Page 95 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

“And they’ll be fast as hell on two feet,” he says, his lips quirking, coaxing me, inviting me to believe his fairy tale where the tiny thumb-sized female ends up riding a sparrow to her prince rather than being eaten by any one of the monstrous goldfish or butterflies that stalk her like dinner.

Wecanrun.

The pecking voice sidetracks me for a second. For once, it’s not an order or a warning. Is itbraggingon us? Is itagreeingwith someone? A male?

I give my head a shake to clear it and then look around to distract myself from the need to answer him. When I fell, we left the trail and landed in the wildflowers. The air around us is sweet from the stalks we crushed, the night air punctuated with honey from the goldenrod, vanilla from the milkweed, and carrot from the Queen Anne’s Lace.

Justus sits alongside me, facing south while I face the opposite direction. We’re surrounded by tall grass and new spring blooms, blue and purple in the dark. Even this close, butt naked and sitting cross-legged, he’s clearly a dangerous dominant male who smells like alpha no matter what he says, with wild hair and tattoos, fearless and assured—in the middle of a bunch of buttercups and bluebells.

He gazes patiently at my profile, waiting for me to say something.

“You were following me,” I say. “You could have caught me at any time.”

“I wasn’t trying to catch you. I was following you wherever you were going. I’d follow you anywhere.”

Is he sweet-talking me? Males don’t talk to me like that, but I’ve overheard Tye with Kennedy, and Ivo with about every unmated female in the pack.

I scrunch my toes in the dewy grass and clutch my gown tighter to my chest, balling the fabric right above my heart. “Yousaythat.”

After we mated by the river, he bolted like his tail was on fire and stayed gone for years. Although that’s not what Diantha said. She said he came back to Quarry Pack to check on me. The thought calms my heart.

Justus reaches to his side and picks a panicle of aster from its peduncle. The only reason I know the scientific terms is because when we were pups, Abertha would call us things likepanicleandpeduncleandbugbaneandwarty goblet. I thought they were weird witchy nicknames. I didn’t realize until I was older that they were real words for plant parts.

Why am I thinking about that now? When Justus is reaching over and offering me the aster?

While moonlight is falling on his face, illuminating his expression like a spotlight on a dark stage, and the bond shimmers and flows between us?

Hewants, hehopes, but he can’t let on, and he doesn’t—not by the cast of his jaw or set of his mouth or even by the look in his eyes. He has to be above desire like a monk. The stakes are too high to put any skin in this game at all.

I know how that feels.

His longing and mine both thump in my chest, off rhythm, a staccato beat that feels familiar and new and scary and right. I splay my palm flat on the hot skin above the gown.

“Can you feel me there?” he asks.

I nod.

“I feel you, too.” He fists his empty hand and presses it to his chest.

“What’s it like?” I ask.

He takes a breath. Swallows. Lowers his hands to rest on his knees. “Like I’m not alone,” he finally says, eyes lowered, shoulders braced, muscles tensed.

Defenseless.

I don’t want to leave him alone, but Ican’tchange. Fate knows I’ve tried, but I can’t—not the past or the voice or who I am. But I don’t have to, do I? He’s not asking me to fix myself. He’s just offering me a flower.

The aster is dangling from his hand like an afterthought. Like I’ve left him with it.

How can I leave him like that? When he’s mine? When all I need to do is reach out my hand?

I get a good grip on the gown with one hand, and careful not to move too quickly—he’s a big male, after all—I reach over and pluck the aster from his fingers.

He glances over, surprised.

I tuck my knees closer to my chest, trying to hide from a sudden feeling of exposure.

A smile like a sunrise breaks across his face.

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