The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(20)

By the time we leave for the lodge, Darragh’s gone. The shadows are just beginning to lengthen as we make our way down to the commons. Most folks live in cabins clustered at the center of camp, but Killian stuck us up on a ridge as far as he could get us from the center of action and still be within the patrolled zone of our territory.

I always wondered if he did that because he thinks we’re some kind of bad influence—which, admittedly, we are, but only to each other—or if we’re just so worthless that the pack doesn’t want to waste prime real estate on us. No reason it can’t be both. It’s demoralizing to think about, though.

Is heat making me emo? I don’t usually dwell on how bad we’ve got it in this pack. I’m all about distractions and daydreams. This mate business is bringing me down. It might be my new reality, but it sucks.

When we circle around the back of the lodge to enter the kitchens, Old Noreen is already elbows deep in peeling potatoes. I need to do something to get my brain off Darragh and heat and how I’m going to get on all fours, and he’s going to be able to see my entire hindquarters, and I don’t even know his favorite color or food or anything.

I force down a breath and wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt, shuddering at the feel of the fabric.

“Phones away,” Old Noreen calls to us, pointing to the hidey-hole behind the crockpot with her knife. “And I don’t want them going off again during service.” She narrows her rheumy eyes at Kennedy.

“It was only the once,” Kennedy mutters as she turns off her ringer.

“It was memorable. I’m not going down for you again, girl,” Noreen scowls at her affectionately and goes back to her potatoes.

Some friend that Kennedy games with rang her once during dinner. His ring tone is “Paint It Black” by The Rolling Stones. It went off while Killian was giving one of his hour-long lectures.

Eamon and Lochlan Byrne burst back here like the police, and poor Noreen was on her own since we were all standing in the dining area like idiots with trays in our hands, waiting for Killian to lose steam.

Lochlan started tossing the kitchen while Old Noreen insisted it was her making the noise. She swore she’d drifted off and started singing. Eamon said, “Oh yeah? Sing it again.”

Noreen didn’t know the words to anything except the theme songs to the sitcoms that she watches on the little TV we bought her with farmers’ market money, which she wasn’t supposed to have either.

So while Eamon and Lochlan growled at her, forcing her to bend her neck, she sang the entire opening song to The Big Bang Theory. She says they dropped the issue just so she’d stop.

Kennedy detours on her way to wash up to give Noreen a big bear hug. Noreen good-naturedly shakes her off, her wizened cheeks coloring.

“Peel those carrots if you want to show you’re sorry,” Noreen calls after her, but Kennedy’s already drying her hands and heading out to the floor to do set up. The males use the lodge hall for sparring practice between meals, so we have to roll away the cafeteria-style tables and rack the folding chairs three times a day.

Kennedy has permanent dibs on setup and breakdown. She hates cooking. She doesn’t think she’s too good for it or anything. It’s just her preference.

I don’t mind meal prep, but I hate serving. I guess because of the whole blonde hair, blue eyes, big boob thing, the males hassle me more than Una, Annie, and Kennedy. That’s why I take care of the elders and pups. It doesn’t cut out all the nonsense, but it does cut down on a lot of it.

I grab the carrots Noreen wants peeled, and after I wash my hands, turning the faucet as cold as it goes and running the stream over my wrists for a while to cool off, I set to work. Kennedy props the back door open with a bucket, so there’s air flowing, but still, my temperature is increasing by the minute.

My panties are damp, and my lips are slip-sliding with each step, and it kind of helps to squeeze my thighs together, and it kind of makes it worse.

Is Darragh coming to dinner? I feel like he has before, at least a few times, although I don’t recall a particular instance specifically.

He’ll probably sit with A-roster, up by Killian. That means Una will serve him.

A sharp flare of jealousy flashes to life in my chest and fizzles just as quickly. Una is like a big sister to me, and besides, she steers clear of the unmated males like the rest of us.

Haisley, Rowan, and their crew don’t steer clear, though. My wolf’s ears perk, and she bares a sharp incisor, a lazy growl rolling in the back of her throat. She’s hot, too, wilted and splayed out on her side, her flank rising and falling like she’s run a race. She does not like the idea of unmated females around Darragh.

I don't know what she could do about it. She’s basically a miniature, not quite a runt, but a good percentage of her size is white fluff. Haisley’s wolf has my exact shade of fur, but she’s at least four times as big. Haisley’s mom might technically be the alpha female, but we all know who really keeps us in line—it’s Haisley’s mean, petty, ginormous she-beast.

“Mari? You’re up, girl,” Kennedy slaps my back on her way past me.

I blink. Crap. Noreen has already plated dinner, and it’s time to serve. I was so busy freaking myself out about Darragh and females and sweating my butt off that I did all my prep work on autopilot. I dry my palms on my skirt again and take a tray.