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

But here’s Fate, lobbing another one at me. Darragh Ryan. He was more or less my current age when I was born.

I force myself to ignore the butterflies drunk driving bumper cars in my belly, and I take him in.

My mate.

I draw in a deep breath, and his peculiar scent seeps into my veins, flows all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes, and disconnects the part of my brain that’s freaking out over how my body is going haywire.

He smells like the most picturesque barn on the most pleasant day with the bluest sky and puffiest white clouds ever. And for an older guy, he is freaking hot as shit. Ignore the hair and beard, the rough hands, and the wolfishness. His eyes are amazing, dark brown ringed with copper and gold, and they crinkle at the corners, like he’s spent a lot of time in the glaring sun.

He’s as ripped as Killian Kelly and his lieutenants, but maybe because he’s from that hardened generation—or because he lives alone in the woods—he doesn’t have that cocky swagger. He exudes pure grown man confidence as he hangs out on the crone’s front porch looking hungover, uptight as hell, and inexplicably frozen with fascination by the view to the west.

I follow his gaze just to make sure I’m not missing anything, like maybe a flying saucer, but there’s nothing but scenic wilderness. Is he ignoring me on purpose?

Does he feel it, too? The strange gathering, seeking sensation under his breastbone?

He might be pretending I’m not right here, but he’s not bailing, and he definitely has the look of an animal about to bolt, albeit a dangerous, terrifying, muscle-bound apex predator even bigger than a wolf. Like a tiger. Or a grizzled lion with a wild ol’ mane. And a little ol’ teacup.

I guess he realizes he’s been holding the cup like one of those living statues because he finally shakes himself, sets it on the railing, and shoves his hands in his pockets. His thighs are so thick that he doesn’t have a lot of room, so he kind of wedges the fingers in. I’ve never seen a man look less casual.

I rub the place in the center of my chest where the bond is sprouting like weeds through a sidewalk crack.

Maybe this could be okay. He’s not completely feral. People are wary of him, but the few times I’ve seen him around camp, no one shits themselves or runs away or anything. They just make way for him. And the males my age do go on and on about what a great hunter he is. Hunting is good. I like meat as much as the next girl.

I shoot a glance at Kennedy where she’s gone back to hacking at a stubborn clump of dirt, roots, and stones. If I’d said “I like meat” out loud, she would’ve definitely come back with “that’s what she said.”

What else do I know about Darragh? There are whispers about something that happened when he was young that made him vow to never live with the pack. Something to do with Declan Kelly. There are a lot of whispered, vague rumors about those times, but no one ever comes out and tells the whole story. Shifters are superstitious. They don’t like to talk about evil in case the words call it back.

And there are the warnings about his wolf. If you’re ever alone in the foothills and you see golden eyes glowing in the dark, run like the devil is on your heels. But who’s alone in the foothills at night? Not me, that’s for sure.

I figured it was some ghost story to scare us females into staying on pack territory. We don’t go wandering the wilderness, though. We go to Chapel Bell during broad daylight to do capitalism. We’re not about getting in touch with nature, we’re about getting paid.

I refocus. What else have I heard about Darragh Ryan?

My cheeks blaze. Haisley Byrne and her crew make jokes about getting fucked like an animal, but with them, you can never tell if they’re talking out of their asses or not. Haisley claims she and Killian bang like pots and pans, but if that’s true, she must suck at it. He doesn’t even get someone to bring her a folding chair so she can sit next to him at dinner in the lodge. She’s got to stand up there on the dais beside him like a potted plant.

What’s it like to get fucked like an animal?

My eyes fall helplessly to the crotch of his jeans. There’s a bulge. A freaking huge bulge. It’s created a gap between his waistband and his tight abs. Yeah. That’s not wolf fur. It’s happy trail.

My cheeks burst into flame.

“Mari,” Annie hisses from where she’s squatting. “You’re staring.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, my hands flying up to cover them like a little kid. Shit. Not cool. I fling my arms back to my side, summon some remnant of chill. Now he’s looking over here. Right at me.

My entire body goes nuts. I break out in sweat—big, dripping beads down my back—and start to shake. I fold my arms close to my chest, shove my hands between my biceps and boobs, and grit my teeth to stop them from clattering. With absolutely no direction from me, my hip cocks like Haisley’s does when she’s posing next to Killian at dinner, and my lips peel back in a smile that can only look like a chimpanzee’s fear grimace.

Annie gapes up at me. Kennedy visibly winces with secondhand embarrassment.

I clear my throat. Annie leans forward. Kennedy tilts her head. On the porch, Darragh’s muscles clench impossibly tighter as if he’s bracing himself. They all wait for me to say something.

I don’t know any words. They’ve all vanished from my memory, and even if I knew any, my throat is squeezing shut.