The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(41)

He’s fucking with me.

“You tried to sell sweet little innocent Mari to the Last Pack as a whore.”

The wolf rattles my chest as my nails dig into the flesh of my palms.

“Enough,” I tell Killian, my voice so distorted by my wolf that the word is nearly incomprehensible.

Killian smiles at me, snaps his teeth, and winks. “I’m just messing with you, man. Get that blood flowing. You’ve got the chains?”

It takes a few seconds to pull myself back from the edge. Killian’s an asshole. He’s riling me up to get a better show. I don’t dance for him. He’s not my alpha. He’s the male that leads the pack I don’t quite belong to, and I can never bring myself to leave.

I wave him away and give him my back. “Too late. Take the kid home. I got shit to do.”

It’s not a lie. Winter is coming, and I wanted to be much further along on construction than I am. I’m always losing work days when the wolf demands to run, and I have to borrow a truck and drive my ass all the way to the far side of Salt Mountain before it’s safe to let him take our skin.

He makes a beeline straight back here—to her—and he holds nothing back so he’s dead on his feet by the time he limps his way over the border to Quarry Pack, and I wrestle him back inside. The next day, I have to get Liam or Tye to drive me all the way back to the truck and return it to camp, and that’s two whole days gone.

And that’s not even accounting for the time I lose over bog worms, and tracking ferals who wander too close, and chasing down rumors about whatever’s picking us off.

I don’t have time for Killian Kelly’s bullshit, too. I go back to the worm carcass, careful to breathe through my nose. How much lighter fluid will it take to make it go up all at once? It’s not going to be a good smell. Better to have it burn hot and quick.

A footstep sounds behind me, and Killian clears his throat and waits. That’s as close as he’ll ever come to an apology.

“Fuck off,” I tell him.

He comes to stand even with me. “What if I take care of this for you?” He nudges the carcass with his foot.

“I’m looking forward to doing it myself.”

Killian slides me a glance. You can see the wheels turning. “You know Dermot’s a good hand at fishing. What if I send him up the mountain? Have him bring you down some fat salmon.” The corners of his mouth rise. He knows he’s got me.

It’d bother me more if I didn’t know he’s as bound as I am by this thing—this bond that hurts worse than any wound, but that I wouldn’t sever for anything in the world.

He’s a luckier male than I am, but he also knows the bite of this trap, the brutal sharpness of its teeth. It changes everything, but for me, it’s fixed nothing.

I sigh. “You want me to fight him?”

Killian grunts in the affirmative. “As the wolf.”

“I want a fuck ton of salmon. Enough for the whole pack.” If I don’t give her enough to make a meal for everyone, she won’t eat any of it herself. If it’s pack dinner, she might.

“I’ll let Dermot take a few males with him.”

“Not too many.”

Killian nods, humoring me. “Of course.”

I sigh again. “I better get the chains.”

I give the bog worm one last prod just to see it jiggle, and then I head to the structure I’m building in the elms on the northern edge of the clearing. I haul myself up the rope ladder to the first platform, hand over hand.

Life was easier when I lived in the old shelter, everything in one place, on one level, but I needed the space for the planer and the lathe and the other machines I bought to do the woodworking. I also sleep better up high— when I sleep—knowing my wolf would probably break its legs if it took our skin in the night and leapt to the ground. And, most importantly, if she gets it in her head to come up here again, she won’t be able to catch us unaware.

I climb the floating staircase to the platform where I store my shit, rummage in a box, and take out a length of chain, a collar, and a padlock. I toss them over the railing, and I guess I should’ve looked first, because there’s a thunk and a yelp.

I poke my head over the side. The kid is hopping on one leg, holding his foot.

“Sorry about that,” I call down.

He squints up. “It’s cool, man.” He walks it off, hissing when he puts his weight down. “Can I ask you something though?”

I grunt.

“Why are you building a treehouse?”

I hear the unspoken part. What’s up with the gingerbread trim and red shutters and shit? It’s a fair question. I’m not a fucking garden gnome.

“Shits and giggles,” I say. The kid doesn’t have the balls to ask a follow-up question.

I lower myself back down the ladder and drop the ten feet between the bottom and the ground. It took experimentation to come up with the exact height and ladder design to prevent my wolf from getting a foothold, but I came up with the right specs eventually.

While I was occupied, Killian stripped naked, and now he’s rolling his shoulders, stretching out his triceps. I join him in the dead center of the clearing, drop my pants, and tighten the collar around my neck until the buckle bites into my skin. The kid turns a little green around the gills.

“We’re just sparring, right, Alpha?” he asks Killian as he kicks off his trainers.