The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(83)

With cautious steps, Darragh crosses the room and squats so we’re on a level, the box between us.

“You took them from the commissary,” I say.

“Yeah.”

A tear dribbles down my cheek. Darragh tenses, a vein popping in his neck.

“You built this house for me.”

He jerks his chin.

“And for our pups.”

He nods again.

“You thought it would end up like this?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not in a million years.”

“But you built this anyway.”

He glances away, toward the open door. “If you don’t want to live all the way out here, I can build another one. Closer to camp.” His brow creases. “Trees aren’t as tall down there. I might need to dig the pit.”

I gaze up at him in profile, marveling, memorizing the strong lines of his nose, his jaw, the stubbornness of his chin, the piercing ache of his warm brown eyes. This male belongs to me.

He came for me.

He bailed, but he didn’t leave me. He’s been around.

I sit back flat on my butt, dig the crown out of the box, and set it on my head. Baby’s breath falls like confetti on my shoulder. Darragh looks at me like I’m a terrifying and unpredictable creature that could bring him to his knees at any time.

Slowly, he follows my lead and lowers himself to sit on the floor, too.

I take a teacup out, unwrapping it from the brown paper I packed it in. It’s bone china with blue roses and a gold trim that’s rubbed off in places.

I hold it up. Darragh duly considers it, his mouth a straight line, brows contracted.

“This was my nana Doreen’s. She was my dad’s mother.”

He nods, very serious. It’s so strange, a male as dominant and rough and weathered as him, sitting on the floor with me in this girly room, intent on whatever I say. It makes me feel strange.

Cracked open.

Precious.

“I never met her. She passed from grief a few years after my da was killed. Anyway, that’s what my ma said.” An elder brought a box of her things to our cabin, but Ma wouldn’t touch it. She told me to take what I wanted and haul the rest down to the white elephant table at the commissary.

“I didn’t know her. She kept her distance.” I turn the cup in my hand. Besides being well-used and old, there’s nothing special about it. The gold is probably paint. “I don’t know why. Maybe she was ashamed of what her son tried to do to me. Or maybe Ma held her responsible somehow.”

“He’d gone moon mad, hadn’t he?”

I blink up. How old would he have been back then? I was a baby. He would’ve been seventeen or eighteen. When did he move out to the shack in the foothills?

“Were you living in camp when it happened?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I heard tell of it.”

“I guess he was moon mad. He was definitely drunk. Ma always cursed him for what he did. She wouldn’t have if he was sick.”

“He attacked you and mauled Una. Either way, it was his fault.”

I hear him, and I know he’s not talking about my da, or at least, not just about my da.

“I don’t blame you anymore for what your wolf did.”

Darragh’s teeth clench. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t meet my eyes. It’s clear, he doesn’t give himself any grace.

“I don’t think he’d do it again.” I’m not sure why I think it, but as soon as the thought pops into my head, my gut knows it’s true.

His wolf isn’t mad. He’s ferocious and bloodthirsty and unmerciful, but he does things for a reason, and he likes my wolf. More than likes her. And he’s not stupid. He would understand that hurting me would hurt her. He wouldn’t do it.

A growl sounds in Darragh’s throat, and by the timbre, I can tell it’s him, not his wolf. Now, his flashing eyes find me. “No,” he says. “You’re wrong.”

“How do you know?”

He strikes his fist to his chest, hard, and scowls. “He’s in here, isn’t he?”

I tuck my hand between the buttons of the worn flannel I’m wearing, pressing my hand to my own chest, to the place where the bond flows between us.

“He’s here, too,” I say. “Isn’t he?”

He’s already shaking his head. “No, Mari. Don’t get ideas. I’ll keep him away. You don’t worry about it.”

I raise myself up on my knees, pushing the box to the side so it isn’t a barrier. “He’s part of you. That means he’s mine, too.”

He’s going to argue. His lips are forming the words, but then his brain must catch on to what I said.

“He’s yours, too?” The gold rings around his irises light up.

I nod.

“I’m yours?” He rumbles the syllables.

I nod again.

For a second, we balance on a precipice, lungs frozen, gazes locked, trying to read the truth in each other’s eyes. Longing to believe. Scared to reach out, scared to hold on.

Everything gets taken away. Nothing is guaranteed.

“I’ll never let anyone hurt you again,” he says, and I know he means himself, too.

“I know.” I reach out and brush my fingertips across his soft bottom lip, and I smile for him, so he knows what I mean—he’s not alone anymore. “You’re my mate.” I’m his. I choose him. This. Us.