Page 39 of Pack Kasen: Part 2

“Because you would have stopped him?”

“Because he would have stopped himself. When he walked into the formal meeting room and saw you on the floor, he stopped.”

“So he wouldn’t trip over me?” I arch my eyebrow.

A glimmer of amusement flickers in his light green gaze. “He might not have realized you were his mate then, but he knew you were important to him. He wouldn’t have killed you.”

My gaze returns to the creek and the dark green pine trees as the wind blows the woody, slightly sweet scent towards me. “I don’t want him. I have a life waiting for me in the city and he isn’t a part of that.”

“And is it a happy life?” He glances toward the road at the rumbling purr of an approaching vehicle.

He doesn’t seem concerned, so maybe he’s expecting someone.

“It’s my life and one I spent years building. I won’t give it up for anything.”

Even if this place is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been, and even if Aren, Wolf King of Burning Wood, is the most beautiful man. My wolf and I will be fine on our own, the way we always have been. We don’t need a pack.

“Then he will learn another lesson,” he says as a dark green truck comes into view.

“Which is?” I ask, distracted.

The driver cuts the engine and swings the driver’s side door open.

Aren calls my name, and even though I hadn’t known he was outside until I heard him, I can’t look away from the man climbing out of the car.

I know him.

I have never seen him before, but I know him.

How?

My stomach feels… strange.

And there’s a weird echo in my head. Memories of the basement, a field of sunflowers, and a light wood farmhouse with a covered front porch converge.

Someone is calling my name, but I can’t breathe as I stare at the man in the black denim pants and dark blue denim shirt.

His dark brown hair reaches his ears. He’s in his fifties, maybe a little younger, and the longer I look at him, the more I want to run away.

He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since he stepped out of the car. His hand tightens around the edge of his car door, as if he needs help standing up. Like me, he seems incapable of looking away.

And his eyes…

I know those eyes.

And when he speaks, his gravelly voice punctures through the veil of strangeness filling my mind.

“Kataleya. Is that you?”

I shake my head as I take a step back.

I don’t know that name.

He takes a step forward, eyes searching mine, one hand outstretched as if to stop me from bolting.

“Kataleya Prairie,” someone says.

Not him.

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