The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(13)

I slow down and try to sip like a lady.

Why do I care about being ladylike in Darragh Ryan’s murder shack? Patriarchy. It’s the only explanation.

“Thank you,” I say. It comes out breathy and soft. Eyes cast down, I dig the toe of my boot into the dirt floor.

“Where did the black wolf who brought you go?” His voice feels like river stones on your bare feet, that kind of hard and smooth at the same time. I like it.

It’s easier to stare at my boots when I answer him. “Kennedy? He’s out hunting. I said he could go.”

“You shouldn’t have come here.” He’s talking down to me like an elder, but he’s not that old. And I’m not that young.

“I know,” I tell the tops of my white patent leather Docs. “I got the message.” He doesn’t want me here. I guess I was supposed to wait for him to come to me. “It’s just that I think we need to talk about this.”

“What is there to talk about?”

Heat. Nests. Knotting. Are we going to do it here? On that bedroll? Is he going to fit? Will it hurt? What happens after? How can I have a pup? I can’t have a pup. I’ve got my own crap I can’t deal with, and honestly, it’s enough of a challenge taking care of myself.

Darragh’s brow raises. I guess it wasn’t a rhetorical question.

I can’t talk about any of that with him. To stall, I reach for the apple that fell to the bedroll and start polishing it again.

He clears his throat. “It’ll be fine,” he says. It does not sound like he believes what he says in the least.

The panic rolls back, sweeping away all the other feelings, and suddenly, I want to go home. I want Una and Kennedy and Annie and my things and my own space. I need to regroup.

“Can I go back now?” I ask in a low voice.

For a long moment he doesn’t speak, but then he sighs. “Of course.”

When he moves, he moves quickly. He grabs a pair of well-used work boots from behind the trunk and steps into them. He props his foot on the trunk and bends to tie it, tightening the laces eyelet by eyelet with a firm tug, and for some reason, I can’t tear my eyes away. His thick thighs flex against the denim of his jeans, and loose strands of his newly cropped hair fall across his forehead.

My pulse kicks up again, and my belly joins the acrobatics, doing some weird upsy-daisy thing that isn’t fear or anxiety, not at all. The desire to go home fades.

Darragh looks up from where he’s kneeling and grimaces. The bond between us somehow lights up and sizzles, and a gush of heat rushes between my legs.

My heart lifts. My wolf isn’t terrified of Darragh Ryan, and maybe my body is kind of interested, too. Maybe this hasn’t been a complete disaster, just the world’s most awkward meeting of mates. Every pairing can’t be two people falling into each other’s arms and heading to the dens to make sweet, primal love. This is the real world.

I need to roll with this better. No expectations. Let it happen.

Heartened, I take a few more sips of water and a bite of apple. Darragh growls. It sounds like approval. I flush.

“Ready?” he asks as he straightens, finished with his laces.

“Maybe I could stay a little longer. We could—” My gaze darts around. “Read? I’m into books, too. What do you like?”

Shifters aren’t big readers, but those of us who are, trade. I think I’d read every book in camp at least a dozen times before Una got us phones, and I discovered ebooks.

He stares at me.

“I’m into music, too. Mostly mid-to-late-2000s indie rock and acoustic chill.” A slash appears between his eyebrows. “Oh, and I’m really into gardening and crafting, of course. And aesthetics.”

My gaze darts around the cramped room. There’s nothing on the walls. I think Darragh’s more of a function over form kind of guy.

For a second, he’s speechless. I count the creases as they appear on his brow—one, two, three. I smile encouragingly. His mouth spears down.

“No,” he says, suddenly gruff. “You can’t stay.” With no further ado, he strides toward me, and I skitter out of his way. He passes me without a glance, ducking through the opening, and gestures for me to follow him.

My whole face bursts into flame, down my neck, across my chest. The red shows through my white top.

I should not feel like the idiot here. He’s the one with bad manners. He’s the guy who lives in a hut with a sword and a whiskey bottle on the floor. Still, I do—like the biggest idiot who ever lived.

I blink, and he’s already a yard down the faint trail that Kennedy and I took to get here.

I stumble after him like a dumbass.

His pace is just slow enough that he doesn’t leave me behind, but too fast for me to come even with him without breaking into a jog. He winds around trees, his direction unerring, stamping down or snapping aside thorn bushes as he goes so that I can walk right over or past them.

He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look back to make sure I’m still there.

That tiny little flicker of hope I’d felt fizzles out with a hiss. For a quarter mile or so, my insides have sunk too low for me to decide on anything to say. No, my hermit mate doesn’t want to read books with me or talk about the fact that Fate has stuck us together for the rest of our lives. He can’t even stand me for an hour.