The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(11)

I can’t really wrap my brain around the whole physical act of mating, let alone doing it with this male with that wolf inside him. For sure, I can’t make a nest out of an Army surplus bedroll from the ’80s and whatever is in that trunk. I’m really going to get naked in this place? With a guy I don’t know at all?

I mean, the mysteriousness is kind of hot. What does he even do with that sword and what is in that trunk? Do I want to know?

Regardless, he doesn’t seem to want me here at all.

Another wave of panic rises inside me, turning my parched mouth so dry that my throat feels like the sides are sticking together.

My hands fly to my chest, one clutching the other, pressing against the clammy skin above the neckline of the world’s worst, clingy, itchy blouse. It’s instinct, but as my heartbeat thumps against my palm, I realize that I’ve reached for the bond, just like the other mated females do when they get stressed out.

At least I think the bond is what I’m feeling—it’s not unlike indigestion. It kind of burns and kind of feels stuck in there like if I hacked hard enough, I might be able to cough it up. Despite all that, it’s not a bad feeling. Just intrusive.

Focusing on it, though, is weirdly calming. My wolf is mellowing out now. She’s scooted her butt back up to our boundary, listening to Darragh’s wolf rumble like he’s a meditation app as she idly licks her coat.

I don’t like it when we’re on different frequencies like this. It makes me feel unbalanced. I’m pretty sure she’s the one who’s reading the situation wrong, though. Neither Darragh nor his wolf has done anything the least bit reassuring. I mean, where am I even supposed to sit?

Darragh seems to realize that the second that I think it. He scrubs his neck and actually seems a bit abashed. “Uh, you can sit on the bedroll.”

I press closer against the wall.

His back stiffens. “Or, uh, on the trunk.”

He’s laser focused on my hands pressing over the bond. Or rather, the place where I’m smooshing my own boobs. I’ve got a lot up top. I can’t do one without doing the other.

I force myself to lower my arms casually to my side. The awkward tension between Darragh and me grinds on, but my fear begins to recede, too. He’s not making a move toward me, he’s dialed the snarling down, and my wolf has completely reevaluated her first impression of his wolf. She wants to see him in his fur.

I do not.

I take a few steadying breaths and the constriction in my chest eases. Contrary to what you’d expect, it smells nice in here. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. It reeks of old woodsmoke, metal, dirt, and dried blood, but there’s a good smell, too, a flipside to the bad ones—campfire, freshly-churned earth, and pennies warm from your hand.

The scent is coming from Darragh, and it’s disorienting because it’s a complete contrast to his psycho-loner-who-lives-in-the-woods vibe. It smells like what happy childhoods must.

He’s not staring at the floor anymore. He’s tracking what I’m looking at with those molten metal eyes. Because I have no game, I feel compelled to thrust my shoulders back and cock a hip like I’m just low-key hanging out against the wall of his dank wilderness shelter.

My wolf watches this unfold from her catbird seat, fascinated by it all—me posing over here, him looming over there, both of us grasping for something to say while his wolf rumbles in the background like rolling thunder.

I cough again. “Sorry if I, uh, interrupted you.”

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Oh. Um. Good.”

“You need food,” he says, and I’m not sure if it’s a question or not.

My stomach is a whirling, twirling dance party. Food is the last thing on my mind. Besides, he doesn’t have a fridge or pantry or stove. There’s not even a cauldron hanging in his fireplace like at Abertha’s place. Where does he cook?

“No, thank you,” I say.

“There are apples.” He bursts into movement. Inside, my wolf skitters backward with a yip. He stops and then moves with more caution to a basket I hadn’t noticed by the fireplace. He takes out a small red apple. I’m fairly sure they’re from the trees at Abertha’s.

My wolf grumbles.

He holds it up and jerks his chin. He wants me to catch it. I cup my hands and pray. I’m not coordinated, and I was always garbage at Human Sport at the Moon Lake school.

He pitches it and it lands softly in my palms.

“I’m not hungry,” I mumble under my breath. I don’t want his friends-with-benefits fruit.

“Eat it,” he says. It’s not quite a command, but it’s not a suggestion, either. I imagine an elder might say “eat it” like that to a pup. I feel squirmy. He might be older than me, and I might be young, but I’m not a pup. I never really was. I’ve been looking out for myself since long before my mom bailed into the river.

I polish the apple on my tattered skirt for something to do. Tulle’s not going to clean anything.

Darragh watches me, and the squirmy feeling grows stronger until I can’t take it anymore, so I take careful, slow steps to sit on the trunk. Darragh backs up so he remains as far from me as the shack allows.

I clear my throat. Clearly, he’s not going to address the elephant in the room. “I came up here because I thought we should talk about it. You know, the whole mate thing.”