The Lone Wolf’s Rejected Mate (The Five Packs Book 3)

2

MARI

I give it a whole two days of radio silence—not a single hide nor hair of Darragh Ryan around camp—before I decide to take matters into my own hands.

“Do you think he’s in there?” I whisper to Kennedy’s wolf, nodding toward the rickety structure in the clearing below.

He snorts an affirmative.

“It looks abandoned.” The shelter tilts slightly starboard, and the branches woven into a roof have grown a lush blanket of moss. A cluster of mushrooms sprout from the peak. It’s picturesque in an ominous fairy-tale-witch-with-an-oven kind of way.

Kennedy’s wolf paws the dirt. He’s anxious to bail. He doesn’t like being around other males, especially those higher up in the hierarchy. Darragh might not quite be pack, but he still ranks. You can smell it on him.

“You can go,” I tell the wolf. Before we set out, we decided I would talk to Darragh alone. Even though I’m quaking on the inside, I know I’ll be safe with him. Mates can’t hurt each other.

Kennedy’s wolf growls low in his throat. I stop myself from giving him a reassuring pat. He’s got too much dignity to accept it.

“I’ll be fine. Go catch rabbits. Darragh will bring me home.”

Or maybe he’ll want me to stay. My cheeks, already flushed from the trek up here, blaze. Excitement stirs in my belly, even though I don’t really want to go inside the shack. It looks like a strong wind would blow it over, but then again, those roof mushrooms look very healthy. To get so big, they must’ve weathered more than a few storms.

“It’s cool.” I smooth what’s left of my periwinkle tulle skirt after the pricker bushes got to it and begin to pick my way down the slight incline to the mossy clearing. “He’s my mate. It’ll be fine.”

I bet he doesn’t have indoor plumbing in a shack like that, but I hope to hell he has water. I emptied my bottle a way back. Darragh’s place was a lot further than I’d thought.

It’s a good thing I brought Kennedy for her nose because the vague directions I got from Old Noreen at breakfast would’ve never been enough. We’re at least three miles from Quarry Pack camp, and this place is tucked in a hollow surrounded by a thick stand of sycamores and tall pines.

At least it’s shady. As Kennedy trots off, I take a moment and fan my face. I’ve looked better. During the hike, I sweated my ringlets into a wild dandelion fluff and discovered that my new whimsical sheer white blouse sucks. The elastic in the puff sleeves cuts into my upper arms, and the fabric doesn’t wick or breathe—it’s sealed my perspiration against my skin like a rubber suit, and yet, my pits are somehow wet.

I’ve definitely felt prettier, but I don’t need to worry about that. Mates find each other irresistible, and besides, I’ve decided that I dress for myself, not for the male gaze.

That’s what I’m telling myself as my heart thumps faster and I try in vain to smooth my curls. I pause a few feet outside of the opening that serves as a door. Darragh must have scented our approach and heard us at least a quarter mile away. I’m not the stealthiest hiker. I’m kind of surprised he didn’t come out to greet us. This entire clearing carries his scent, so my human nose is blind to his exact location, but Kennedy’s wolf thinks he’s inside, so he’s inside.

Do I knock?

I should knock.

What do I knock on? There isn’t a door, just an opening where the wall doesn’t go all the way to the corner. I’m getting more freaked out the longer I stand here, so I clear my throat, take a deep, steadying breath, and step out of the sunshine and into the gloom.

A wolf’s snarl erupts from the shadows across the room. I yelp and jump backwards, stumbling so I hit the wall instead of toppling outside.

The snarling rises, and my heart slams against my ribs. The sound isn’t a warning or a threat, it’s the clamor of a raging wolf attack, only somewhat muffled by the thick muscles of Darragh’s chest.

Is his wolf going to tear out of his skin and eat me?

Instantly, I become prey and freeze, plastering myself against the rough boards. My chafed thighs clench and I fight the sudden, overwhelming urge to piss myself. The thump in my chest turns into a pounding. My wolf whines and cowers in a far corner of my insides.

“Hi,” I whimper. “I’m so sorry.”