The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(67)

My wolf’s jaw is still clamped tight on the damn head.

We come to a shallow stream. Mari’s wolf balks. My wolf nudges her rear haunch with the skull. She swallows a faint whine that rises low in her throat, and then with tentative steps, she picks her way across the dark water. My wolf follows.

She scrambles up the far bank, stumbling more than once to her front knees. Her strength is fading. She’s not hurt. The scent of blood in my nose is heavy, but none of it is hers. Still, she’s struggling.

Give the skin back. I’ll carry her.

If my wolf hears me, he gives no indication. He follows her, rumbling for her to go faster, but even though she tries in spurts, she inevitably slows again to an exhausted stagger.

They’ll be coming soon. Shift back.

He peels his lips back, his tongue flicking forward to lick the bones and gristle wedged between his teeth. His heart fills with anticipation. He wants them to come.

They are a danger to her.

He scoffs, tossing up images in our brain of the carnage he wrought on the men at the container.

Does he care that she’s in danger? He’s not attacking her—and there hasn’t been a second to wrap my mind around it—but that’s not enough. Apparently, he can walk off a bullet wound, but she’s little. Her hide isn’t as thick as his, and her muscles aren’t even visible under her fur.

Vengeance is too risky, but how do I make him understand? There is no reasoning with him. There never has been.

Desperate, I reach into my memory and toss up an image of my own. The raw burn marks on her sides. Her naked body strung from a branch, her pale shoulders twisted in their sockets. Her blue eyes bright with tears.

He snarls, and this time, without a doubt, it’s aimed at me.

With a whimper, Mari tries to trot faster, but she stumbles. My wolf growls in frustration as he overtakes her and plants himself in her path. She stops short, her quivering legs give out, and she plops onto her butt in the tangled undergrowth. She keeps her spine straight, and although the fear comes off her in waves, she doesn’t lower her head or bend her neck.

My wolf throws back his head, releases one last muffled howl at the moon, and then, with exaggerated ceremony, he drops Smith’s head at her feet.

She blinks at it.

He bares his fangs at her.

She squints down at the bloody thing, furry brow knit. The head lolls onto its side. An eyeless socket stares up at the starry night sky.

An impatient growl erupts from the back of my wolf’s throat. He nudges the head with his snout, shoving it closer to her wet, dirty paws. Careful not to make too sudden of a move, she wriggles backward.

He rumbles, lifts his right paw, and sets it on Smith’s caved in forehead. He cocks his head.

Her eyes narrow.

He rumbles louder.

She tosses her head, and then she prowls forward, carefully, and gives the head the barest sniff and a gingerly poke with the very tip of her claw. My wolf’s rumble melts from demand to magnanimous satisfaction. She’s given him his due, recognized his gift. He’s content.

She casts him a sidelong glance and returns to where she was, lowering herself back to her rump with an arthritic stiffness. She’s still shaking, probably from shock.

She’s hurt. Shift. I’ll carry her.

He ignores me. Instead, he swings his paw, batting the skull away with a dismissive thwack, and stalks to close the distance between him and our tiny, shivering mate. He grunts at her to get up, to keep moving.

She sits slumped to one side and stares up at him with dull eyes, panting even though we’ve been resting for minutes now.

He growls and jerks his head in the direction we were heading before he stopped her. She casts a despairing glance toward the dark thicket and whimpers.

He snaps his teeth. She blinks. He butts her flank with the flat of his head.

She topples over, her head dropping to lay listless on her front leg. She gazes up at him, and with the last of her energy, she yips at him, snapping her own teeth, cranky and tired and no longer the least bit afraid.

His jaw shuts.

With a last burst of energy, she lunges at his front legs and manages to nip his ankle, snagging a tuft of fur.

With slow care, he extricates the leg from her bite and takes a step back.

In the distance, motors roar to life and dogs begin to bay.

Give over our skin. They’re coming.

My wolf nuzzles her flank, buries his nose in her matted fur, and he whines. She’s laying on her side again, motionless except for her shallow breaths. She’s done. She’s not getting up.

He doesn’t so much surrender our skin as he passes it to me, like a king bestows a knighthood. I seize it, suddenly aware of the metal cuffs still circling my neck and wrists and ankles, and the trailing, broken chains.

We’ve left an unmistakable trail. Our only hope is beating them to a terrain they can’t navigate with ATVs. I scoop Mari’s wolf up, and carefully tuck her in the crook of my arm. Her eyes have drifted closed, but she wedges her cold nose into the crease between my bicep and my side.

I gather what chains I can in my free hand, and then I run full speed into the dark, thick forest, oblivious to the sticks and rocks tearing at my bare soles, the gunshot hole knitting itself together between my ribs, or the shards of bullets flecking from my abs as my skin mends itself.

All I can feel is the bristly warmth of Mari’s wolf, the flow of our bond—for once calm and clear and strong—and pure terror.