are loud and clear. In reality, they splutter out of my mouth, mumbly and faint.

The wolf cocks his head. He’s meandered behind the sunflowers so he’s standing with all four paws in the mulch, facing me. His brow scrunches, as if he’s lost for what to do next. Then his ear twitches, knocking against a sunflower stalk. It sways, bopping his muzzle, and he startles, his clumpy fur bristling like a porcupine’s quills.

I can’t help it. A tiny smile flashes across my face, half hysteria, half reflex. I mean, he freaked himself out by accidentally whacking himself in the snoot with a flower. Totally something I would do.

His golden eyes light up, and he bumps the flower with his muzzle again, closely observing my reaction.

I gawk back at him. Is heplaying?

He sits back on his haunches, reaches up with a paw, and bats the sunflower, watching me, waiting.

What am I supposed to do?

He picks up a paw and gently presses down on the stalk until the sunflower is touching the ground, and then he lets it go. It flies up and boops his snoot. His wooly brows rise in expectation. My eyes round. He cocks his head and blinks.

He’s being silly on purpose.

Quarry Pack wolves don’t play, at least not like this. When the males are in their fur, they act like animals. They might wrestle or chase each other, but they’d never fool around in a flower bed. They’d never besilly.

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