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

by Cate C. Wells

He’s old enough to be my father even though he’s way younger than my dad was. Folks my dad’s age grew up in the dens. Darragh’s too young for that, but he’s definitely from the generations messed up in the head from coming up under Declan Kelly, our last alpha.

Age-gap

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. I kill things with my bare hands in human form. I’ve been through hell and seen the other side.

So, yeah, the world is cold and lonely and ugly, but I can buy pink dresses and fairy lights and big-ass hats like fancy ladies wear at horse races.

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.

Lol jokes on una

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

I’ve heard this my whole life. Don’t wander off. Follow the rules. Danger lurks everywhere outside our territory. Funny because all the bad shit that’s happened to me has happened here.

He took a shower and changed. That’s a good sign, right? A voice in the back of my head whispers “that’s a really low bar, don’t you think?”

I’ve never been strong enough to stop awful things from happening, to make anyone stay.

:(

I’m not the problem. He is.

He's a piece of cowardly shit is what he is

“He works in the kitchen with Mari.” Every muscle in my body tenses. Obviously, I know that. And obviously, Killian can say her name. That’s fine. There’s no reason I need to kill him because he said her name.

Something felt wrong, but I ignored it, because ever since Darragh mated me, everything has felt wrong.

“Because if this—” He stops, draws in a breath, and begins again. “If I don’t make it, I want you to know—” He coughs, and in a jagged, deep voice that scrapes softly across my skin, he says, “I want you to know that you are the most beautiful thing in the world, and even if I couldn’t have you, and even though I fucked it up, you were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“You want me,” I whisper. “Yes.” “A lot.” “Like air,” he says.

“Nobody wants air.” “They need it.” “You don’t need me.” He walked away. He stayed away. “Like air,” he says again with a note of finality.

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. I don’t think I had it right at all. I think it’s the opposite—ugly and messy and tough as gristle. It’s not a miracle, not a gift out of nowhere, not a vibe. You make it out of thin air, from nothing, by what you do.

“I’ll always come back.” His fingers still, and his eyes find mine. “I will fuck up, but I’ll come back every time. If you’ll have me.” His jaw tightens. “I’ll come back even if you won’t.” “Because I’m your mate.” His brown eyes shine. “Because you’re the light of my fucking life. I would do anything for you. Stay away. Come back. Anything. You’re my heart, Mari Ryan. You make it beat.”