The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(7)

That’s fine. Small is okay. Small is quick.

I yip and nip Kennedy low on the flank, and zip off into the trees, dart at the shadowy insects spooked airborne at our approach, snap my sharp teeth at crickets and katydids, swipe my fangs with my long tongue, all pain forgotten in the wall of sensation that is the world at night.

The moon is high, conjuring shadows between every tree, in every knoll, under every bush. In every shadow, there’s a mysterious rustling or enticing scent or quick, slight movement, all of which my wolf wants to chase or attack or sink her teeth into, she’s not sure which, how about all three, simultaneously—she would if she could. She’s unleashed. She’s a hyperactive ball of fur and boundless enthusiasm.

She darts and races, slides down moss-slick banks, loses her footing and rolls, yips and bays, while Kennedy’s wolf trots at her side, tongue lolling in companionable happiness.

My wolf seriously lacks coordination, but she’s so low to the ground, she doesn’t skid far when she loses her footing. She’s also tireless. For hours, she zooms along on prancing paws, following Kennedy’s periodic nudges in a different direction when he senses something he doesn’t like.

The whole time, the scent of warm afternoon teases my wolf’s nose, and even though the world at night is scary, and even though she’s small, she’s not the least bit hesitant or afraid.

My wolf investigates every critter and nook and cranny, and she’d probably keep going, except when the horizon begins to lighten in the east, Kennedy’s wolf becomes insistent that we return home, herding her back toward our cabin.

She complies, unhappily, but fully aware that Kennedy’s wolf could sit on her and squash her into a little wolf patty. When we get home, Kennedy shifts back to her human skin as she bounds up the stairs. My wolf lingers outside on the path.

“Don’t be long, Mari’s wolf,” Kennedy says over her shoulder before slipping through the door. “You don’t want to run into anyone. You’re kind of a pipsqueak.”

My wolf doesn’t take offense. She doesn’t really register the words, more the idea that Kennedy wants her to come in for her own safety. She’s not quite ready, though, and she’s not at all worried about the threat of being alone. It’s strange. I’m always uneasy alone.

My wolf stretches in the middle of the path, lowering her chest to the ground and lifting her rump in the air, enjoying the lengthening of her spine and reveling in all the wolf scents compacted into the dirt. She closes her eyes and inhales.

Her nose twitches. Out of nowhere, she catches the scent of mid-day sunlight, and she sneezes. She lifts her head, scanning the trees dotting the hillside, still cast in shadows.

My wolf and I notice him at the same time. Darragh Ryan. He’s close, only a few feet away, standing on the edge of the path. Somehow, he snuck up on us unawares.

He looks the same as he did at Abertha’s cottage. Those are definitely the same jeans. Still no shirt and no shoes. The only difference is that sometime between then and now, he combed and cut his hair. He definitely didn’t have Cheryl do it. It looks like he did it himself.

His brown eyes blaze with gold in the gray pre-dawn as he stands, stiff and broad, frozen in place. A shiver of warning zips down my spine.

My wolf doesn’t seem to feel the danger in the air. She yips a greeting, and without hesitation, she trots right on over to him. His jaw clenches. She plops onto her butt at his feet, right on top of his bare toes, and gazes up, tongue lolling, luxuriating in his scent and the heat from his human skin, a low whine emanating from the back of her throat.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, his muscles somehow tensing even tighter. My wolf noses his calf and nips at the denim. And then, on an exhale, he lets himself go “at ease” and sinks into a crouch, awkwardly offering her a loose fist to sniff. She yips with delight, snuffling his hand, licking his knuckles, and then she straight up rolls onto her back.

Legs splayed.

Tongue hanging out the side of her mouth.

Oh dear God. She’s asking for belly rubs. He looks like he might bolt at any second, like this is the strangest interaction he’s ever had and he’s never seen a bitch on her back before, and my wolf is wriggling in the dirt, batting his hand with her snout in the direction of her smooth white belly.

He sighs and the corners of his lips curve the slightest bit. “Is this what you want?” he asks.

He scratches the exactly right place, the exact right way. My wolf spreads her legs—all the way open, no shame—and rumbles her complete satisfaction. If I was combustible, I’d explode into a million tiny pieces from the embarrassment.

Close your legs. Close your legs. I plead with her, but she’s on another plane.

She’s not the least bit worried about exposing her belly to him—mate or no, he’s a big, scary stranger—all she cares about is that he keeps scratching. With his nails. Right there. Over a scooch. Yeah, that’s the spot. Her low growl sounds exactly like a purr.

His fingers slow way too soon, and my wolf whines from the depths of her soul as he gives her belly a last pat.

“Time to go inside, princess,” he says. His deep voice is rusty. From lack of use or is he still hungover? It takes a hell of a lot for a shifter to get drunk. I don’t smell liquor on his breath, only on his unwashed jeans.

“Come on.” He scoops my wolf up as he rises to his feet, cradling her tight to his warm, broad chest.