Page 59 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

“I’m good,” I say. My voice is soft like usual, but the cave is quiet, so he hears me fine. He turns and sits, knees bent and thighs wide open like males do without thinking twice. He drags a bowl to the space between his legs and digs in.

I wait—I’m not sure for what—but when he keeps eating and not paying me any attention, I grab my bowl and give it a stir with the spoon that came with it. I was wrong about the herb. It’s not parsley; it’s rosemary. It smells heavenly.

My stomach rumbles, and my wolf adds her two cents, growling along. I take a bite. The carrot is mushy, and the beef is stringy, but it’s easily the tastiest stew I’ve ever had.

Old Noreen says that hunger is the best spice. As I ladle spoonful after spoonful into my mouth, quicker and quicker, I acknowledge that’s true, but I’ve been this ravenous before—we were always hungry during Declan Kelly’s day—but nothing has ever filled my belly like this.

It tastes like a long time ago. Like when my mother was alive, and she’d take me to visit Abertha in her cottage, and there’d always be something delicious bubbling in the old black pot over the fire and a few other females gathered around the sturdy wood table, laughing and ranting and crying and whispering, while us pups filled our bellies, licked our bowls clean, and then got into every bit of trouble we could find.

I haven’t remembered those days in years. The food stuck to your ribs, and Ma seemed younger there with the other females in that cottage, like a pup herself.

I actually whine when I take my last bite.

At the sound, a growl rattles Justus’s chest, and he immediately springs forward. I startle, and my bowl clatters on the floor. Thank goodness it’s empty.

Justus freezes mid-spring, lunging forward with his bowl in one hand and his other palm raised to assure me he means no harm. It’s the world’s most awkward yoga position.

“Here,” he says. “More.” He empties his bowl into mine and offers it to me, lifting it higher so I’ll take it when I don’t grab it right away.

His watchful eyes gobble me up. He really, really wants to feed me more. I’ve watched males fight each other for rank all my life. I know what it looks like when a male is trying to hide how desperately he wants something.

The warmth from the stew spreads from my belly, through my chest, and into my breasts. My nipples harden and poke through my toga. I hold Justus’s gaze with all my might. Please, please don’t let him look down and notice.

Partly to distract him, I take the bowl. I can’t avoid brushing his fingers. I couldn’t say how they feel, whether they’re as rough as they look, because when I touch him, my whole body wakes up. A ball in my belly unfurls. My mouth waters. Tingles trip down my neck and spine, swirling around my tailbone until I feel like I have to pee even though I know I don’t.

My body is glitching so badly, I wouldn’t be surprised if smoke is coming from my ears, but Justus seems fine. Totally unaffected. He doesn’t prolong the contact, not even a little. As soon as I have a good grip on the bowl, he backs off to sit exactly where he has been.

I start eating. He fixes his focus on my hand, watching me scoop up a chunk of potato like I’m defusing a bomb, not slurping soup. When I blow on a spoonful to cool it, his gaze darts to my lips, and his wolf rumbles.

The stew is hardly even lukewarm at this point, I don’t know why I blew on the spoon in the first place—habit, I guess—but I do it again. The movement is mostly hidden under his beard, but his jaw definitely clenches. My pulse speeds even faster.

He feels this, too.

I usually hate being the center of attention. My whole life, I’ve done everything possible to avoid it. I’m an expert at position and timing, a choreographer at blending into the background. In any group situation, I make sure I end up standing behind someone else. I don’t make work or ask questions. I’m never first in line or last to finish.

Attention is dangerous. But Justus’s isn’t. Not to me. Not right now, at this moment. And I don’t hate being here with him.

Maybe because he’s keeping his distance, and he’s not leering like a Quarry Pack male would. In a way, he reminds me of a scruffy pup who’s come across something fascinating like tadpoles or an ant hill. His interest isn’t creepy at all.

When there aren’t any grownups around, sometimes Abertha will do tricks for the pups, pull buttons from behind their ears or make it seem like she’s levitating a few inches off the ground, that kind of thing. The littlest, shyest pups don’t crowd close and bug her to spill her secrets. They hang back, rapt.

Justus is looking at me like that. Like I’m magic, and he’d best give me room because I might be dangerous.

My spoon scrapes the bottom of my empty bowl.

“Do you want more?” he asks.

I shake my head and set the bowl down as far as I can get it from me.

Much more slowly than last time, he prowls forward, bracing himself on one hand. His forearm and bicep flex to take his weight, and then he shifts onto his opposite knee and that thigh tenses. With every move, every flex, my breath softly catches. I sound like the world’s quietest chugging train engine.

If he kept coming, he could push me onto my back on his pallet and cover me. Pin me in place with his weight. I wouldn’t dare try to push him off. He’d growl, but it wouldn’tbe threatening. It’d be more like a dare. If he pressed his chest against my swollen breasts, how would it feel?

What am I eventhinking?

I squirm, shifting to a butt cheek so I’m not sitting directly on my lady parts. I’ve never noticed the pressure a seat can exert on my bottom before, but I’m keyed into it now.

It’s not like IwantJustus to touch me. It would pop this bubble, ruin the moment, and bring the voice back with a vengeance. Justus doesn’t take a second longer than he has to, plucking my empty bowl off the floor and immediately returning to his side of the den. He stacks my bowl on his and ducks out of the den to place them outside.

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