Page 43 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

All these years, all the times I made the trek to Quarry Pack to stand at the boundary of their territory to brood and feel hard done by, and I never considered that something must have made her so fearful, but she’s known all along that I am the kind of male who would reject his frightened mate.

Can I bear to know what happened? How much more can I hate myself?

Until this moment, I was so cocksure, wasn’t I? Such a big male. So tough. Soright.

“Stay here,” I tell her, the words heavy with command, and stalk off into the shrub brush. I ignore her soft, confused yip.

It doesn’t take long to catch the faint scent of squirrel leading north. At least this is something I can do without embarrassing myself. It takes longer to run down prey on two legs, but I’ve always had a steady hand with a rock, and the woods are teeming with hungry, scavenging critters at this time of year who aren’t quite as cautious as they’ll be later in the season when they’ve got some fat stores.

I hunt until my mind steadies, and by the time I’m done, I’ve got four bushy-tailed squirrels in hand. Careful to keep a firm grip on my wolf, I shift to fur and gobble down three of them. Unlike the lost packs, I have no problem eating raw meat while in my skin, but it’s quicker to chew with canines.

At first, my wolf fights me hard—he wants his mate—but I manage to distract him with squirrel and steal our skin back when he’s logy from the meal. His stomach has always been his greatest weakness.

I take my time returning. The area is still clear of predators, and I haven’t ventured far. If I tune in to the bond, I can tell my mate has stayed where I put her.

Because she’s too afraid to leave?

Of course. I’ve stolen her, and she slept a long time, so we’re miles away from territory she’d recognize. She’s stuck with me.

I whistle when I’m a few yards away from the hidey-hole so she knows I’m coming. She doesn’t come out to greet me. I don’t suppose she would.

I can’t see her until I get close to the alcove. When I do, my heart sinks.

She’s dug herself a hole between the roots and covered herself with dirt and leaves. All I can make out is her black nose and solemn, accusing brown eyes.

I crouch and reach out my hand. “What have you done? Mud bath?”

She narrows her eyes and yips. Or was that a snarl?

I sniff the air. “We’re alone except for prey. There’s nothing to fear. You can smell that, right?”

She snarls. There’s no doubt this time. She’s displeased. Or offended?

I raise my palms. “I wouldn’t want to make assumptions.”

She wriggles out of her little nook and shakes herself off, sending dirt flying. Then she strides forward until she’s almost stepping on my toes. She lifts her head and lets me have it, growling and howling and snapping until my ears ring.

She’s pissed—either that I left her alone or that I was gone so long or both—and she’s making sure I know it. I bite the insides of my cheeks and try to look contrite. She’s adorable mad. Even with twigs stuck in her coat.

Mad is so much better than scared.

But that’s why she’s mad, isn’t it? Because she was scared.

I’m an idiot. I crouch, but I guess I do it too abruptly because she jumps and skitters backward. “I’m sorry, sweetling. You were frightened, and I didn’t hurry back.”

She gives me a low, unplacated growl.

“I keep making mistakes, don’t I?”

Her growl lightens, ever so slightly.

“I brought dinner.” I hoist the last squirrel up by its tail.

Oh, that’s caught her interest. Her throat quiets as her stomach takes up the rumbling. I grin.

“If he’s like his brothers, he’s got a good bit of meat on his bones,” I say and rip off his head, pitching it aside.

Her eyes bulge.

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