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

by Cate C. Wells

Does he have a den? He looks like he lives in a den. I can’t live out in the middle of nowhere. I have shoes. And I cannot—I will not—live without baths. Or electricity.

Lol

Fate has to be playing a joke. My aesthetic is delicate, sweet, romantic, cottagecore. His aesthetic is—the pants I wore all last week are fine. No shirt, no shoes, no problem. Haircuts are for the weak.

Lol

Maybe this could be okay. He’s not completely feral. People are wary of him, but the few times I’ve seen him around camp, no one shits themselves or runs away or anything.

That you know of

At least I think the bond is what I’m feeling—it’s not unlike indigestion. It kind of burns and kind of feels stuck in there like if I hacked hard enough, I might be able to cough it up. Despite all that, it’s not a bad feeling. Just intrusive.

Lolol!

My lungs unfreeze, and I can breathe again. There’s never been a case of a male not recognizing his mate, but if it were going to happen, with my luck, it’d happen to me.

I hear you!

Why do I care about being ladylike in Darragh Ryan’s murder shack? Patriarchy. It’s the only explanation.

Lol

It’s the exact opposite of this march from hell.

Reality is tough, poor thing.

Every inch of my visible skin is bright pink from heat and embarrassment and hurt, and as I drag myself onward, my disappointment and humiliation does a U-turn and burrows into my dumb, soft heart. How come no one wants me?

Aw, man. This I feel.

How come I’m so expendable? How come—when it comes to me—mothers and fathers and mates are all like “screw the biological imperative, I got issues, fuck this chick.” What is so uncompelling about me?

Gut punch.

“Just what? Go on,” he says like a dare. I think he’s kind of enjoying this. I’m living through one of the worst moments of my life, and he’s amused. I hang my whole head.

I want to punch him. Them.

He really doesn’t want to be my mate. That’s fine. I feel ambivalent, too. He’s about the opposite of the male in my daydreams. Still, he could be a little less publicly conflicted. I’ve got feelings. And right now, they’re squishy and raw.

I bet

Lucky females like Haisley Byrne or Rowan Bell, with powerful fathers and brothers, are raised to look forward to their heats like it’s the equivalent of a human quinceañera or something. Nothing bad could possibly happen. The males in their lives wouldn’t let it.

I empathize

My shoulders slump and curl forward, as if I can protect myself from what’s to come, but I’ve never been able to keep myself safe. I’ve never been strong enough to stop awful things from happening, to make anyone stay.

I feel so SORRY for her!

You don’t just nail and bail your fated fucking mate.

Right?!!

hold my breath until my lungs burn because the part of you that wants to be loved is so very, very fucking hard to kill.

Yes. God yes.

Killian’s cooler now that he’s with Una, and they’ve got a pup, but he’s still a massive dick with the emotional intelligence of a bag of rocks.

Lol...yep.

The biggest wolf in the five packs, if what they say about Rosie Collins is an exaggeration,

I don't know what this means

Everyone deserves a chance at happiness. Even if this doesn’t go anywhere, I won’t regret it. I just wish I felt better about it.

Is the bond so strong because of him? Because he’s been tending to it all along?

It’s worse, though, trying to sleep knowing that shit is out there, and Mari weighs maybe a hundred-and-seventy-pounds max, and she’s got the self-preservation instincts of a drunk bunny rabbit.

I did do right. I know that, but still—I don’t get told it often. Or ever. No one in my life is the “provides approval” type.

I feel like for four years, I’ve accepted it—the rejection, the not knowing why, the guilt meat, which was just a constant reopening of the wound, the knowledge that I’ll never have a male and a family and a home of my own, and there’s nothing I can do about it. The fucking helplessness.

His awe. Of me.

Like he’s wanted to do this his entire life, and he never thought he would, and reality has exploded into a technicolor dream, and I’m the center of it all. Like that.

Maybe I have to be the strong and brave one.

You go, girl.

I’ve seen the man and the wolf, but I’ve never seen or imagined this terrifying amalgamation—Darragh’s

This is only ending one way. It’s like watching a lion stalk a housecat, but the cat is from that movie where they bury it in a pet cemetery and it comes back wrong.

That the past has claws. That it casts a long shadow. That its shackles feel unbreakable.

I don’t know what love is. I had ideas when I was young that mostly revolved around a palette of faded pastels, bittersweet acoustic songs, and the vague notion that love would be pretty and delicate and simple.