The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(32)

Does Darragh sense something I don’t yet?

I lay a carrot on the cutting board and whack it into dime-sized pieces like a machine. The thwack, thwack helps ease the tightness in my chest.

It doesn’t matter if he senses something. I have a contingency plan, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t present to Darragh Ryan if there was a gun to my head. Not in a million years.

I’ve learned next to nothing about him these past few years, but I’ve learned a hell of a lot about myself. I’m not that sweet girl with her head in the clouds anymore. I’m never going to stroll blithely into a trap again, I don’t care who sets it—Fate, biology, a grizzled loner with a guilty conscience.

“Mari!” Kennedy pokes her head through the door. “He says he needs to give it to you.”

She’s trying to make it not sound dirty. Still, Lucan snorts and mutters, “That’s what she said.”

Kennedy drops her straight face and snorts, too. I really thought she’d hate Darragh forever out of solidarity, but at some point over the past four years, the whole night we almost got killed by his wolf became an epic adventure in her mind that she always retells when we get drunk. She still shit-talks him to my face, but I’ve seen her from a distance, giving him a chin dip when he deigns to come to camp.

That’s fine. I don’t need anyone else to hate him. I’m holding onto this grudge hard enough to make sure he’s never in a position to hurt me again.

“Uh, Mari?” Kennedy calls again. “He’s not going anywhere.”

He will if I keep ignoring him and chopping carrots. He’s only ever passing through. He’ll never just stay gone, but he’s never around for very long, either. It’s like he picked the perfect way to make sure I can never get over what happened—he won’t stay gone, and he won’t stay around long enough for me to become immune to him.

“Mari?” Kennedy calls, louder.

I slam the knife to the wooden board.

What the fuck does he want?

I’ve never asked that male for anything. He got his way—no one besides a handful of people even know we're mates. And I’m finally getting on with life—with what life’s supposed to be.

Since Killian and Una mated, things have changed. I have a job that pays human money and a bank account to put it in with my name on it. I make scented candles infused with homegrown herbs for our online store, and they sell like hotcakes. I can go into town without having to sneak off. Life is good.

Fuck Darragh Ryan and his guilt meat.

He needs to get the message.

I jerk my apron off and drop it on the counter. Lucan and Annie take a time out from their work to gawk at me stomping to the back exit. As I throw open the screen door, Kennedy ducks through, offering me a rueful smile.

The scent hits me first. It’s November, so there are all the usual fall smells—leaves and cold earth and hints of woodstove—but there’s a distinct note of late summer afternoon threading through the crisp air, and it’s Darragh. Warm hay and thick green clover and the mellow stillness of four o’clock in August when the worst of the season’s heat has broken.

I hate that his scent never fails to deceive me. My muscles always relax when it hits my nose, and then I remember that night, and I tense up. It’s jarring. He should smell like spilled blood. My body wouldn’t mistake him then.

He’s standing a respectful distance from the concrete patio where we keep the recycling bins and the gas grill. I force myself to look at his face even though I can’t meet his eye.

He looks surprised that I came out. It makes sense. I haven’t willingly been within yards of him since the night his wolf attacked me. When I catch sight or scent of him, I head the other way.

Now, he’s maybe ten feet from me. I can make out the crinkles in the corners of his eyes. They’re a bit deeper, and there’s a little more gray threaded through his brown hair, but he doesn’t look that much older. His jeans and boots are the same, just a few more scuffs and tears, and his flannel is a different color than the one he wore that night, but I’m sure he’s had it just as long.

I feel like I’ve changed into a whole new person, and here he is, like four years ago was yesterday.

My stomach feels strangely hollow. I draw back my shoulders.

He doesn’t seem like he’s going to say anything. His jaw is clenched tight. Instead of the usual package of venison wrapped in white butcher’s paper, he’s got a canvas sack. By the scent of it, it’s pheasant.

I raise an eyebrow and tilt my head, as if he’s any male, and this is a minor inconvenience. I feel like I’m hovering above the scene, in awe of my own composure.

Yeah, fuck Darragh Ryan. He is any male, the most minor of inconveniences.

“What?” I ask, and I intend the word to sound sharp, but it comes out frail. Bruised.

I straighten my spine and hike my chin.

Darragh’s brown eyes darken, the golden rings around the irises glowing brighter, and his chest rises and falls like he ran here and hasn’t quite caught his breath yet. He holds up the sack.

“Pheasant,” he says. His voice is a gruff, rusty creak that sets my nerves off like a shot. I ball my fingers into fists so they don’t even think about trembling.

I hate what his proximity does to me. Thank goodness my wolf is still drowsing off one of her fugues. I couldn’t deal with her reactions on top of this—trauma response. Yeah. That’s what it is.