The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(73)

At least a dozen females are clustered among the empty cots, whispering in worried tones, casting me sympathetic glances. Haisley and Cheryl’s concern is an obvious put-on for show, but the others seem genuinely upset. I wouldn’t have guessed anyone beyond our cabin would be that concerned. Their red eyes and noses make me feel weird.

Where was this show of concern when I was little, and my mom was gone, and I needed to not be alone more than anything else?

But they wouldn’t have been allowed to gather like this, would they? Not in Declan Kelly’s time.

When I was very young, females kept out of the way. They stayed in their cabins; they kept their heads down. Nothing was spoken of. Nothing was looked at in the face.

In the far reaches of my memory, I recall my mother stealing quick conversations in the laundry, in the corner of the kitchens, on a path as we passed. Females didn’t gather. That would have drawn bad attention. They didn’t reach out past their own pups. Maybe they didn’t have the bandwidth.

As I’m seeing it all in a new way, I accidentally catch my cousin Rowan’s eye. She offers me a hesitant smile. I return it. Something like relief flashes across her face.

I don’t know what to make of this.

I’d squirm if my body didn’t feel like it’s been mauled by a lion. Instead, I watch Una shuffle from group to group, listening to our packmates murmur their worries and questions, nodding, sharing a word or two of reassurance before moving on.

Una’s transition to alpha female was so smooth, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when it happened. One day, Cheryl was in charge. She held court, and everyone sought her out. Then, there was the weird period of time where no one was sure what was going on with Killian and Una. After his wolf settled that question, even though Cheryl still held court, no one asked her anything anymore.

Now, folks wait for Una to come by in her quiet, gentle way and bend her ear until Killian or one of us rescue her. She’s a different kind of alpha female, a listener, not a talker, but there’s no doubt things are more peaceful now. Kidnapping aside.

I crane my neck and see if Darragh’s out on the porch. He hasn’t gone far. I know from the bond. But I don’t like that he’s left me here.

Things are different between us now, right?

So why is there a pit in my stomach? And what has changed, really? My fingers go to my bite mark.

“Don’t fiddle with it,” Old Noreen barks without looking up from her needles. “It’s a fine mark. If you mess with it, it’ll just take longer to heal.”

I let my arm fall to the cool cotton sheet. It’s so crisp, I feel twice as gross lying on it. I’m about to ask Una if Kennedy and Annie can help me back to the cabin when a hush falls over the gathered females. All heads turn expectantly toward the door.

My heart rises. Darragh?

Abertha sweeps into the room. My stomach sinks.

She’s in full witchy regalia, flowing black skirt embellished with tiny diamond-shaped mirrors, purple brocade corset, long silver braid, gold bangles and hoops in her ears.

There’s a whiff of Darragh about her.

My wolf drags herself awake, groggily stumbling to her front paws.

I try to sit straighter, but the bed is too far reclined, and I’m weak. Abertha glides over in her strange way. Females shuffle further away, even the ones already across the room. Old Noreen’s clacking needles fall silent.

Abertha comes to stand at the foot of my bed. At least she isn’t at my side, looming over me. My nose twitches. Darragh has definitely been with her. Not with her, with her. Obviously. He’s only been gone a few minutes.

Ugh. I’m losing it. My wolf has fought her exhaustion to climb onto all fours, and she’s got her teeth bared. She’s too intimidated to growl, though.

Abertha arches a thin eyebrow, her quicksilver eyes flashing with wry amusement. “I told him you wouldn’t be grateful for my help.”

My stomach knots. I hate that she calls Darragh “him” like that.

“I’m fine,” I say.

She scans me, head to foot. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

Someone took away the disgusting jacket when they slipped me into the bed. I’m naked, and I feel it. I firm my chin. “You should see the other guy. He doesn’t have a neck anymore.”

Abertha blinks before she lets out a cackle of delight. “All right, all right, Mari Fane.”

She considers me for a long moment, and then she catches Una’s eye.

“May we have the room?” she asks. It’s a formality. The females have been edging toward the door since she arrived.

The crone inhabits a unique role in the pack. We hold her in deep respect, and we’re also convinced that she’s cursed. Shifters are superstitious, and since no one knows what it takes for a curse to rub off, most of us tend to give her a wide berth.

Darragh doesn’t.

I try to shove that ugly, embarrassing thought as far down as I can, so it doesn’t show on my face, even though it’s probably useless. The crone sees everything. At least she acts like she does.

Kennedy helps Old Noreen to her feet, and Annie grabs her sewing bag. All three cast me sympathetic glances.

As the room clears, Abertha drags the chair so it faces the bedside. She sits with her trademark willowy grace, so strange for a female her age. She stretches her legs, crosses them at the ankle, and folds her hands over her hollow stomach.