Page 37 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

I press my palm against the place where it hurts.

My wolf tilts her head.

He smiles.

No.

It’s not a smile.

He bares his fangs, his muscles tightening. He’s going to strike.

Run, run, run, run, run!

I whirl on my heel, trip, and pitch forward, my kneecaps grinding as they hit the ground. Behind me, I hear a splash.

I scrabble back to my feet and bolt for the woods, arms pumping, my skirt trapping my legs, hampering my stride. I hike it above my knees. Damn these boots. I curl my toes to keep from slip-sliding inside them. What was I thinking to wear these boots, this skirt?

The fresh spring grass squeaks against my rubber soles. I skid and lose a second. And then another. I pump my arms harder, as if that can make my legs longer or stop the splashes in the river from growing closer and closer.

What was I thinking? This is my fault. Again. I did this to myself.

If I can just get past the tree line, there are places to hide—thickets, hollow logs, dead falls. It’s so close. Three yards. Two.

One.

I plow into the underbrush. Vines whip around my ankles. My foot slips from the boot, and I turn, teetering on one leg as I flip the boot upright to shove my foot back in. More seconds lost.

There are no sounds to track him by now. No splashes, no steps. The wood muffles everything except its own chirrups and cracks.

I hold my breath and strain to hear him between the thuds of blood in my ears.

He hates me. Why would he come after me?

To kill you. To make you sorry.

A twig snaps.

I whirl.

He’s there, ten feet behind me, water dripping from his beard. His pecs. The ridges of his hard stomach. His wet pants sag low on his hips and cling to his thighs.

He stares me straight in the eye and then very, very deliberately, he lifts his foot from the branch he snapped.

On purpose.

He ran a circle around me. In silence. In no time at all.

I’m no match for him.

Scream. Drop. Cover your belly. Cover your head.

I cannot be in this body, on the ground, small and powerless. I reach into myself and fling my wolf into existence.

I’m a quicker shifter than I used to be, but the pain is still searing, and if he wanted, there’s more than enough time for him to rend me to pieces while my bones are knitting back together. The pain and the risk are worth it, though. Anything to not be small and cowering on the ground.

I brace myself for an attack. His hands have fisted, and his arms are drawn back, but he doesn’t lunge for us. His face is darkening, though.

Rage.

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