The Lone Wolf's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #3)(86)

He’s been biding his time with his head down, waiting until I’d been up for almost seventy-two hours, pumped full of tranqs and descended into rut, until I’d made love to my mate twice and been forced to talk for hours to a human from the government named “Dan” and another named “Steve” who ask the same fucking questions over and over, each time like they’re expecting a different fucking answer—oh, did I notice tags on the truck bed? Why, yes. I didn’t tell you the first ten times because I’m a dumbass, but here you go—

The whole time, my wolf was skulking, and the instant he smelled an opening, the second I nodded off on my feet for a split second, standing in front of the lodge for a breath of fresh air, he busted out of our skin like the Kool-Aid man and tore off for Mari’s cabin.

I dig my heels in, straining to wrestle him back, figuring he’s gonna throw himself through the picture window or ram through her door, but he doesn’t.

With a few bites and claw swipes, he runs off the two young males stationed on the porch, taking a hunk out of the slower one’s ass, and then he circles the place a few times, sniffing the foundation and pissing on the flower beds.

He doesn’t like that there’s a male wolf in there, but he remembers his scent from the night four years ago when he saved our mate, so he’s letting it slide. He wants Mari’s wolf out here now, though, but he doesn’t howl to the sky. He’s proceeding with a caution he’s never shown before. He doesn’t want her mad.

That’s his concern. Not that he’ll terrify her small animal, but that she’ll be pissed at him, and she won’t want to come with him.

He’s so different than he’s been my whole life. The rage is there, bubbling under the surface, the need to hunt down the humans who paid to terrorize my mate and eat them, feet to head, but he’s not driven by it. He wants something else more.

He pads to the front of the house, plants himself in the middle of the path, lifts his muzzle, and howls, but only once, and with what I can only call restraint. If he could speak, he’d be calling her name. Respectfully.

I tighten my grip on the reins, bracing myself, ready to heave back with all my might if she refuses to come to him, or worse, if she’s foolish enough to step out on two legs.

But she doesn’t make him wait long. A hidden person cracks the door, and her little white wolf wriggles out and dashes down the steps, right up to my wolf, fearless and panting with excitement, her tiny pink tongue dangling from her mouth.

My wolf stands still as she bustles around his legs, running her nose along his flank, checking to make sure all his limbs and tail are accounted for. He leans down to bump her with the flat of his head. She nips his neck. He tenses, and very deliberately, bares it to her, waiting on tenterhooks, a raw growl resonating in the back of his throat.

She casts him a sidelong glance, paces a few steps away, sits as if she’s at a tea party, and lifts her snout in the air.

My wolf chuffs, amused. He shakes his fur like he’s not bothered, and then herds her down the path, away from the commons and toward the foothills.

She fusses, yaps out a few barks, but soon enough, she falls in beside him. Just like he did when we were fleeing the hunters, he matches his pace to hers, but since she’s going at a gentle jog now, he’s basically walking. He doesn’t mind.

We’re totally alone. My wolf has long since cordoned off Quarry Pack territory to predators of any size, and even the smaller rodents scurry off when they catch my beast’s scent. There’s no living being to see Mari’s wolf trot at my side, but my wolf is as puffed up and proud as if we were running with the pack.

He keeps darting glances at our bite mark, the pink peeking through her clean white fur. He’s pleased that she’s not matted and bloody anymore, but he wishes it wasn’t healing so quickly. He considers sinking his fangs in again, matching the marks, but even before I lunge for the skin, he discards the idea. She’d fuss. He doesn’t want that.

As we make our way through the woods, I let myself relax a little. He’s a different animal with her. I’d call her a leash, but her company doesn’t chafe. She’s more like a balm. She eases the clamor in his brain, cools the rage that I thought came part and parcel with his soul.

He subtly guides her to the northwest, and at first, I think he’s taking her back to our home, but then I realize he has a closer destination in mind. The dens.

My chest constricts. I feel for our skin, but I can’t even get a handhold. Silent, he bares his teeth at me. If I force the shift, he’s going to fight me, and I might not win.

No. Don’t do this. You’ll scare her. She’ll run.

He ignores me. Mari’s wolf is distracted by the scents carried on the breeze and the gnats swirling in our steps. She doesn’t realize where he’s taking her.

I’m dead on my feet. At this point, I feel like a sack of meat kept upright only through sheer force of will, and here’s my wolf, impervious to exhaustion and pain as always. We run along the river for a spell, and then I drop behind Mari’s wolf, urging her to scramble up the crooked trail to the ridge leading to the old dens.

Mari’s wolf is excited. She catches the scent of our kind from the packed earth and the old fire circles that are only lit these days on solstices. She turns into a ball of energy, dashing from cave mouth to cave mouth, poking her head in each opening and racing back to me, fur bristling with her daring.