The Wild Wolf’s Rejected Mate (The Five Packs Book 5)
The Wild Wolf’s Rejected Mate: Chapter 13

I hardly sleep at all, and I’m up before the sun to get hot water for Annie’s tea. I don’t know how long we have, and time is nipping at my heels.

I wake her up by being as loud as I can when I come back from the bonfire, and despite her blurry eyes and grumpy face, I can’t feel bad. I don’t want to miss a second with her.

She grabs whatever is at hand to cover herself and ends up under a haphazard pile of yesterday’s gown, a quilt, a thermal blanket, a pillow, and the sheet that she kicked off the pallet in her restless sleep. My den overflows with the scent of her approaching heat, so thick and delicious on my tongue, so heady.

I can’t afford a fuzzy head. If this is all the time I get with her, I want to remember it all. And I need all my wits to convince her to stay, or at the very least, if nothing else, not to fuck up the mating like I did last time.

I wracked my brain all night for a strategy. Flowers seemed to work, so maybe Max and the other happily mated males are onto something. I don’t want to leave her to rustle up chocolates and treats, though, and it just doesn’t seem like enough.

How do you make a female fall in love with you? In one day, maybe two if you’re lucky?

“Tea,” I say, ducking and cautiously entering the den.

She rubs her eyes, frowning, and makes grabby hands. I smile and pass the tea. She still has the spark from last night. Good.

She sips and tries to raise herself to sit cross-legged, but the blankets are hopelessly tangled, and there’s no way to sort it without spilling the tea. She glares down at the messy pile of blankets around her, her willowy arms raised, the mounds of her lovely breasts showing over the hem of an old patchwork quilt.

She looks like a princess from a picture book with one of those big, poofy dresses, but even better than that because her hair is a complete wild mess, and instead of sparkles and satin, she’s surrounded by my things, saturated in my scent. She looks made for me.

She was made for me, so I must know somewhere deep down how to make this work. If I were a female, what would I want?

I am not going to think about Annie slipping her graceful fingers into her wet slit while she bites her bottom lip and whines my name. That’s not helpful. I am going to stop picturing it now.

Right now.

Fuck.

I get up, turn my back, and rummage in the basket like I’ve got a sudden basket emergency.

What would I want? Well, I would want pants for a start. I couldn’t stand walking around in a bedsheet.

I paw through the contents of the basket with renewed purpose. I have a pair of pants with a drawstring that’ll do for her, and a thin sweater I wear when it’s too cold to go shirtless but not cold enough to go full fur. It’ll hang off her, but it smells like me. Maybe she won’t mind.

I noticed how she has the blankets piled close to her nose so she can tuck her head and take a good whiff of my scent. I’m doing the same, but since her scent is so thick in the air, I’m pretty much breathing twice as fast, once for oxygen, once to soothe the need gnawing in my belly. It’s not doing much for my clarity of thought. I root right past the pants I’m looking for twice before I grab them.

“You can wear these,” I say, setting the sweater and pants on the edge of the pallet. “And then we can—”

We can what?

What do females like to do? Long baths in the stream with no one asking them for anything, talking with the other females, hell, I don’t know—Lelia likes throwing knives with the males. Ashleen likes dancing and cards. Mabli likes propping her feet up and tippling from the flask of moonshine she keeps in her knitting bag.

None of this works for courting. What do I like to do? My mind is blank.

I like her. Annie. My pretty, perfect mate.

She gazes up at me with big brown eyes and delicately sips her tea, a knotted hunk of hair sticking up from the side of her head. I would love to do anything that this female would let me do.

“We’ll do the rounds,” I say. That’s all I can think of. We’ll do what I usually do.

Why is this so hard? It’s Fate, right? And nature. I’m supposed to be born knowing how to woo this female.

Annie stares at me. She’s set her tea down on the floor, and she has the shirt in her hands. Oh. She wants me to leave so she can change.

“Right,” I say, wiping my palms on my canvas pants. Well, I’m proving Plato wrong, moment by moment here. My soul has knowledge of jack shit, at least when it comes to females. “I’ll go.”

Her scent sours.

“Not far. Just outside. I’ll be right there.” I drag a hand through my hair, and then, after a few more excruciating seconds, my feet take pity on me and walk our ass out of the den.

I stride over to the ledge and survey the camp below, hands on my hips, pretending that I have some dignity left. Folks are slow to rise today. They usually are after a successful hunt.

I see little Leon has beat his dam awake. He’s snuck from her den and toddled all the way down to the clearing and across camp to the bonfire where he’s begging bread from Rodric. When Annie comes out, we’d best stop there first and take him back before Delphie wakes up, misses him, and panics.

Just as I make the plan, Annie clears her throat behind me. I spin, overeager, my heart catching in my throat. In the daylight, she’s twice as lovely. My faded gray sweater swims on her, and the pants bag around her legs like potato sacks. She tamed her hair and tied it back with what looks like a strip from yesterday’s gown.

With her brown hair and eyes sparkling in the sunshine, she looks like a forest sprite. She clasps her hands and rocks on her small feet, bashful but enthralled, just like me. She takes me in, too. I can’t help but straighten my shoulders while her gaze darts to my chest and then slides down.

My cock swells, and her eyes snap back to mine. I smile—very, very careful not to let it turn into a smirk—and say, “Ready?”

“Okay,” she answers softly.

I gesture for her to go ahead of me down the switchback path. As we pass the dens, I call out a greeting if I hear rustling within and tread lightly if it’s quiet. When we pass Delphie’s, I hear her stirring, so I call in to her that Leon is down at the fire with Rodric, and then I urge Annie to hurry on before Delphie can pop her head out, and I catch the scolding meant for Leon.

On a normal day after a hunt, I’d check on the butchering first, so when we get to the clearing, I grab Annie’s hand and lead her toward the smoke shack. She lets me keep hold of it as we walk. My heart soars. I am very careful not to strut or grin like an idiot. If I act like this is an everyday thing, maybe Annie will see how it could be.

When we get to the smoke shack, Tarquin greets me, ducking his head at Annie. She blushes and shrinks closer to me, but she does say good morning and gives him a shy smile.

The elk has been skinned and sectioned, and the shank, shoulder, ribs, and brisket are already smoking. Tarquin has Elis slicing the top and bottom rounds for jerky.

“How is it going?” I ask Elis, not expecting a response. Like usual, he startles when I speak, even though he’s been watching me this whole time. I act like I didn’t notice. That’s how we handle his twitchiness.

Annie picks up on it, though. She frowns, her hand tightening on mine.

Shit. Does she think he’s afraid of me? That I’ve given him a reason? Or does she see me ignore his distress and remember how I didn’t credit hers?

Mates are a fucking landmine.

Maybe it doesn’t need to be that dire. I’m the dominant male here, Elis is scared, and despite her own fears, Annie has a strong protective instinct. She showed that when she leapt on little Efa’s wolf to save the pup from Alroy when he snarled like a bitch because Diantha got the best of him again. Annie’s wolf was defending the pup while she waited for me to handle shit.

I can do that. Handle shit is more or less what I do all day, every day.

I let Annie’s hand go, and padding forward very slowly, I approach Elis where he sits on a bench at the table we use for processing. His fear scent bursts into the air, strong enough to cut through the smell of smoking elk.

“What are we doing this time—garlic or honey glazed?” I ask, crouching beside him so I’m lower than his eyeline when he answers me.

He clears his throat. “Just a pepper rub on these.”

My stomach growls, totally unintended. Elis grins, his shoulders dropping a notch away from his ears.

“I get dibs, right?” I ask.

“Sure thing, Alpha,” he says, flashing me a faint smile. That’s better, but it’s not quite right.

My wolf pushes forward, and I follow my instinct and let him out, fully expecting him to scarf down a few of the elk strips piled on the cutting board.

Instead, he kicks his hindlegs free of our pants and proceeds to headbutt Elis in the armpit.

“Wha—?” Elis tenses, preparing to lose it, but before he can, my wolf props his paws on Elis’s shoulders and marks his face with such enthusiasm that Elis gets both a mouth and nose full of fur.

My wolf rumbles, and I can almost scent Elis’s remaining tension seep away. My wolf laps his face, and Elis chuckles, a deep, rusty creaking sound. Until I hear it, I don’t realize just how long it’s been missing from camp.

It makes sense in a horrible way. If the world is out to get you, best to be invisible, quiet and small. That’s how my Annie was living, wasn’t it?

I can’t let her go back to that.

And I can’t stop her. I swore.

A rock lodges in my chest, and at that same moment, my wolf realizes Elis’s hands are covered in elk juice.

Apparently, that’s the line, because Elis leaps to his feet and throws his hands in the air to escape my wolf’s tongue, groaning through a belly laugh. Tarquin and the others crack up. My wolf takes advantage of the confusion to snarf up a few elk strips, gets a snoot full of pepper, and sneezes for a half minute straight.

My job is done here.

I shift back, find my pants, and pull them back on. Thankfully, my wolf didn’t rend the seams like he usually does in his struggle to free himself.

“Shall we get breakfast?” I ask Annie, holding out my hand.

She takes it like she’s been doing it for years. That has to be a good sign.

“Didn’t you just eat yours?” she asks.

“My man stomach is still empty.”

“Your wolf and your man have different stomachs?” She raises an eyebrow, meeting my eye without hesitation. It’s gentle and teasing, but she’s still challenging me. That’s very good.

“Absolutely. Wolf stomach, man stomach, and dessert stomach. Don’t you have three?”

She giggles softly, and my heart beats double time.

“We were always taught the wolf and the man are one,” she says.

I snort. That’s some lost packs bullshit. It’s how they brainwash their people. If you can convince someone to believe things that are obviously untrue to anyone with eyes or a brain, you own them. Reality is what you say it is.

“Oh yeah?” I say. I’m not about to get into an argument with my mate over it, though, not while she’s smiling and smelling sweet.

Annie is quiet for a while as we make our way toward the long tables by the bonfire.

When we pass the sycamore, she says out of nowhere, “My wolf isn’t afraid of you.”

I blink, surprised she’s still on the topic. “No, she isn’t,” I agree.

Even when we mated, her wolf wasn’t scared. She wanted to tear my throat out. She wasn’t actually frightened until she got herself trapped between me and the river.

“But I was scared.”

I keep my eyes ahead so she doesn’t see the hurt, but then one of her words snags my brain. Was. As in not anymore? I school my face so she doesn’t see the flash of hope. Now isn’t the time. She’s working something out in her head.

“My wolf always howled at me to run and hide,” she says. Her forehead wrinkles, and her pace slows. I slow mine to match. “But I don’t think she was scared. I think she was scared for me.”

I nod. It makes sense. Even a small wolf can defend itself better than a young female. Considering how long it takes Annie to shift, she’d need a decent head start to give her wolf any chance of shifting in time to launch a defense against a predator.

She falls silent, deep in thought, and stays that way until we get to the bonfire. I seat her at a family table next to Nessa and her pups and then go to fetch our plates and a cup of tea. Redmond has made a hash of potato, apple chunks, and onion. I heap two plates high and score two rounds of bannock hot from the skillet.

When I return, Efa is standing on Annie’s lap, playing with her hair. Annie’s face is pink, and despite the cool morning, her upper lip is beaded with sweat. Her brown eyes have a feverish shine. I don’t think we have days before her heat takes over. More like hours.

Dread clutches my chest as adrenaline sends a rush of blood through my veins. My wolf howls at me to take her away from these other males. I breathe through it, willing my muscles to relax. She’s still in her right mind. We’re going to keep calm as long as we can.

I set our plates down and slide onto the bench beside her. Efa gives me a big smile that’s mostly gums except for her new baby canines. She looks like a little vampire.

“Affa!” she shrieks.

“I’m not Efa,” I tease her. “You’re Efa.” I tickle her snout with my beard, and she lets out a peal of delight.

“Affa!”

“Apple? Is that what you said?” I pierce the softest piece of apple with my fork and offer it to her.

“No!” she giggles. “Affa!”

“Okay.” I shrug. “No apple.” I pop the bite into my mouth. She laughs like I’m the most hilarious, outrageous male on the planet and tries to pry my lips open to get the apple back. I glance over her mussed head of fur to see if my mate thinks I’m funny, too.

Annie’s mouth quirks, and if I’m not mistaken, her eyes shine even brighter. She is the prettiest female I’ve ever seen. Now that I’ve watched her up close without the rut hormones of a young male messing up my mind, I see she isn’t like the little fairy in the children’s book at all. She’s more like a wood nymph with her beautiful brown hair and willowy neck and delicate fingers, like Daphne from the book of Greek myths I inherited from my dam. She turned herself into a tree to escape her mate.

In the story, he got to stay near her and wear her leaves as a crown. I’m going to have to return my mate to her people. Never see her or our possible pup again, except from a distance. How can I? What power could force my legs to walk away from her now?

But how could I keep her here with me, make her miserable, destroy the trust she has in me now? Break my solemn word, again, when I don’t have the excuse of being young to temper my shame?

My gut aches. Annie’s smile falls as she senses my pain.

Will it hurt her when I leave her with her pack and tear my own heart from my chest?

I can’t let her hurt. Her people would never accept me, not after we tried to kidnap their alpha’s mate. And I couldn’t abandon my people. How would I live with that shame, either?

Worry fills Annie’s eyes as she scans my face, trying to figure out what’s bothering me, and probably whether she’s safe. I need to stop. Focus. I flash her a reassuring smile.

These are tomorrow’s problems, after all. Tomorrow’s grief. She is here beside me now. In this moment, I have all I need.

I spear another apple bite.

“Bite of Affa?” I say, offering the chunk to Annie, intentionally passing the fork near Efa’s mouth. Her snout goes full wolf, and she snaps the apple off the tines, scarfing it down with a very self-satisfied smacking of her lips.

Annie laughs, low and sweet, and my muscles swell, whether from pride or the excitement she stirs in my belly, I can’t tell.

“That was one for you. This one is for Annie,” I warn Efa. I do a little defensive maneuvering as I offer my mate the next bite. It makes it to Annie’s mouth, but it’s a close thing.

“Me now!” Efa demands, but when I offer her the next chunk, she pinches it off the fork, and with no warning, tries to feed it to Annie by ramming it through her closed lips. Annie’s head jerks back, her fingers flying to her face. I tense.

Annie recovers almost immediately. “Oh, delicious,” she mumbles as she collects mashed apple from her chin and shovels it into her mouth. “Thank you for sharing with me, Efa.”

Efa, pleased with herself, reaches down, grabs another handful of hash from my plate, and is halfway to smashing it into Annie’s mouth when I catch her by the forearm. “Whoa, sweetling. Too much of a good thing.”

Efa, quick on the pivot, twists her little arm like a snake and crams the fistful of food into her own maw.

“Oh, Efa, no,” Nessa sighs, noticing what her littlest is doing. She’s got her other two sitting nicely beside her with handkerchiefs tied around their necks as bibs. They’re scooping up their breakfast with their own spoons, delivering most bites with an admirable deal of accuracy, and here we’ve got her youngest, standing half on Annie’s lap and half on mine like she’s driving a chariot with chunks of hash in her hair and potato smeared on her face and under her nails.

I am not bad with pups, but I usually work with the older ones, teaching them to track and hunt. I’m not useless with a baby, though. I don’t want Annie to think I’m inept.

“No worries, Nessa. We’ll get her cleaned up,” I offer. The moment the words escape my lips and the eyes of every dam at the table light up, I know I’ve made a mistake.

“Oh, thanks, Alpha.” Nessa widens her eyes at me and blinks. “Little Bowen and Maeve could use a washing, too, if you’re going down to the stream.”

Her other two pups immediately clamber down from the bench, breakfast forgotten, their wolves yapping.

“If you’re heading down to the stream, could you take Noctiluna, too?” a female calls from the end of the table.

What have I done?

“Leon, finish your food. Alpha is taking you all to the stream,” Delphie says to her little one.

“Auggie, clear your place,” Lilliwen tells her youngest. “Don’t make Alpha wait for you.”

By the time we leave, I’ve managed to get us saddled with seven little ones. Annie doesn’t seem to mind the company. Efa insists on holding one of her hands, and Auggie wins the tussle to hold the other.

The other pups shift to their fur, leaving their drawers and dresses behind for their dams to pick up. They trot along with us, weaving around Annie’s legs, brushing her calves and generally doing their best to trip her. I keep a hand on her elbow.

“Is this too much?” I ask her quietly as we make our way down the grassy slope to the stream bank.

She shakes her head. “It’ll be nice to wade. Is the water cool?”

I nod. “It comes down from the peaks past Salt Mountain. This time of year, it’s mostly snow melt.”

She lets out a soft, longing sigh. The sound twists my belly tight. Her demeanor is definitely changing, even since last night. She’s less guarded, more distracted. She was like this last time, too, toward the end. Back then, I thought she’d accepted that we were mates, but she’d resigned herself.

A surge of acid burns my throat. I can’t do it again—not knowing that she doesn’t really want it.

But I’ll have to. I could never leave her to suffer alone.

My wolf rattles my chest. He wants out to fight off the threat to his mate. He doesn’t understand. Maybe that’s a blessing.

The pups squint at me and scrunch their snouts, wondering what my wolf is rumbling about. The more skittish ones trot away from me warily. They scent my distress. Annie must as well. I have to hold it together. The world isn’t ending yet. We’re going for a swim.

When we get to the stream, I dart behind a thick blackberry bush to shuck my pants. I toss them onto the brambles and shift. My wolf takes a second to sniff the air, reassuring himself that whatever upset me wasn’t a real threat like a feral or a rabid, natural wolf. Then he takes another second to munch a few of the unripe berries before concluding that they are, indeed, unripe before bounding back around the bush.

He rumbles low in his throat to herd the pups toward the stream. The males race full tilt into the freezing water and then yowl and shiver dramatically, affronted by the cold. The females hesitate at the edge, gingerly dipping their paws into the water and yipping among each other.

The pups can all swim, but they’re still small, reckless, and rambunctious. Auggie, who’s made of more daring than muscle, makes an instant break for it, sailing the current almost past the sharp bend downstream before my wolf can bound through the water to fetch him back. Meanwhile, back by shore, Bowen slips on a slick stone and stages a dramatic slow-motion drowning in the five-inch shallows like a turtle stuck on his back.

Annie bends over and rightens Bowen, her top getting soaked in the process. The thin fabric molds itself to her body—the flat of her belly and flare of her hips. I force my wolf’s gaze away, and good thing I do, because Leon is stealthily floating past like a log, trying to get past me. My wolf plucks him out of the water by the scruff of his neck and carries him back to the wide, deep spot by the willow where most of the pups are still gathered.

My wolf chases the males back onto the bank, herding them until they’re huddled in a pile of unchastened, wet, wiggly fur. My wolf plants his paws in the stream, lifts his head, and howls. Every single pup freezes, ducks his head, and peers up at me with big, round, innocent eyes.

Annie freezes, too. Shit. I’ve frightened her. My wolf snaps his jaw shut. She scans the shore quickly left and right. Is she going to run?

My wolf and I hold our breath.

She steps forward on frozen legs, like how the female pups walk the little rubber dolls with big tits that Alroy brought back from a trading trip to the human village. Her fear is etched on her face, but she keeps coming, placing herself in front of the pup puddle.

She stares down my wolf, her neck stiff, her hands shaking. She’s protecting them from me, defending them with her body.

Pride swells my heart. There she is. There’s my mate.

My wolf plops his butt right down in the cold current, landing right on the pokey edge of an underwater rock. He swallows his yelp and tucks his ears down.

Annie curls her trembling fingers into fists, her chest rising as she draws in a long breath. The fear recedes from her eyes as she realizes there is no real threat.

She clears her throat, turns to face the pups, and says in an impressively even voice, “No floating past that bunch of blue flowers there, okay?”

The pups blink up at her in unison. My wolf lumbers back to his feet, flicking water from his ears as they pop back up.

“You bigger pups pick a little partner. If your partner falls over, you have to help him up, okay?”

I can say with confidence that none of the pups—except for maybe Leon, who is wickedly advanced for his age—understands her. Little ones, when they’re in their fur, are all animal instinct. They recognize her authority, though. After all, my wolf submitted to her.

“Do you understand?” she asks them.

Efa’s wolf yips, scampers over, and leaps up on Annie’s legs. Annie takes that as agreement. “All right, then,” she says to the others. “You can go back in, but don’t go past the lobelia.”

The pups burst back into action, the females racing rings around Annie’s ankles, yapping for her attention, while the rest bound into the stream, splashing and paddling their way toward my wolf.

I sigh. I knew this was coming. At least it’s my wolf’s dignity at stake here, not mine.

For the next hour, the pups swarm my wolf like he’s the sycamore tree. They climb his flanks, playing king of the mountain and wrestling each other for a seat on his back. When they’ve got a quorum, they howl until my wolf obliges and paddles in circles like their very own boat.

Of course, when the pups least expect it, my wolf rolls or dives under, and they all tumble off his back and into the water, yowling with delight and then whining at him to let them do it all again.

The females stick close to Annie, longingly watching us from the bank as we play. Our females aren’t wary of males or averse to roughhousing, but they’re loyal like their dams, and Annie isn’t joining in the fun, so they’re going to stay with her.

Annie’s gaze darts from pup to pup to pup like she’s keeping a constant count of them. She’s standing guard. I understand. Don’t I do the same all day as I wander the camp and our territory, making sure that all the elders have made their way to their usual spots, that yesterday’s scouts have returned and today’s have left, that no tripwires have been tripped, no signal stones have been knocked over?

You can’t keep watch every minute. Your eyes get blurry and your brain dulls. I won’t nag Annie into joining us, though. No one could stop me from my rounds.

Efa’s wolf is the bold one who tires first of the status quo. She bites Annie’s pants and tugs with all her strength toward the stream, and Annie finally realizes there’s a posse of female pups waiting for her to get wet.

“Oh, you want to swim with me?” she says, and the female pups bay in a chorus of sweet, high-pitched, slightly aggrieved howls. Annie chuckles. “All right then.”

She bends over and rolls her cuffs to her knees. The females zig and zag around her legs as she makes her way to the edge. My wolf immediately shakes himself free of pups and bounds over to meet her, splashing through the water, soaking her in a wave of spray when he skids to a halt.

She laughs like chimes. He slaps the water with his happy tail.

“Hi,” she says softly.

He watches her take one tentative step and then another into the stream. When the water is mid-calf, she exhales and says, “Oh, it’s so cool. That’s so nice.”

The female pups step daintily into the water beside her. Their decorum lasts a solid ten seconds before one of the males—Auggie, I think—bowls into Noctiluna as he chases a tadpole, and the other females set after him for revenge like born huntresses. Efa’s wolf is the only one who stays with Annie, imitating my mate’s watchful supervision of the scene.

Annie will be a wonderful dam.

My wolf is captivated. He stalks over to her, careful to move slowly, and kneels with his forelegs to offer his back.

She laughs. “Oh, no. I’m too big for a ride.”

She’s wrong. My wolf is huge. I crouch as low as I can.

“I couldn’t,” she says, but the pups have taken notice, and they think it’s a brilliant idea. They swarm her, yapping, nudging her forward.

My wolf growls a sharp warning, and they give her a little space, but they still splash and yip and yowl and whine, a frenzy of wet fur, slapping tails, and cold, black noses.

My softhearted mate gives in, flushing even pinker as she mutters, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

She clutches the fur at my shoulders, throws her top half across my back, and swings her leg over my flank until she’s riding my wolf like a horse. Her toes dangle below the stream’s surface, but I was right—there’s plenty of room between her feet and the stream bed.

My wolf strides away from the bank, the pups cavorting alongside us, more excited than I’ve ever seen them.

Annie’s nails dig into my thick hide, her knees gripping my sides like a vise, but she doesn’t smell like fear. Her fresh rain smell mixes with wet fur, cold stream, and sunshine. It’s the kind of scent that somehow makes you remember a time before you were born.

My wolf cranes his head to look back at her and accidentally breaks her grip on his scruff, so she loops her arms around his neck and scoots so she can lie flat on her stomach.

Triumph, pride, and anticipation ignite my wolf’s blood. Our mate trusts us. He stalks further into the stream until he can float and paddle lazily in circles. One by one, the pups lose interest, and we lose our escort as they venture off to chase dragonflies and harass crawfish.

Annie’s breasts and belly press against my wolf’s back with every breath she draws. We’re a pack of two. Gradually, she relaxes. She lowers her cheek to rest on his shoulder and trails her fingers in the water, sighing. Her heat radiates through my wolf’s fur. He splashes her legs gently with his tail to cool her off.

We float around and around while the sun rises higher. In the distance, a hammer rings out. Voices carry from a gathering of males nearby planning a scouting run. Over by the curing hut, a ribbon of musky smoke curls into the blue sky. Annie rests her chin on the folded arms she’s propped on my shoulders. If I twist my ears in the right direction, her breath bathes their ragged edges and rustles the white fur inside.

This is happiness. And peace. It’s a soap bubble, lighter than air and rainbow bright.

She idly kicks her feet in the water by my haunches. Her toes brush my hind paws. I wish we could float here in circles forever.

But already, time is moving on. It’s well past midmorning. The females would leave me to watch their young all day, but their males won’t dare leave me saddled with their pups for too long. My wolf’s nose twitches, and he lifts his head, narrowing his eyes at the males scrambling toward us down the slope. Murtagh, Redmond, and Griff come to stand at the edge.

“The pups clean yet, Alpha, or do you need another hour or so?” Redmond calls, grinning.

My wolf snorts.

Murtagh whistles at his pups to come. They immediately dive into the current, so they can pretend they didn’t hear him. My wolf grumbles. It’s easier to catch a bird with human hands than a pup when it’s time to get out of the water.

Annie is rousing herself to sit up, but her movements are languid and awkward. My wolf paddles to the shore and lowers himself to his belly so she can climb down safely. She still stumbles before she finds her footing. Her heat is coming on quickly now. I need to get her to the den.

I leave her for a second to shift and snag my pants before one of the males sees them and tosses them into the stream.

“Sit and rest,” I tell her when I come back. She’s trying to coax the pups out of the water, standing at the edge on wobbly legs. Her face is rosy red.

She isn’t behaving like other females entering their heat. She isn’t shooting me sidelong glances, and her wolf is silent in her chest. She sure as hell isn’t grabbing my hand and dragging me away like Elspeth has been known to do with Max.

She’s not running from me, though, and she doesn’t smell like fear. In fact, she ignored my order to sit and waded back into the water to scoop out a wriggling, splashing Auggie. She tucks him in the crook of her arm and whispers in his ear. His tail starts wagging, and he licks her cheek. She smiles and hands him over to Murtagh.

“What did you say to him?” I ask her.

“To be good, and we’ll play later.”

I want that. With every fiber of my being. I want to take my mate to our den. I want us to lose ourselves in each other, and in a day or two or three, when her heat breaks, I want to walk my rounds with her, feed her breakfast, play with the pups, and then watch her while I work, counting the hours until I can take her to our den again.

I want to do it every day while her belly grows round with our young, until the pup we play with is our own, until we’re too old to work and walk, and we spend our days instead together by the fire, talking for hours about nothing, happy because we’re not alone and never will be again, not in this life, not in the next.

And I promised her that I’d take her home.

I swore.

The males lead the pups back toward the sycamore, and when the last straggler is gone, I offer Annie my hand. She takes it.

“Should we go to the den?” I ask.

She glances down, her cheeks flaming.

“Okay,” she says. Her voice trembles, but her steps are sure as we climb the grassy slope.

It feels like everything I’ve ever wanted.

It feels like the end of the world.