Page 96 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

I delicately sniff the flower because that’s what you’re supposed to do. “Thank you,” I say and smile politely.

“You like that one?” he asks, his whole manner changing, his shoulders relaxing, the furry tips of his pointed wolfish ears perking up.

“I do. I like asters.”

He reaches into tall grasses around us, plucks another flower, and offers it to me, grinning. “How about this one?”

“Queen Anne’s Lace.”

“That’s what it’s called?” he asks as I take it.

I nod. “Sometimes you’ll hear folks call it wild carrot.” That’s the name I learned from Abertha. Queen Anne’s Lace is what the humans in Chapel Bell call it, but I think the name is prettier.

“You can eat it?”

“There’s a little root, and you can, technically, I guess, but I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Looks too much like poison hemlock, and it doesn’t taste good enough to risk the mistake.”

He growls low and says, “All right. Give that back here.” He takes the Queen Anne’s Lace, tosses it into the field, and picks me a new flower. “What’s this one?”

I take the delicate stem that he nearly crushed to a pulp when plucking it. “That’s Blue-Eyed Mary.”

“Can it kill you?”

I giggle. “No, it’s just pretty to look at.” I pair it with the aster. The blue and purple complement each other well.

“That makes two of you,” he says and holds another flower, a snow trillium, under my nose.

I roll my eyes and take the white bloom with the yellow in the middle. “You’re as silly as your wolf, aren’t you?”

“He’s much worse. He has absolutely no dignity when it comes to you.”

He picks and passes me a bluebell and another aster. I arrange my little bouquet and blush. My skin is hot, the night air is cool, and the heat from Justus’s body warms my left side.

“I like him,” I say softly without looking up from my flowers.

“He likes you, too.” Justus’s voice is tinged with wolf.

I glance over. He’s already looking at me. Our eyes catch.

I feel so small beside him, but not in an intimidated way. More like how it feels to curl up with a book and my lunch at the base of the huge red oak that grows by the greenhouse at Abertha’s cottage.

A wave of mellow warmth washes from my head to my toes. My lower belly twists. This is really happening. I’m going into heat again.

Like he senses my panic gathering, Justus leans over and presses our temples together. I close my eyes and breathe him in.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

“Me, too,” he says.

I draw back so I can see his eyes again. “What are you scared of?” It’s not a challenge; it’s a serious question.

His face darkens, but he doesn’t look away. “I can’t do it—I can’t make you hate me again.”

“I didn’t hate you,” I say. “Neither of us had a choice. I knew that.”

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