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

I hate beekeeping. I hate varroa mites more. I hate testing for varroa mites the most.

I shake a few hundred workers out onto a double thick sheet of newspaper and fold the paper like a funnel. Then, very carefully, I pour a cup of bees into the shake jar.

Is the queen in there? Better check.

No. I already checked a dozen times.

Better check again.

I know for a fact that the queen isn’t in the batch of bees I took out for testing. I found her before I started, and I kept an eye on her as I drew other frames from their slots in the box. Then I went back and made sure she was safe and sound.

But are you really, really sure? Better check again.

I know that the queen is on a frame I left in the box.

But you should check one more time. Just to be sure.

I let the voice babble her litany of doom and gloom in the background and focus on the task at hand.

Even though it’s early spring and in the low sixties outside, it’s hot as hell inside my white suit, and loose strands of hair are sticking to my sweaty face. There’s nothing I can do with the mesh veil covering my head. I try to huff the hair away, but it’s plastered to my cheek.

As quickly as I can wearing these thick gloves, I fill the jar halfway with alcohol. The bees panic while I screw on the lid, and my nose wrinkles at the chemical stink.

I hate murdering bees. Not because I’m fond of them or anything. They sting, and even when they’re relatively calm, they buzz around you, skulking at the verge of your peripheral vision, and honestly, I don’t know which is worse—a sting hurts, but it feels better once you slap some mud on it. The skulking gives me headaches and drives my wolf nuts.

Somehow, this job defaulted to me after Una mated Killian. Mari point blank refused to take over bee duty, and then she mated Darragh Ryan. Kennedy is really good at not being around when conversations about the divvying up of duties happen.

I’m an unenthusiastic beekeeper, but I’m a truly reluctant bee murderess. No matter how necessary I know it is, drowning them feels awful. I shake the jar as hard as I can, trying to give them as quick a death as possible. They’re dying for the greater good, but they don’t know that, and even if they did, I bet they wouldn’t have volunteered.

I hate playing Fate.

After two minutes of shaking, I let the jar sit for the requisite two additional minutes. While the last of the bees give up the ghost, I survey our little kingdom.

Abertha is off on her travels, so her cottage windows are shut despite the warm weather. There’s no one around except her cat Appollonia, although she’s nowhere to be found at the moment.

These days, Una works down at the new greenhouse that Killian built for her near the commons. He wants her close to home, and now that she has a pup, she doesn’t fight him on it. Mari still comes up here sometimes, but she lives with Darragh in a treehouse out in the woods, and since that’s closer to our shop in Chapel Bell, she spends most of her time working there.

If Kennedy’s not on patrol or training with the males, she’s usually trudging around, doing something. She’s handy, and she knows what needs doing, but she refuses to be pinned down to a schedule. It’s always a surprise when I show up and the garden is tilled, or she’s got buckets set up with spawn for a fresh crop of oyster mushrooms. I don’t see or smell her now, though. I’m alone.

Always alone.

The hole in my chest aches, like cold water is pouring from it, but I can stand loneliness.

It’s better this way. Safer.

It’s beautiful up here at this time of year. Tender shoots and leaves and buds tremble in the breeze, and the ground is soft and dark and rich. There is a feeling that things are about to begin.

Not for me, of course, but for the world at large.

It’s better that way.

Sometimes I find babies in the wildflower field or the woods. Bunnies. Squirrels. My wolf always hunts them, ferreting out their nests. Not to eat. She just likes to watch them nestle. The same with Una’s baby. My wolf likes to watch him kick and coo. She stares, and then later, when we’re alone at home, she paces, restless.

I pick up my jar of dead bees and tumble it, counting out another two minutes in my head.

I’m actually calmer than my wolf these days, now that Una is the alpha female. We don’t have to hide our phones or the business or our trips to Chapel Bell anymore.

Of course, my brain has no trouble finding other things to worry about, but there’s one hundred percent less sneaking around in my life now, and that’s made a huge difference. My stomach ulcer is healing. I can eat Old Noreen’s chili again.

I put the bee jar down and set up a filter in a funnel. Then, batting away the few bees that escaped the reaping, I screw a mesh lid on the jar and empty the dead bee water through the funnel. This is the part of varroa mite testing when the rubber hits the road. I take the filter, hold it up to the light, and examine it carefully. Nothing. Sweet.

I breathe a little easier. Varroa mites are the stuff of nightmares. They feed on the bee larvae and pupae, and then when the bees emerge as adults, they’re missing chunks of their bodies and wings. You can treat for the mites, but that doesn’t do the bees flying around with holes eaten out of them much good.

Justus’s pointy wolf ears have jagged edges like they’ve been bitten. That’s my mate’s name—Justus. I finally learned it during last year’s failed kidnapping attempt. He tried to trade for Kennedy, Mari, and me, but he acted like he didn’t know me. Like I was no one to him.

He recognized me, though. I saw the hate before he shuttered his face and focused elsewhere.

Sad female.

Coward.

A female like you would make weak, spindly young.

The voice recites her favorite chorus. I let her. If I argue with her, she shouts over me.

After the showdown between Killian and the Byrnes at the old dens, when Justus shifted and ran, I saw his ears, and they looked chewed up. He looked rougher than he did when we mated. Bigger. More weathered. More scarred.

In my memory, he wasn’t young when I met him, but seeing him now, I realize he hadn’t even grown to his full height then. He was Fallon’s age when we mated. Maybe eighteen or nineteen.

He’s different now. Hard. Unforgiving.

I think a lot about his wolf, every time I have my tea on the back porch and look at the garden. I imagine him with his flower antennae, so worried about what was frightening me.

Does his wolf hate me, too?

My heart beats faster, and my hands shake as I unscrew the jar and walk over to the compost to toss the bee carcasses on the pile.

Regardless, the man doesn’t want you. The voice reassures me. Sad female. Coward. You would make weak, spindly young.

He’s the alpha of the Last Pack. I am his best—likely only—chance for pups, but when he saw me, he acted like he didn’t know me.

I felt him in my chest, though. He is still so angry, angrier than he was when we mated. Despite the weakness of the bond, his rage seared.

I didn’t know his name before that day. In my head, I called him the Last Pack wolf, and as soon as I thought about him, I thought about something else. And it worked. For a long time. Until Una mated Killian, and everything changed.

Kennedy is allowed to train and patrol now. The traitors who Killian let live are now on kitchen duty, so I’m expected to sit with the pack at meals. Una insists I sit with her, so I have a front row seat to the pups wandering up after dinner to show her the treasures they’ve found during the day or to give her baby crafts they’ve made for him—flower crowns and rattles made from pebbles in used plastic bottles.

And I’m happy for her—I am—but by the time I can excuse myself without causing concern, I’m sliced to ribbons. No one will ever love me like Killian loves Una, and I’ll never have my own baby to love like Una loves Raff.

But you’re safe. The voice is stubborn. Argumentative. Right.

I am safe, and it feels like cold, dirty dish water.

There’s no sense in dwelling on what can’t be changed. I shake it off and rinse out the jar now empty of dead bees. The sun is inching closer to the peaks of Salt Mountain. It’s time to go home to change before I head for the lodge. I don’t need to rush, but I should get going.

There’s never a need to rush anymore. There’s no one at the cabin hogging the bathroom. The days of us racing each other to the bathroom are over. Kennedy usually showers at the pack’s gym.

Why am I so moody and mopey today? It’s not that time of the month. I just finished my period.

I shake it off again, for real this time, and dry the testing jar before tucking it neatly in the metal toolbox where I keep the testing supplies. I peel off my beekeeping gear, hang it up on the hook on the back of the shed door, and tug my long skirt back on over the bike shorts I wear in the suit. The cool, early evening air is bliss on my sticky skin.

If I hurry, I have time for a cup of tea before I’m expected at the lodge.

Or.

The weather is beautiful. Patches of stark blue sky are framed by the low, stout clouds shaded gray from the fading daylight. The cottage’s clearing and the fields and woods around it have settled into the kind of quiet that’s punctuated with a rustling breeze and the dwindling calls of birds as they wind down and return to their nests.

Like I said, I don’t have to rush.

I could walk home along the river.

My heartbeat quickens.

I always take the same path home—along the tree break beside the wildflower meadow and then down our well-worn track through the wood to the ridge behind the charred foundation of our old cabin. The traitors burned it down as a distraction on the day they tried to trade us to the Last Pack.

I know the way home like the palm of my hand—every exposed root, every place where the dirt washes out the trail when it rains. I know to the minute how long the walk takes. There’s no section of the path that’s exposed. If I had to run, I know exactly where I could hide.

The voice in my head is silent. She doesn’t think I’ll do it. Even the idea is twisting my stomach in knots.

The land beside the river is wide open. A few years ago, Killian cleared it all so the patrols have a clear view. Going along the river would actually take me away from the commons for about half a mile before it turns south. The river and its far bank are our territory, though. After the humans kidnapped Mari, Killian expanded our boundaries all the way to the rural route a mile to the north. Our territory is safe.

The voice snorts.

I have no reason to go home a different way today.

So you better not.

There she is. She can’t let me make a decision without her.

Ferals can swim.

I can’t even consider taking a slightly different path home without my brain conjuring the worst-case scenario.

Humans can swim. They have boats. Guns. Numbers.

What would happen if I didn’t torment myself for once? An aquatic attack of swimming ferals and a fleet of gun-toting humans in boats? Beating myself up with my fears has no magic power. It can’t stop Fate. Bad things still happen.

Remember last time by the river. You begged for a knot on your hands and knees in the dirt.

I gasp at the memory and stumble where I stand, alone in front of the shed. Shame burns my face. The voice is playing dirty.

I’ve walked by the river since then. Only a few months ago, during a full moon, Kennedy stayed on Quarry Pack territory for once and shifted. When the pack took their usual path eastward, he ran along the river.

Usually, on those nights, I’d shift and hide in my room, curled in a corner with the curtain cracked so a sliver of moonshine would fall in the window, but that night, something got into my wolf. She followed Kennedy’s at a distance, trotting silently in the huge footprints he left in the frosted grass. If Kennedy noticed, she never mentioned it, and neither did I.

I’ve been to the river plenty of other times, too. I went a few days after the mating to hide whatever was left of my nest, but there was no sign of it. No whiff of scent left, neither his nor mine. The wind had blown it all away.

He was wrong about me. I’m not a coward. I’m afflicted with fear, and most of the time, it wins, but not always. They say courage is being afraid and doing it anyway. And I do. Sometimes.

So why not now?

I wipe my sweaty palms on my corduroy skirt and take off toward the north.

Don’t be reckless. Don’t be stupid. You know what happens. Fangs. Fists. Sightless eyes. Twisted mouth.

I lengthen my stride and pick up my pace. The voice is bringing out the big guns.

Most of the time, I hate her. But once in a blue moon, like now, I’m so sorry for her that my heart breaks. She can’t ever be brave, even a little bit like I’m being right now.

I hurry along the edge of the nettle field, passing the trailhead where I usually turn and taking the next one a few yards further on instead. It’s a patrol path, so it’s as well-worn as the one I usually take. It goes straight up a steep incline at first, so I’m panting by the time I hear the river rushing in the distance. My heart pounds, harder than it should. The hill is steep but short.

Turn back. Now. Before it’s too late.

Too late for what? A nice view?

I square my shoulders and trudge on, eyes on my muck boots. If I look at the rushing river or the darkening woods past the far bank, I might lose my courage, and it’s not like this should require bravery.

I’m tromping through an overgrown field, stirring up crickets. Una attacked Haisley and claimed Killian in front of the entire pack. I’m taking the scenic route home.

And all I can look at is the green rubber toes of my boots peeking from the threadbare hem of my skirt.

Run. Home. Now.

The voice brays at the top of her lungs, but where’s my wolf? She’s quiet. Watchful.

Expectant.

She’s on her feet, nose pressed to the border between us. Staring at the river.

Don’t look up. Run.

My wolf whines. Softly.

I glance up. My feet sputter to a halt.

Run, the voice screams. A fresh surge of adrenaline crashes through my veins, sending my heart thumping into my breastbone. I moan.

He’s there.

My hands clutch my skirt, my teeth sinking into my lower lip.

My mate is standing on the other side of the river.

Glaring at me.

My wolf is afraid to move. She plays a statue, her tail motionless in mid-air. Watching me.

I let go of my skirt, letting my shirt cuffs fall over my fisted hands. I should run.

Why am I not running?

Justus’s long brown hair is snarled, but loose strands still fly when the wind picks up. His gnawed ears poke from his tangled mane, pointed and furry. Wolf ears.

His face is hard, every angle sharp, every plane spare. His beard hides his mouth. He’s wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants and no shirt. My breath catches in my lungs. His chest is fascinating.

He’s bigger than he was when we mated, but he’s not beefy and bulging like our males. This must be what the word sinewy means. He’s not pumped up; he’s honed. Before, his right pec and bicep had been covered in tattoos, but now, every inch of skin on the entire right side of his body is covered in black ink. From this distance, I can’t make out the individual pictures and patterns. It looks like latticework. Or lace.

His veiny arms hang loose at his side, but his chest rises and falls like he sprinted here.

And he’s angry. His whole body declares it. The way he stands. The angle of his chin. The line of his jaw.

I can’t get enough air. I need air.

The voice shouts run in the back of my head, like always. Like the boy who cried wolf.

She can’t save me, though, can she? She can’t make anything better; she can’t protect me. All she can do is scream.

My mate waits, stock-still, but neither my wolf nor I are fooled—he’s calculating. He didn’t come this far to look at me. He’s coiling, preparing to attack.

Our eyes meet. I can’t tell the color or expression. He’s too far away. But I can feel him in my chest.

I press my palm against the place where it hurts.

My wolf tilts her head.

He smiles.

No.

It’s not a smile.

He bares his fangs, his muscles tightening. He’s going to strike.

Run, run, run, run, run!

I whirl on my heel, trip, and pitch forward, my kneecaps grinding as they hit the ground. Behind me, I hear a splash.

I scrabble back to my feet and bolt for the woods, arms pumping, my skirt trapping my legs, hampering my stride. I hike it above my knees. Damn these boots. I curl my toes to keep from slip-sliding inside them. What was I thinking to wear these boots, this skirt?

The fresh spring grass squeaks against my rubber soles. I skid and lose a second. And then another. I pump my arms harder, as if that can make my legs longer or stop the splashes in the river from growing closer and closer.

What was I thinking? This is my fault. Again. I did this to myself.

If I can just get past the tree line, there are places to hide—thickets, hollow logs, dead falls. It’s so close. Three yards. Two.

One.

I plow into the underbrush. Vines whip around my ankles. My foot slips from the boot, and I turn, teetering on one leg as I flip the boot upright to shove my foot back in. More seconds lost.

There are no sounds to track him by now. No splashes, no steps. The wood muffles everything except its own chirrups and cracks.

I hold my breath and strain to hear him between the thuds of blood in my ears.

He hates me. Why would he come after me?

To kill you. To make you sorry.

A twig snaps.

I whirl.

He’s there, ten feet behind me, water dripping from his beard. His pecs. The ridges of his hard stomach. His wet pants sag low on his hips and cling to his thighs.

He stares me straight in the eye and then very, very deliberately, he lifts his foot from the branch he snapped.

On purpose.

He ran a circle around me. In silence. In no time at all.

I’m no match for him.

Scream. Drop. Cover your belly. Cover your head.

I cannot be in this body, on the ground, small and powerless. I reach into myself and fling my wolf into existence.

I’m a quicker shifter than I used to be, but the pain is still searing, and if he wanted, there’s more than enough time for him to rend me to pieces while my bones are knitting back together. The pain and the risk are worth it, though. Anything to not be small and cowering on the ground.

I brace myself for an attack. His hands have fisted, and his arms are drawn back, but he doesn’t lunge for us. His face is darkening, though.

Rage.

“Shift back!” he booms, shaking the buds in the tree above his head.

There is no way on earth.

“Shift back now!”

My wolf plops onto her butt and peers up at him.

“You can’t avoid this,” he says, quieter, through gritted teeth.

My wolf’s nose quivers. He smells like fresh-turned earth, mulling spices, and river water. She wants to wallow in the scent. Lick it. Rub her face in it. The lingering aches and tension from the shift dissolve, and she stretches, arching her back, yawning as big as her jaws will go.

Run. Run!

I add my voice. Run! You idiot, run!

“You will talk to me,” Justus growls. “You’ve had it your way. Time is up. You’re done turning up your nose at me and turning your back.” His words drip with contempt. It’s clear he’s not saying what he really wants to say. The rumble in his chest gives him away. It’s the same sound Quarry Pack males make in the ring when they’re pummeling their opponent’s face.

Why isn’t my wolf scared?

She’s just sitting there, blinking up at him, sniffing the air for traces of his scent.

“I’ve done what you wanted, Annie. Do you think I would choose to come here? You’re a grown female. You can’t speak to your mate?” His voice grows louder and louder. “You owe me this,” he spits. “Shift! Back!”

My wolf licks her chops, trying to taste his scent.

“Are you even listening to me?” he bellows. The question rings through the woods, echoing in the crisp evening air. My wolf is still trying to catch his scent on her tongue until his wolf snarls in his throat.

That does it. My wolf panics, drops to her belly, and scrambles backward until her butt runs smack into a tree trunk. She got about three feet. She trembles and stares up as Justus closes the distance between us.

Run! Run!

The voice is still trying, but I know my wolf is frozen in place, even more stuck than I would have been. She’s all animal, and she recognizes him as the alpha she needs to placate to get out of this alive.

My wolf and I watch, mesmerized by fear, as the anger seeps from his face, leaving his brown eyes unaccountably sad.

He sinks to his knees, sits on his heels, and sighs. His shoulders drop, and he hangs his head, his beard bunching against his chest. For a long time, he stares at the dirt. My wolf stops shaking, distracted by his silence.

Finally, he lifts his chin to look her in the eyes, and he says, “Annie, I would give anything for you not to be afraid of me. Your fear is the greatest shame of my life.” He straightens, collecting a breath. “But we can’t stay here if you won’t shift. I’m sorry.”

He rises to his feet and scoops her up, too quickly for her to do anything but stiffen into a plank. He tucks her to his chest, his forearm supporting her belly, her rump in the crook of his elbow. She presses her nose to his damp skin.

“I won’t hurt you, sweetling,” he says, his voice bitter and tired.

My wolf nuzzles him with her snout and inhales. All four of her limbs relax and dangle, swinging as he takes off toward the river.

He’s going to drown us. Bite him! Fight!

The voice is fighting her corner alone. My wolf begins to whack Justus’s bicep with her wagging tail as if she can’t even hear it. Maybe she can’t. The elders say the wolf and the man are one, but I can’t imagine ever letting a male carry me like a football.

I should be panicking. He’s heading toward the river, strolling smoothly through the thick brush like it isn’t basically booby-trapped with vines, gnarled roots, and hidden ditches.

I’ve run out of adrenaline, though. I’m oversaturated. And also, for some reason, I can’t stop picturing his sad brown eyes.

He’s nothing like what I know, tattooed and long haired and walking on two legs through the woods as deftly as a wolf, but those eyes are familiar.

They’re very much like the ones I see in the mirror.