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

by Cate C. Wells

He trots over to Mari’s wolf with it lodged in his maw like a ball. I scream at him, pull him back with all my might. No. Don’t. Mate. Mate!

My wolf bends his neck and sniffs Mari’s neck. Immediately, she freezes as stiff as a board. His nose twitches. It’s the spot where just minutes ago, I claimed her with my teeth. He growls. She stays as still as the corpse beside her. He prods her flank with a paw. She plays dead. He rumbles and uses Smith’s head to kind of whack her on the back.

My wolf growls, the tone menacing and yet, somehow encouraging, and he crowds her, urging her on until she staggers to her wobbling legs and starts trotting across the field, away from the massacre by the cargo container. He’s herding her. She stumbles, and he’s there by her left haunch, growling and prodding her onwards, the fucking crushed skull stuck in his maw like an apple in a roasted pig’s mouth.

His heart fills with anticipation. He wants them to come. They are a danger to her. He scoffs, tossing up images in our brain of the carnage he wrought on the men at the container.

Does he care that she’s in danger? He’s not attacking her—and there hasn’t been a second to wrap my mind around it—but that’s not enough.

My wolf throws back his head, releases one last muffled howl at the moon, and then, with exaggerated ceremony, he drops Smith’s head at her feet. She blinks at it. He bares his fangs at her.

My wolf’s rumble melts from demand to magnanimous satisfaction. She’s given him his due, recognized his gift. He’s content.

Darragh’s wolf replies with a preening rumble, comforting her in her nest against Darragh’s chest.

His wolf didn’t kill mine. He killed everyone else, though. I don’t understand.

He’s alone. More alone than I’ve ever been.

“Good girl,” he says like an afterthought when he sees I haven’t moved. He scoops me up, slips the sling over his head, and resettles me against his chest. My heart rate slows.

He catches my gaze, and he won’t let go. The gold rings around his irises are back and bright.

returned from the war, and also, at the same time, shy as hell with his head bent, darting glances at me from under his thick lashes.

He’s my mate. Maybe. If he doesn’t bail again.

Then—I thought maybe you’d say something to me about it.”

A flash of irrational ire heats my cheeks. Would he let the crone bandage his wounds?

He hasn’t gone far. I know from the bond. But I don’t like that he’s left me here.

There’s a whiff of Darragh about her. My wolf drags herself awake, groggily stumbling to her front paws.

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.

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.

“Your mate and I aren’t lovers, you know.”

And I’m not that sweet little doll anymore. I never was.

As the story goes, he came a hair’s breadth from the alpha’s own throat before he was pinned down by Declan’s lieutenants.”

Darragh’s wolf is arrogant, vicious, a monster with a lust for blood. Darragh—Darragh tries to feed me apples. He doesn’t want me to chip a tooth on buckshot. Nearly mindless from rut, he still coiled his own arms in chains so he wouldn’t hurt me.

A spark of irritation brings me back into the moment. “I know that.” I don’t want this female telling me anything about my bond.

“Don’t go near his wolf in your human skin. If his wolf kills you, he won’t survive it. Do you understand?”

He might have claimed me, but he can never be a real mate to me.

We went through hell together, and it won’t change anything. Our mating was made impossible years before I was even born.

“None of the females died from their wounds. His wolf took out four of Declan’s lieutenants, though. It was sheer luck that none of the females were lost.” There’s no doubt in her voice.

Mari’s here, and she needs water and medicine. I can give her that, but she needs her packmates. She needs that comfort. I taught myself not to need the pack years ago, but I remember it. The illusion of safety. Belonging.

“Go get a shower. I’ll hang out here for a bit.” Instantly, the urge to bail is replaced by an unshakable determination to stay right fucking here. I cross my arms.

Killian clears his throat. “I saw the bite.” Out of nowhere, a wave of pride warms my chest.

But then I think about walking away, and I want to puke. I want to fight something that can fight back. I glance over at Killian.

“That’s what Una says your deal is. She says you use violence and aggression to regulate your emotions.” I don’t know where to start with that.

“Think better?” He’s really flustered, his face all tight and mean, and despite all the garbage rattling around in my brain, it’s entertaining. “You know what I mean,” he says. I don’t. I have no clue.

Mari doesn’t like Abertha. Mari’s suspicion has always flowed clear through the bond. It isn’t like that between the witch and I, though.

I cannot wrap my brain around taking Mari back to my place, caring for her, talking to her. It’s not that I don’t want it. I want it so fucking bad.

But how do you do something like that? I’ve been alone since I was a nine-year-old pup.

How do you feed a female and bed her and leave her during the day to hunt when at any minute, she could be taken from you—you could not be strong enough, you could let down your guard for a second—and then you have to live in an empty place ...

I’d never hurt Mari to avoid pain myself, and it’d hurt her if I walked away. But how can I keep her safe if I stay when I have this beast inside me?

Hydrating. Waiting. When will Darragh come? Will he come?

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

I know how he would have fought. He fought that way for me. I shiver.

Tingles begin low in my belly, and a wave of shyness creeps over me. Even with my eyes cast down, I know everyone’s looking at us.

“You haven’t slept yet,” I say. It’s a guess. He shakes his head. We stare at each other, flushing and awkward as hell, and I vaguely register that the others are going back to their conversations and devices.

“She’s a friend, you know. She just wants to help.” I take a step back and fold my arms. “Your friend.” Slashes of color appear under his cheekbones, and his gaze darts around the lodge, like he’s looking for an out or an assist. I don’t know why I’m pressing the point. I understand how things were between them,