The Wild Wolf’s Rejected Mate (The Five Packs Book 5)
The Wild Wolf’s Rejected Mate: Chapter 6

She’s sleeping.

My mate is sleeping in my arms.

My anger is soot in my mouth. The bond is a knife stuck in my chest. Yet, somehow, my heart is soaring.

This time, her wolf knew me at once. I was furious and bellowing like an idiot, and she sat her ass down and tried to scent me. Why does she respond to me now when she fought me after we mated?

She was probably traumatized from the pain of that awful first shift, and her head was filled with Annie’s revulsion. No wonder her instincts told her to fight.

I snuggle her closer, summoning a gentle rumble, the one I use with the little pups when they have their moments. I don’t want Annie’s wolf to think I bear her a grudge. She’s too sweet. Her cream underbelly is soft as feathers, and her clean coat shines with health. Even her ears are silky and smooth.

It wasn’t my plan to take her away, but I don’t have an ounce of regret. I’m not prepared, though.

I’m going to need more blankets. And maybe some pretty pillows like Max found for his mate’s den. Annie’s wolf probably won’t like lying on the ground either, even if it is cool. Her fur is so well-kept, she must be fussy about it.

Will she want all those soaps like Max’s mate? Elspeth has a different one for every part of her body, and they create so much suds that Max has to fill two troughs with water when she bathes—one for lathering, the other for rinsing.

I won’t mind fetching water, but I will have to find another oak barrel. I only have the one.

Does Annie’s wolf still have those small fangs, or have they grown?

I reach over, and rumbling louder to keep her lulled, I gently push her lip up with my index finger. Oh, they’re so tiny. I’ve seen rats with longer and sharper teeth.

Can she even hunt with fangs that short? Maybe smaller prey. Rats and such.

I bet she doesn’t know how to hunt. Lost pack males make their females stay back in their camps; we never see them when we track their hunting parties. They probably want to keep them weak and dependent so they don’t run.

I’d run if I was kept in a box and forced to be thankful for what I’m given.

Of course, a female should never have to catch her own meat, but she should also never be in a position where she’s hungry because she was never taught to hunt. It seems like common sense to me. It is common sense if you want your females to have the best chance at survival, but I get the sense it’s more important to the lost packs that they keep their females—not that they keep them alive.

Didn’t Lilliwen say as much? After we took her from the human males who’d stolen her, she wouldn’t eat because she thought we’d expect to mount her in exchange for food like they do in Moon Lake. She said in that pack, low-ranked females have to trade themselves for food if they have no money. When we asked who had the money, she said the high-ranking males. When we asked why they didn’t give the females money for food then, she cried. We stopped asking questions and had Elspeth feed her.

My mate is never going to have to trade anything to eat, but when I teach her to hunt, I’m going to have to catch the critters beforehand and hobble them. Slice an ankle tendon or something. She’ll never catch them otherwise. She has the shortest legs I’ve ever seen on a full-grown female wolf.

I can’t wait to run beside her. I’ll have to trot. She won’t be able to keep up. She’s so low to the ground, I don’t think she’ll be able to see over the meadow grass we have to pass through at the base of the evergreen camp.

I won’t mind going slow for her. Inside my chest, my wolf howls in agreement. He wants out, and he’ll walk if he has to, even though he longs to chase her.

Catch her.

Take her.

I can’t let him out. He’s waited so long, and she smells so good. If I let him take our body, he’d be on her in a second. Annie would hate us even more, then, even though I don’t think her wolf would mind—not with the way she’s draped over my forearm, her tail swishing lazily across my abs as she snoozes. Her wolf recognizes me now, and she doesn’t smell like fear.

She smells like rain on dry earth—like petrichor, my favorite scent, ever since I was a pup. I always loved thunderstorms.

I hike her a little higher in my arms so she’s closer to my nose. Her scent is subtle, easily overpowered when we walk past a pine or a rotting log. I breathe her in until my lungs ache. Her scent teases my memory, reminding me of how the world smelled when I was a pup.

My wolf crowds the boundary between us. He wants a sniff, too. He wants to bury his snout in her fur as he mounts her.

He can’t. Lost pack shifters don’t fuck as their wolves. When Max’s wolf first tried to mount Elspeth’s, her wolf ripped a hunk out of his shoulder. When she was in her skin again, she yelled at him for hours about how it was wrong and dirty. When he asked her how she thought natural wolves had babies, she threw a piece of firewood at his head. I see their wolves sneaking off now during runs, but it took her a while.

Even if Annie’s wolf wanted mine, I couldn’t do it. Annie herself is still terrified of me. Her fear stench was so strong that I caught it while I was still on the far side of the river.

But she didn’t run, though. Not at first.

Because she was frozen in fear?

Maybe. She wasn’t quite like she was before, though. Her pupils weren’t blown, and she fidgeted, tucking her hands into her shirt cuffs and biting her sweet bottom lip. I stifle a groan. Her blunt human teeth sank into her lip like they were biting into risen dough. I want to bite that lip, too.

My stomach growls, or maybe it’s my wolf, bitching about how I’m keeping him locked up. The sun is sinking fast, and I didn’t plan any of this. I have no food, nothing to make a shelter or a fire. We’ll need to find a place to camp soon. Ferals hunt at night, and I can take at least two or three on my own, but I wouldn’t risk it with my mate in my arms.

My mate.

I can’t believe I have her. I don’t dare.

Soon enough, she’ll shift to her skin and hate me again. Once we talk and figure things out, I’ll have to let her go back to her pack. But until then, all I need to worry about is food, fire, shelter, and ferals.

And Killian Kelly and Quarry Pack coming after me.

I feel like I’ve dealt with that for now. I cut south once I crossed back over the river, left a few signs, and doubled-back. They’ll likely think we’re heading for the high valley camp. Good luck to them when they find the black bears that moved into the dens once we left.

For now, the most pressing need is a safe place to stow my mate while I catch her dinner. What I need is a good tree hollow.

I eye her narrow haunches. It won’t need to be very big.

She seems to sense that she’s being examined. Her breath quickens and her lazy tail perks up. She squirms in my arms, twisting her neck to blink up at me with sleepy eyes.

My body tenses. Will there be fear again?

She yawns so wide I can see the back of her pink tongue and every tiny little pointed tooth in her mouth.

I smile. “Good nap, mate?”

Her belly grumbles, and she whines.

“We’ll stop soon, and I’ll get you fresh meat.”

This settles her, and for a few more minutes, she’s content to be held as she surveys her surroundings, shivering and tucking herself to my chest whenever an owl hoots or a leaf rustles overhead. I scan for a good hidey-hole, but the trees are too sparse here to provide decent cover.

I hoist her high over my head as I scramble down a slope choked with waist-high brambles. At the bottom, there’s a dry creek bed that I follow northward. When we’ve been hiking a while, she begins to wriggle.

“You want down?”

She yips. It’s more an order than a request. I grin as I set her on her four short, delicate legs. She happily trips ahead, gets about ten feet, and skids to a halt, looking over her shoulder, accusation in her rich brown eyes. I guess I’m not walking fast enough for her.

Her eyes are the same exact color as when she’s in her skin. So lovely.

The blade that’s been stuck in my chest since our mating twists. They might be the same color, but until now, I’ve never seen them without fear. My anger rises, and I stamp it down. This wolf wasn’t the one who made me think we were mating when she was just taking my cock so I’d leave.

“Waiting for me?” I ask, my voice catching. I clear my throat. I don’t want my voice to sound bitter with her.

She yips some more, bossy and impatient. I catch up, and she darts ahead again. She’ll only go so far, no further, constantly checking over her shoulder to make sure I’m following even though she must scent that I’m close. She has to hear me, too. I walk softly, but not silently. Her double-checking must be a nervous habit.

Her wolf is more confident than her human, but she’s still twitchier than any other female I know.

No sooner than I have the thought, leaves rustle overhead to our left and wood cracks against wood. A dead branch must’ve fallen. She dashes back to me, burrowing between my legs. I quickly plant my feet so I don’t squash her, and then stand in place as she crouches low to the ground, quivering against my ankle.

I squat and rumble to reassure her, running my palm down her trembling flank. “You’re safe. It was just a falling branch. Pretty far away. No danger to us.”

She barks unhappily, like I ought not have allowed it to happen. I hide a grin. She glares balefully into the woods where the leaves keep rustling.

“It’s just the night wind picking up, sweetling.”

She whines. I press my lips together, hoping my beard hides the fact that I don’t consider a thump in the woods to be as grave a danger as she clearly believes it to be. With the little toothpicks she has for teeth, it’s good she has a healthy respect for possible threats. In reality, a decent-sized branch could hurt her.

“Let’s keep going,” I say. “I know a place a mile or so ahead that might do for tonight.”

I wait for her to venture out of the bolt-hole she’s made between my feet. It takes her a minute, but she eventually creeps forward, nose high in the air and working overtime.

She sticks close for the rest of the journey, weaving figure eights around my ankles, boldly venturing a few feet away on occasion when her energetic sniffing catches out a particularly interesting scent.

My mate’s wolf is definitely braver than her human self, but she’s still skittish as hell. Elis is a lot like that since Killian Kelly unzipped his belly. Both Elis and his wolf alert to everything now, and half the time, I swear, he’s alerting to his own loud thoughts.

Before the debacle at the Quarry Pack dens, Elis was a typical young male—happy to tussle over nothing, up all night, venturing far afield by himself. When he deigned to show himself at the dens, he’d stroll around with his dick out as if that were enough to entice a female to let him mount. To be fair, I did the same when I had nothing else to recommend me except size and enthusiasm.

Then Elis took that claw to the belly. The wound healed, but he hasn’t been the same since. Some days, his dam can hardly get him out of his blankets, let alone the den.

A picture flashes in my head—Annie almost slamming her cabin door shut, throwing the bolt home, and then peeking out between the curtains.

The hairs on my neck prickle.

When Elis is in his skin now, he covers himself head to toe with baggy sweats and long sleeves, even in summer. I figured he wants to hide the scar, so the females don’t see it and think him weak, but now I wonder—why long sleeves? Clothes protect against claws worse than fur, but I suppose he thinks any layer of protection is better than nothing.

Annie doesn’t dress any different than the other unmated females in her pack. They all wear long skirts and sleeves.

But weren’t her thick flannel shirts always buttoned at the wrists? The sleeves were never rolled. The buttons were never undone at the neck.

And doesn’t she hold herself like Elis? So carefully. Like she could tip over and pour out.

Like she’d been ripped open before.

I stop in my tracks.

Immediately, my mate dashes to hide between my legs, ears pricking, nostrils flaring. Hyperalert. Just like Elis.

My heart shatters.

Why didn’t I see it?

I scoop her up, hold her in place with one arm, and comb my fingers through her fur. She yelps and wriggles, nipping my fingers, but she’s as easy to handle as a squirmy pup. I don’t see any scars. I gently squeeze up and down her legs. They’re straight. If they were ever broken, they healed well.

“Where were you hurt?” I mutter, combing her fur one more time against the grain, feeling for puckered, jagged skin.

Now that the idea is in my head, I know I’m right. I feel it in my gut.

When Max first brought Elspeth from North Border, she startled whenever a male raised his voice or a wolf snarled. I was too young to remember, but folks still tell stories about how Max would thrash any male who shouted or growled around her, so to this day, whenever she’s around, we all lower our voices out of habit like she’s a sleeping babe.

Why didn’t I make the connection before?

My pride.

That’s why.

Annie mauled my pride, and I was a dumb pup, so I decided to be mad for the rest of my life rather than think about why she was acting that way for a single second. I assumed her fear was her fault because it couldn’t be mine. I’m a good, decent male.

She must not want me because something is wrong with her. She’s from a lost pack, after all, and there’s something wrong with all of them. She was raised to hate my pack and isn’t smart enough to see past the bigotry. Her fear was intolerance. An insult.

I haven’t been a dumb, eighteen-year-old male in years, but I never revisited my reasoning, never tried to make sense of it as a grown male.

Because of my hurt pride. Fucking pride.

Shit. Did I shout or growl at her back then? Maybe, yes, maybe I did. Afterward. When she told me she didn’t really want me, and I was disgusted at myself and angry at her. What did I say?

Horrible things. I can’t remember my exact words, but I wanted to hurt her, and after I swore I wouldn’t.

I feel sick and wrong, the happiness I felt in her presence snuffed like a candle, replaced with gnawing guilt.

What have I done?

I hold her wolf in the air, so we’re eye to eye. Her little legs dangle and her tail swishes as she cocks her head, patiently waiting.

“Who hurt you?” I ask.

Her sweet face falls. She glances down and away.

“What happened? Were you attacked?” I try to keep my voice even. I wish it wasn’t so gruff and rusty.

Her wolf growls low in the back of her throat, and wriggles in my hands. She wants down. She won’t look me in the eye. My stomach sinks.

I set her gently on her paws, and she promptly turns her back on me and trots off down the creek bed trail.

That’s a yes. Something happened.

I trail after her, allowing her a lead, but not too much. My brain races, my body tensing for an attack although my nose tells me there aren’t any predators for miles.

How did I not piece it together before now? Annie was terrified from the moment she saw me, and her fear never ebbed, not even that last day by the river. Even during her heat, it flavored her sweat. Her slick.

Why didn’t I consider that she might have a reason to fear? Elis knows none of us would ever slice him open, but he won’t even play wrestle with the pups anymore. And I’m not so stupid to think that Elis is afraid of me—I know he’s terrified because of what happened to him. So why did I never consider that Annie was afraid of more than me?

Oh, fuck. Did I abandon her to whoever hurt her?

My stomach cramps, bile creeping up my throat.

Did I leave her alone with whoever did this over and over again? All the hundreds of times I made the trip to Quarry Pack to stand at the edge of their territory just so I could scent her on the wind, I just left, never once considering that she might have call to be afraid?

I’m a fool. A careless bastard. How could I have gone so wrong?

I follow her slowly. The creatures who hunt in late evening are stirring, rustling in the undergrowth, but she doesn’t seek shelter by my side. She’s pretending I’m not here.

Because she thinks I’m a bad mate? Stupid and cruel?

My stomach churns.

Even out in the camps, we hear the stories from the lost packs. Sooner or later, the females we steal confide in each other, and the tales trickle down to the rest of us. Basements and abandoned trailers and storerooms. Cruel males who believe might makes right. Fireside in North Border. The Munroes and Blackburns in Salt Mountain. The ones they call “nobs” in Moon Lake, including our adopted pack brother Alban Hughes who fled there when we drove him out.

Declan Kelly in Quarry Pack.

My mate was a pup when the elder Kelly died, but we’ve seen how the lost packs care for their young. Some they treat like kings, and others they chew up and throw out like melon rinds. Alban Hughes was one of those they threw away. Our pack did its best, but the days he’d spent crying for his dam on the river bank where she’d abandoned him did something to his soul that couldn’t be mended. When he left us for Moon Lake, it was a blessing.

Was Annie left to fend for herself too young? Like I was?

Every inch of my skin burns with shame. I can hardly bear it.

My wolf prowls inside me, seething and unsettled. I don’t know how to ease him or myself, but I can scent his aggression on my skin, and I don’t need to frighten my mate any more than I already have.

I need to get away for a minute. Run. Hunt.

Luckily, we’ve come to the hidey-hole I discovered years ago on a day I’d rather not recall now. Before it dried up, the creek carved a gully out under an old oak, exposing its roots and creating a shallow alcove. My mate sees it and immediately makes a beeline for it.

I hang back. I don’t want to leave her—at least, I want to reassure her that she’s safe here, and I’ll be back soon—but I’m shy of her now.

She knows how stupid and shortsighted I am.

Has known.

All these years, all the times I made the trek to Quarry Pack to stand at the boundary of their territory to brood and feel hard done by, and I never considered that something must have made her so fearful, but she’s known all along that I am the kind of male who would reject his frightened mate.

Can I bear to know what happened? How much more can I hate myself?

Until this moment, I was so cocksure, wasn’t I? Such a big male. So tough. So right.

“Stay here,” I tell her, the words heavy with command, and stalk off into the shrub brush. I ignore her soft, confused yip.

It doesn’t take long to catch the faint scent of squirrel leading north. At least this is something I can do without embarrassing myself. It takes longer to run down prey on two legs, but I’ve always had a steady hand with a rock, and the woods are teeming with hungry, scavenging critters at this time of year who aren’t quite as cautious as they’ll be later in the season when they’ve got some fat stores.

I hunt until my mind steadies, and by the time I’m done, I’ve got four bushy-tailed squirrels in hand. Careful to keep a firm grip on my wolf, I shift to fur and gobble down three of them. Unlike the lost packs, I have no problem eating raw meat while in my skin, but it’s quicker to chew with canines.

At first, my wolf fights me hard—he wants his mate—but I manage to distract him with squirrel and steal our skin back when he’s logy from the meal. His stomach has always been his greatest weakness.

I take my time returning. The area is still clear of predators, and I haven’t ventured far. If I tune in to the bond, I can tell my mate has stayed where I put her.

Because she’s too afraid to leave?

Of course. I’ve stolen her, and she slept a long time, so we’re miles away from territory she’d recognize. She’s stuck with me.

I whistle when I’m a few yards away from the hidey-hole so she knows I’m coming. She doesn’t come out to greet me. I don’t suppose she would.

I can’t see her until I get close to the alcove. When I do, my heart sinks.

She’s dug herself a hole between the roots and covered herself with dirt and leaves. All I can make out is her black nose and solemn, accusing brown eyes.

I crouch and reach out my hand. “What have you done? Mud bath?”

She narrows her eyes and yips. Or was that a snarl?

I sniff the air. “We’re alone except for prey. There’s nothing to fear. You can smell that, right?”

She snarls. There’s no doubt this time. She’s displeased. Or offended?

I raise my palms. “I wouldn’t want to make assumptions.”

She wriggles out of her little nook and shakes herself off, sending dirt flying. Then she strides forward until she’s almost stepping on my toes. She lifts her head and lets me have it, growling and howling and snapping until my ears ring.

She’s pissed—either that I left her alone or that I was gone so long or both—and she’s making sure I know it. I bite the insides of my cheeks and try to look contrite. She’s adorable mad. Even with twigs stuck in her coat.

Mad is so much better than scared.

But that’s why she’s mad, isn’t it? Because she was scared.

I’m an idiot. I crouch, but I guess I do it too abruptly because she jumps and skitters backward. “I’m sorry, sweetling. You were frightened, and I didn’t hurry back.”

She gives me a low, unplacated growl.

“I keep making mistakes, don’t I?”

Her growl lightens, ever so slightly.

“I brought dinner.” I hoist the last squirrel up by its tail.

Oh, that’s caught her interest. Her throat quiets as her stomach takes up the rumbling. I grin.

“If he’s like his brothers, he’s got a good bit of meat on his bones,” I say and rip off his head, pitching it aside.

Her eyes bulge.

I slide a claw under his pelt at the shoulder joint and do my best to peel him like an orange. It’s not my best skinning work, but I don’t have a knife, and I’m not going to make my mate pick fur from her teeth if I can help it.

She makes a strange noise. I glance up. She’s not watching me. Her eyes are glued to the squirrel’s head. It’s kind of looking back at her.

She makes the noise again, a sharp horking sound.

Oh.

Shit.

I snatch her up and dash for the bushes. We make it clear of the shelter seconds before she loses the content of her belly. It’s only water, but somehow, it keeps coming. I sort of aim her at a shrub and breathe through my mouth.

How does she have this much in her stomach? Did she sip from some puddle while I wasn’t looking? She drank where I did, and I feel fine.

She hawks up air for a bit, and then she quiets, whining. I carry her carefully back, and I try to interest her in the squirrel, but she won’t even open her eyes to look at it.

She’s had enough for one day. I have, too. I suppose it won’t hurt to sleep now and let her stomach settle. Tomorrow, we’ll meet up with the river, and I’ll catch her a fat fish. She can eat trout with the head on.

I clean things up and sweep out the alcove while she watches from a distance. She’s so exhausted that she’s listing on her thin legs. She makes no complaint when I pick her up and settle her behind me, my body between her and the outside. There is still nothing more dangerous than a raccoon out there, but I don’t suppose that matters. The dark is terrifying when you’re small.

I remember when I was young. Predators stalked at night, and I was already vulnerable enough without being blind, too—small, alone, and so many years away from shifting.

It’s unbearable to think that my mate knew that feeling, but she did, didn’t she? When I found her, she had no living blood family, like me, except she didn’t have her wolf to come to her defense. And she is so delicate. Her weight is nothing against my back, the pressure of her chest rising and falling almost a flutter.

And I stomped away from her like a pup throwing a tantrum. I left her.

How do I make this right?

For one, I’ll discover what hurt her, and I’ll kill it. Then I’ll teach her to shift correctly and fight so she doesn’t have to be afraid ever again.

A stiff breeze picks up, and the temperature drops. I’m shivering, stuck in my skin, huddled in the dirt. When the wind blows just so, I catch the scent of my mate’s vomit and squirrel blood.

I’ve just realized that I made the greatest miscalculation of my life.

But my mate’s wolf is breathing softly on the back of my neck, and I can feel her heart beat against my shoulder blade.

I’d live in this moment forever if I could.