Page 82 of The Wild Wolf's Rejected Mate

11

ANNIE

Justus still isn’t backwhen the sun begins to sink behind the hills to the north. Most of the females ventured to the tables by the bonfire for dinner, but Griff brought a tray for Elspeth and me at the female camp. Nessa’s youngest, the sleepy curly-headed toddler, kicked a fuss when the cowbell rang that summons the pack to eat, so she’s here with us, too, picking off my plate.

Her name is Efa, and for some reason, she’s as interested in me as her wolf. She’s the cutest pup I’ve ever seen with her big round eyes and delicate tan whiskers contrasting with her warm brown skin.

She’s been talking to me nonstop since she fully woke up from her afternoon nap, but she’s still sporting baby fangs, so I can’t understand a word. She doesn’t seem to notice or mind. She babbles a few words in her raspy little growly voice, and I’ll say, “Is that right?” Or “Oh. Is that so?” And she’s happy. I wish all people were this easy.

She grabs a handful of mashed potatoes from the plate balanced on my knees. I glance around. Elspeth is messing around with the kettle. No one else is around to see my terriblebabysitting. I wait until Efa licks her hands clean and then I gently wipe them on the skirt of my gown.

“How about we use the spoon?” I say, offering her another bite. She scoops the potato off the spoon with two fingers and sticks them in her mouth.

Elspeth chuckles over by the fire. “Usually, that one will only eat as her wolf. Count yourself lucky she’s not licking the plate.”

“Is that true?” I ask Efa. She’s balancing herself with a chubby hand on each of my knees. She bares her tiny fangs in a shameless grin and yips.

I spear a hunk of beef with my fork and hold it up. She plucks the bite off, pops it into her mouth, and then before I can stop her, she licks the tines with her long wolfish tongue.

I’m not used to spending time with pups her age. At Quarry Pack, they stay close to their dams, and despite the changes Killian has made, the mated females still stick together and steer clear of lone females like me. The only little one I have experience with is Una’s babe, Raff, but he isn’t walking or talking yet.

Efa is the most nonsensical person I’ve ever met. She’ll go running straight toward the fire on her thin wobbly legs to give Elspeth a piece of beef, but when an owl hoots overhead, she yelps and huddles close to me, hiding her face in my side. I don’t get the fearlessness, but I understand about the owl. I startled, too.

Despite the good company, as the shadows grow longer, I’m getting anxious again.

Where is he? He left you here. He’s dead. They’ll blame you.

He’s dead.

And he’s your mate, and you don’t even know him.

I distract myself from my dread—and Efa from her infatuation with the fire—by playing peek-a-boo with the rectangular tablecloth-wrap-runner that I made today. When Istarted this morning, I was too nervous to make a conscious plan, so I started a second row both too late and too soon for a scarf, and then, hours later, when I was calm enough to take stock of what I was doing, I realized I’d already stitched too many rows for a placemat or doll’s blanket. It’s not my best work, obviously, just rows upon rows of garter stitches.

It makes for a good prop for peek-a-boo, though. Efa stands in front of my knees, and I raise it between us so she can’t see my face. Her wolf growls. It’s adorable, about as loud as a tummy grumble. I say, “Peek-a-boo!” and drop the knitting in my lap. She squeals, and her whiskers quiver.

No matter how many times I do it, she doesn’t get bored. When I try a variation, covering my head with the knitting and then raising it to peek out at her, she dissolves in giggles and yips. I’m a comedic genius.

I’m about to do it again when there’s a disturbance across camp. Males are howling. Voices are raised. There’s a mass movement toward the entrance to the clearing.

Danger. Run. Run!

I stand, lifting Efa into my arms so I can bolt with her. She promptly grabs my face, accidentally sticking a finger in my ear.

Elspeth arrives at my side, laying a hand on my forearm. “They’re back,” she says. She squeezes my arm. “Nothing to worry about. If there’s something wrong, the howls will let you know. You can’t mistake it.”

Is there often something wrong?Whatgoes wrong?

Efa wriggles, wanting down, so I set her on her feet. She grabs my hand and immediately begins to toddle off toward the action. Everyone seems to be going to greet their returning packmates. The sycamore is free of pups for the first time today.

I let Efa lead me at her top speed, which is a very slow stroll for me. Elspeth keeps pace with us, and I’m grateful again for her company. I’d gotten comfortable at the females’ camp-within-a-camp, but as I pass by the areas where the males gather, their mixed scents rattle my nerves.

You’re outnumbered.

It doesn’t help that it’s that time before night falls when you realize that you can’t quite see as far in front of you as you could a minute before, and your brain switches from relying on sight to relying on smell. Everything is swathed in shadows—the work tables, canopies, and stacked boxes marking the various males’ territories.

A stiff breeze blows down from Salt Mountain. I’m still warm from lounging in the sun all day, so my skin is clammy where the wind cools the dampness on my chest and the back of my neck.

Wrong direction.

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