The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(51)

Is he nuts? I’m already scared.

He seems to be waiting for a response, some kind of reassurance, so I nod. I need to get a grip.

He draws in a deep breath, and then, with a grunt and a throaty growl, he heaves at his restraints. His eyes are screwed shut, his face and pecs flushing as his neck veins pop, his biceps and thick thighs bulging as he bares his gritted teeth. His fangs have receded, but not all the way. The tips of his canines are still sharp.

Something swirls low in my belly, like fear, but not fear. I swallow a whimper. I’m not sure if it came from me or my wolf.

He’s the strongest male I’ve ever seen up close. Killian is known as the best fighter in the five packs, and he might be, but he’s not like this. He doesn’t have this primal energy, this ferocity.

Darragh fights like a wild animal, his muscles convulsing, the bands cutting into his flesh, fat drops of blood beading on his skin and splattering to the metal floor, but the chains don’t give. I notice that he’s shoeless, and there are shackles around his ankles, too.

Finally, with a tortured groan, he exhales, and the chains clatter to the floor. He drags in a ragged breath.

He bows his head, as if in shame, and my stupid heart twinges for him. I distract myself by examining his restraints, to see if there’s any obvious point of weakness.

Why are his metal while mine are leather?

Hold up.

Metal means wiggle room.

If he shifts, he could be able to slip free. His wolf is huge, but his human form is huge, too, and so are his restraints. His neck is definitely as thick as a wolf’s skull. My heart speeds faster.

“You can shift,” I say. “You can squeeze loose.” Why didn’t he already?

He tenses. When he glances up at me from under his thick lashes, that strange not-quite-fear feeling swirls in my belly again.

“I can’t,” he says, his expression suddenly guarded.

“Why not?” I ask, but the second I do, I realize why. His wolf hates me. He’d kill me. I’d be a sitting duck.

“He doesn’t hate you. He—he’s just not right in the head.”

I blink. Did I say that out loud? I replay the last few seconds. No, I definitely didn’t. “Can you read my mind? Through the bond?” Please, Lord, no.

“No.”

I expect him to say something else—to reassure me about reading my mind or his wolf—but he doesn’t. He shakes out his arms and rolls his shoulders, clanking his chains.

"I'm going to try again,” he says and repeats, “Don’t be afraid.”

Then he grunts, and his wolf bays, the echoes ricocheting from wall to wall as he fights the chains again, every muscle carved and shaking with the strain. I hold my breath until he gives up with a growl. For a moment, he bows forward, but then he straightens his spine, like he’s being watched, and he doesn’t want to betray a second of weakness.

I guess he is being watched. I’m riveted by his every move. The shock and whatever drug they shot me up with has worn off enough, and reality is hitting me hard—I’m fucked. We’re fucked.

Darragh is the only thing between me and them, my only chance of getting out of this alive. The thought should push me closer to the edge, but it doesn’t. Maybe because my wolf isn’t freaking out. She’s watchful, too, or more accurately, she’s enthralled by the male tied up in front of her. She thinks he’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.

“Is there any give at all?” I ask.

He grimaces. “No. It’s welded to the wall.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Like I said—eventually, they’ll let us go, and when they do, you’re going to run. I’m going to fight.”

My blood runs cold. He’s so calm and certain.

“Are you going to shift?” I ask.

“When you’re far enough away.”

“How far is that?”

His nostrils flare, and a tic above his left jaw pulses. “I won’t let the wolf get you.”

“He got me before.” I don’t know why I’m bringing it up now, here.

“I wasn’t on guard that night.”

“You figured you’d do the old nail and bail, and I wouldn’t come bother you. Right.” I have no idea where this is coming from. I’ve thought it a hundred times, but I’ve never, not once, imagined saying it to his face.

And now isn’t the time or place. I could have confronted him a hundred times in the past four years, but I didn’t.

Why didn’t I? Did I need him chained up to get the courage to ask?

Darragh sinks back, propping his butt on his heels. His hair is a mess, hanging in his eyes. There’s blood smeared across his pecs. It doesn’t smell like his.

“I won’t let the wolf hurt you,” he says.

“What’s wrong with him?” My cheeks heat. It feels weird to ask. I’m not a nosy person by nature, but don’t I have the right to know? If this is it—if we die in this box—I want to understand.

“He’s fucked up.”

“Fucked up how?” I push.

He sighs, but he answers me. “He thinks everyone’s the enemy.”

“Why is he like that?” I’m half expecting him to shrug or blank me out, so when he answers, it takes me a second to process.