The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(79)

They’re figuring out the logistics of how to analyze the clothes, give some peace to the folks who’ve lost people, but the priority is tracking the humans who’ve been hunting us.

We’re hearing all this from the packmates who drop by to check on me. I’ve never gotten this much attention in my life. Kennedy had to kick people out so I could bathe, redress my wounds, and eat. I don’t have much of an appetite, but I can’t drink enough water.

I curl up on the sofa, drifting off and startling awake. Hydrating. Waiting.

When will Darragh come?

Will he come?

As it gets later, the stream of visitors tapers off. Annie excuses herself to bed. Kennedy changes into her comfy sweats and puts on a movie. Out on the porch, Lucan and Fallon shoot the shit in undertones.

Is Darragh just going to leave me here? Go back to his shack in the woods like nothing changed?

Did anything change?

My fingers skim the hot skin surrounding my claiming mark. The bite itself is an angry red, but it’s already hurting less. I didn’t bite him. Will that make it easier for him to walk away? For me to get left again?

I ease onto my feet, shuffle to the kitchen, open the refrigerator door and stare at what I already knew was in there. I hate this feeling.

So why am I feeling it?

Screw this. I hobble down the hall to my room and change into a pair of soft leggings and a long-sleeved cotton T-shirt. As I move, the stiffness eases although I still feel battered and bruised. I slip on a pair of boots and tell Kennedy I’m heading down to the lodge. She jumps up to come with me, but I tell her that I’ll take Lucan and Fallon. Her eyes are bloodshot, and she’s chewed the skin beside her thumbnail raw. She needs a break.

Fallon and Lucan don’t want me to leave the cabin, but when I walk past them and head down the path, they fall in behind me, grumbling about how Darragh is going to beat the shit out of them, and it’ll be all my fault, and they’d haul my ass back, but then Darragh would tear their heads off for touching me.

A memory of Smith’s dented skull dropping into the dirt flashes in my mind, and my stomach goes queasy. I pick up my pace, a sense of urgency coming over me.

I listen to the bond, following it as I trip down the path past the A-roster cabins across the lawn to the lodge. Unfamiliar males are clustered out front, grim-faced, speaking in hushed tones. I smell Moon Lake, Salt Mountain, and an earthy variation of Moon Lake that must be the new Old Den Pack.

North Border must not have gotten here yet.

As I pass the strangers, whispers follow me. That’s her. The lone wolf’s mate.

Warmth sparks to life in my chest. My wolf lifts her head.

I climb the steps, Lucan and Fallon in my wake, and for the first time, I feel like the center of attention. It’s strange, but I’m not worried about it. I’m worried about my mate. He’s here. I can feel him through the bond, but I can’t tell which version I’m going to find—the cold and silent male who cast me aside four years ago or the male who recited plot summaries to keep me calm and called me brave and beautiful.

I know which one I want. I know how quickly and irreversibly my foolish heart has pinned its hopes on him. And I also know how many times in my life fate has broken my way.

I open the glass door, my heart speeding like everything is riding on this next moment, like I’ve got no hard shell left, like I’ve shed whatever resilience I once had, and now I’m raw and pink and exposed.

There are twice as many males in the lodge as were gathered outside. Some are on laptops and phones, some sitting or hovering as if they’re waiting for orders. Up on the dais, someone has pushed together two tables, and a dozen males surround it, gesturing at a huge map.

Darragh is up there next to Killian, talking to two males in black suits. A harsh chemical scent assails my nose, and my stomach churns. Humans.

My wolf growls as my claws extend, snicking through my fingertips. Darragh’s gaze flies to mine. My pulse skids to a halt.

Without a second’s hesitation, he stops mid-sentence, steps down from the dais, and strides across the floor, straight for me. My wolf yips, and my claws slide back.

He’s had a shower. His skin is marred like mine with scrapes and bruises, but he’s clean. His hair is combed and his beard is trimmed. He’s wearing a fresh flannel and a different pair of his same old blue jeans. My heart pitter-pats back to life.

This male is my mate.

As he passes, our packmates pay him the homage they would an alpha, the quick lowering of eyes, the subtle dip of the head. The overhead lights catch the flecks of gray in his hair and beard, and when his gaze catches mine, I can’t help but notice the creases in the corners of his eyes and bracketing his lips have deepened from exhaustion. No one looking at him—at how he carries himself—could doubt that this male has been through it and emerged from the other side, not once, but many times.

Yet, despite that, in the wide-open brown of his irises and the way he holds himself when he stops inches from me, tense and stone-faced and vibrating with nerves, I can imagine the nine-year-old, alone except for the sister taken from him, fighting his way down the stairs that are still just over there, on the other side of this very lodge.

I know how he would have fought.

He fought that way for me.

I shiver.

He shakes himself off and begins to unbutton his flannel.

I watch with a cat holding my tongue. He peels off the shirt, revealing a tight, worn undershirt that clings to his pecs, and drapes the flannel over my shoulders, nudging me to stick my arms in the sleeves. I do. He steps closer to button me up, and I smell sunshine in the middle of the night.