The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(53)

“Mari?” Darragh says my name again. It sounds strange on his lips.

“Gimme a second.” I suck down a big breath. “Okay. On the count of three.”

His forehead furrows. I don’t think he expected me to take the lead.

“On the count of three, we both pull. Okay?” I feel better being the boss.

“Okay.” The corner of his mouth turns up. It makes my belly flutter.

I ignore it and hold up my fingers. “One. Two. Three.”

With a low growl, I pull at my chains again, as hard as I can. He follows my lead and pulls, too. I try my damnedest to last as long as he does, but there’s no way. I collapse minutes before he does.

For what feels like the next hour, as the container zooms along and the light coming through the bullet holes gets brighter, we strain at our bonds. I wait until the burn in my muscles eases enough to try again, and then I count to three, and we both pull.

He focuses on me while he fights the chains. I stare at the ceiling or the oil stain on the floor by his knees and flush bright red.

In between tries, we’re quiet. I fight the rising queasiness in my belly while he darts glances at me from under his lashes. I want the sloshing and cramping to be motion sickness. It could be. I’ve never traveled this long and fast in a vehicle before.

But I don’t think it is. I think that potion is doing something to me. My heart is beating faster, even when I’m not fighting the chains, and my brain is fuzzing up. I’ve felt this before, but it didn’t come on this quickly.

Please, Fate, no. It can’t be.

I want this ride to stop, and I’m scared shitless that it will. And it’s so damn hot in here. My skin is covered with a light sheen of sweat, and my curls are sticking to my neck, which I hate. I think I’m breathing faster, too, even when I’m not fighting the chains. I touch my cheeks. They’re burning up.

“Do you think I’m having a panic attack?” I ask.

Darragh blinks. He’s been examining his shackles, so for a second, the question throws him.

“What?” he kind of croaks.

“Humans have panic attacks. They hyperventilate. Do you think that can happen to shifters?”

He frowns. “I don’t know much about humans.”

“I’m asking about shifters. Do you think we can have panic attacks?” I press my palm to my chest. My heart thumps against it—hard.

“I don’t know much about shifters, either.” His mouth curves in a wry smile, and as quick as it appears, it’s gone. “You don’t have to panic. We have a plan.”

“What if the plan fails?”

“It won’t.” His mouth turns down now, and the brow furrow is back in full effect. He’s got the furrowing-est brow of any male I know. He might not have the gravitas and slowness of an elder, but he’s got the forehead wrinkle down.

He gives me a long, searching stare, and then, with the air of a male who’s come to a momentous decision, and who is also about to walk himself off the edge of a cliff, he firms his jaw and says, “I like action-adventure books.”

I blink. My head tilts. A damp curl falls and sticks to my cheek. I shove it away.

“You do?” I don’t know what else to say. Where did this come from?

He nods.

“Um.” What is the next logical thing to say? “Who do you like to read?”

He looks surprised, like he’s said what he meant to say, and he wasn’t expecting a follow up. After a few seconds of blank-eyed blinking, he says, “Jack London. Robert Louis Stevenson. Uh. Jules Verne. Alexandre Dumas.”

Except for Jack London, who they made us read at Moon Lake school, I’ve never heard of these guys.

I have no idea why we’re talking about books, but it’s something to think about besides our ugly past and being poisoned and panic attacks, so I grab on with both hands. “What did he write?”

“Who? Dumas?”

“Sure.”

“Uh. The Three Musketeers. The Count of Monte Cristo. The Man in the Iron Mask.”

“What’s it about?”

“The Man in the Iron Mask?”

“Yeah.” I don’t care. I can just breathe better when he’s talking. His voice is nice. Deep and gruff and rumbly and not scared.

“A man. In, uh, an iron mask. He’s in a prison. He’s the king’s twin. Louis the Fourteenth. But in real life, he was a valet. Maybe. No one knows.”

He’s speaking complete gibberish, but the thudding in my chest gets less frantic. A scowl flashes across his face—like he knows he’s not making any sense. He goes to run a hand through his hair, but he’s caught short by the chains. The hinge of his jaw clamps tight.

“What’s a valet?” I don’t want him to stop talking.

“A male who serves a rich man.”

“Like a butler?” I’ve seen them on TV.

“Yeah.” Darragh looks like he wants to keep talking, but it doesn’t seem like he knows what to say next. After a few seconds, he lets his mouth shut, and he frowns at the floor between us.

I remember him saying something about how he doesn’t know how to talk.

Except for dropping by with meat, he’s never around camp. He doesn’t hang around at the lodge or go on the full moon runs. He lives alone in that shack. I bet he doesn’t talk much. Except to Abertha.