The Wild Wolf’s Rejected Mate (The Five Packs Book 5)

There’s something wrong with me.

Beyond the usual.

It’s November, and I’m sweating through my long jean skirt.

The yellow school bus bumps along, winding back to Quarry Pack territory from Moon Lake Academy, and I slide back and forth on the plastic bench, leaving streaks of sweat on the dark green seats. I scrub the dampness away with the cuff of my flannel shirt, but then the bus takes another hairpin turn, and I’ve got another streak to swipe.

What if it’s wasting sickness?

A memory flashes into my head—the stink of camphor, Ma’s rattling lungs, the white sheet almost flat on the mattress except for the knobs of her knees and ridges of her hips.

But it can’t be wasting sickness. The big brains at Moon Lake cured that years ago. Besides, sweating isn’t a symptom.

The sharp, pecking voice that lives in the back of my head pipes up. It can never be silent for long.

You know what causes sweating.

The bus barrels around a curve. I brace my knees against the seat in front of me and press my spine into the back so I don’t slide.

It’s heat.

If I ignore the voice, it’ll get louder and more insistent until I melt down. If I listen to it, I’ll work myself into a panic attack. I don’t know which is worse. I’ve tried to experiment, but I don’t make a good scientist when I’m balled up in a corner, rocking and digging my nails into my forearms.

Sometimes I hate myself. I want to unzip myself like a pair of footie pajamas, step out of my skin, and walk away.

I want to cut the nagging, beaky voice out of my brain with a pair of scissors. I know the voice is me, but I hate it because it’s always full of doom and gloom, and it’s always right.

Heat causes sweating. And it makes unmated males stink. What’s that smell, Annie? You smell it. I know you do.

It’s three dozen kids at the end of a long day, crammed into a metal can with windows that only open halfway.

No, it isn’t. It’s different. Mustier. Nastier.

My stomach gurgles queasily. I switch to breathing through my mouth.

I’d give anything for a knob that would turn the voice off. Or down. I’d take down.

You’re in heat. You know it. Your mate is here. Time’s up.

If the voice had a body, I’d take a tire iron to the back of its head. In this pack, I’m the shyest and quietest female my age, the scaredy cat who wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouth full of it—but if the voice were a person, I’d crack its skull open.

Your mate could be any one of these males. You don’t get to pick. Fate decides, and you have to take it. And then he can do whatever he wants to you.

The pecking voice throws up images of the worst males I know—Lochlan Byrne, smirking as he slinks out of a broom closet, tucking himself back into his gym shorts while a female with raccoon eyes follows in his wake, head high and defiant, her face sickly white and her hands shaking.

Alfie Doyle, shoving little Frankie Duffy down the steep bus steps, laughing when the poor guy sprawls in the asphalt.

Brody Hughes, leaning on the fence beside the track while we run past during human sport class, jeering at us to pick up our feet while he ogles our chests.

Somehow, my innards twist tighter. I wouldn’t have figured that was possible. My stomach already hurts worse than it usually does at the end of the day. I’m too scared to use the bathroom at the Academy—not around females from other packs—so I’m always bloated and crampy after lunch. If I poke my lower belly, it’ll be rock hard.

I need privacy and a shower. Then I’ll feel better. Maybe I’m making myself hot. I do sweat when I freak out.

Not this hot. Not this much sweat. And what about that smell?

My wolf whines and trots her worn path inside me, back and forth, deepening the rut with her pacing. The beaky, pecking voice drowns her out, but I know what my wolf grumbles low in her throat—run and hide, run and hide, run and hide. That’s all my wolf ever says. But run from what, though? And where? And hide from whom? How?

You can’t stop heat. It’s a greased metal chute into the unknown. Like life.

I stretch my neck and peek over the seat in front of me at the back of my classmates’ heads, many of them male. None of them seem special or different. I glance up at the rear-facing mirror over the driver, and I can see a few more males behind me, laughing and messing around, chewing food with their mouths open, propping themselves up with a knee on their seats, as close as they can get to standing without getting hollered at to sit down.

I sink as low in my seat as I can without looking weird. None of the males make me feel anything except scared and uncomfortable, and I always feel that way.

It’s going to be worse when one of them owns you. It’s going to be hell. You need a plan. Now.

My wolf adds her standard two cents—run and hide, run and hide, run and hide.

I blot my slick forehead with a damp sleeve as we careen around the last bend before rumbling through the Quarry Pack gates. As we pull into the commons, I gather my bag so I can bolt as soon as the bus rolls to a halt.

Mari and I have this part of the ride choreographed. She sits in the seat in front of me. As soon as the bus’s brakes screech and the door opens with a whoosh, she pops into the aisle, and I slip in behind her. She leads us down the steep steps and away from the crowd that spills out behind us.

We used to be permanent seatmates, but during one of our honest, late-night conversations between fellow insomniacs, Mari admitted that my fear stench was a little overpowering by the end of the day. Now we sit together on the ride to the Academy, but we split for the ride home.

It’s fine. I get it. I can’t stand my own smell, either.

Mari glances back at me. “Ready?” she mouths.

I nod.

The brakes screech, and the door whooshes. Mari hops up. I fall in behind her, stumbling forward when a male’s swinging gym bag whacks me in the back.

Run. Run. Run!

The pecking voice joins my wolf and becomes a blaring alarm in my brain. I ball my fists. My muscles tense, preparing to bolt. I slam my foot on my own internal brakes.

No.

I am not under attack.

It was an accident.

I force my balled hands to relax. I’m okay. Nothing is wrong except this bus is a freaking oven, and it smells like everyone has a piece of rotten fruit in their lunch box that’s been in there since the first day of school.

I take another second, and as soon as I’m confident that I’m not going to freak out and try to fight my way off the bus because I got bumped by a duffel bag, I hustle down the aisle.

As soon as my boot hits the ground, I scurry clear of the crowd spilling from the bus and drag in a lungful of fresh air, lifting my flushed face toward the late afternoon breeze rolling down from the hills.

It’s fresh. Heavenly. There’s an odd note in it, and it’s not bad at all. An earthiness. My cheeks cool, and my stomach muscles relax.

Mari grabs my hand and takes off toward home. I let her drag me along.

What is that scent? It’s not a usual November smell, not dry leaves or waterlogged wood. It’s closer to freshly tilled garden, but it’s also rich and spicy like the inside of the crone Abertha’s trunk or the cabinet where she keeps her oils and unguents.

“Do you smell something?” I ask Mari.

“Yeah,” she says, grimacing. “Don’t worry. You can have first shower.”

My cheeks heat again, and I pick up the pace.

Our cabin isn’t far, but it’s past the commons and up a fairly steep hill. Killian, our alpha, doesn’t want us lone females living close enough to the unmated males to tempt them into doing something they shouldn’t. That’s why we have to dress modestly and serve at meals instead of sitting at tables with the rest of the pack.

In my opinion, the rules are mostly in place to give Killian a false sense of security. Clothes aren’t armor, and if a male wants to hurt you, he’s not going to decide against it because he’s got to hike an extra quarter mile uphill. I don’t chafe against the rules as much as my roommates Mari, Kennedy, and Una do, though.

A quarter mile is a head start.

A long skirt with thick tights can get in a male’s way long enough to give you a chance to escape.

Run and hide. Run and hide. Run and hide. My wolf chants her mantra as she dashes along the border between us. She’s really amped up, even for her. She’s noticed the scent, too, and she’s on alert, but she’s not terrified and pissing herself in some corner of my subconscious, which is usually her M.O.

I don’t hate my wolf—not like I hate the voice—but she’s kind of a bummer. On the one hand, I want to meet her, but on the other, I’m so scared that she’s going to be scrawny and weak. One of my worst nightmares is being stuck inside a runt of a wolf who is incapable of protecting herself.

Just the thought of it makes my panic rise.

I take a deep breath, and that earthy scent hits me again. I scan the wildflowers and trees on either side of the path, but I don’t see anyone or anything out of place.

Because it’s behind you. Somewhere you can’t see. Better run while you still can.

I check over my shoulder, but there’s nothing but the empty, winding path. Down the hill, everything appears peaceful—the cabins clustered around the commons and pups playing in the grassy park in the center of it all. The young males wrestle and chase each other around the females sitting in a circle, their heads bent together, intent on some game.

What if it goes after them? The voice rises to a scream. Go! Now! Warn them! They need to run!

I force myself to calmly turn away. The pups are safe. Their dams are on their porches, watching them. There are males close by. There are always at least a few training in the gym for the shifter fights, and besides, the patrols would have raised an alarm if something had encroached on our territory.

The danger isn’t real. It’s in my head.

Always in my head.

I trudge the final few feet to the steps to our cabin and peel my damp shirt from my back to let air reach my skin. Maybe the weird smell is me. I give my pits a quick sniff. Mari wasn’t lying. I am rank.

Per usual, Mari leads the way inside, hollering, “Kennedy!”

“In the kitchen,” Kennedy calls back.

She’s a year older than Mari and me, so she doesn’t have to go to the Academy anymore. She works in the kitchens with us at breakfast and dinner. During the day, she goes up to Abertha’s with Una to work on our super-secret mushrooms, jams, herbs, and honey business that we run under the alpha’s nose.

Instead of weird smells, I should be worried about how we’re inevitably going to get busted selling our wares at the human farmers’ market in Chapel Bell. But that’s a real fear. I don’t worry about those.

Mari and I drop our bookbags on the floor and traipse down the hall. Kennedy is bellied up to the kitchen counter, eating cheese. She’s using its plastic wrapper as a plate and a butter knife to cut slices and ferry them to her mouth. With her free hand, she’s scrolling on her phone.

Mari goes directly to the refrigerator and throws the door open. I grab the tea kettle from the stove and fill it at the sink. My crampy stomach eases a little more. It’s tea time. The best time.

“Is that all the cheese we’ve got?” Mari asks Kennedy.

Kennedy hums a cheerful affirmative around a mouthful of cheddar.

“Can I have some?” Mari sounds tetchy, but we all know that she rips through the cheese the quickest. Kennedy’s lucky there was any left.

Kennedy slides the cheese closer to her own chest, and her wolf rumbles a warning. My wolf yelps and drops to her belly inside me, baring her neck and burying her head in her forelegs.

“My bad,” Kennedy says, wincing.

I smile ruefully. Everyone in the house is used to my skittish wolf. We’ve lived together for a long time now. I know that Kennedy’s wolf would never hurt mine, but there is nothing in the world that will convince my wolf of that fact. Kennedy’s wolf is male. Males are killers. End of story.

Frowning, Mari sticks her nose deeper into the fridge. “Who ate the summer sausage?”

Kennedy and I grimace at each other behind her back. I left half. Kennedy must’ve finished it.

“There are Slim Jims left,” I suggest.

Mari turns up her nose, but she still snakes past me to fetch them from the cabinet over my head. Her big blue eyes shine with anticipation as she upends the box, expecting a windfall.

A single Jim drops onto the counter.

“Really?” She scowls at me. “You left one Jim?”

I shrug. “There was at least half a box left last night.”

Mari glares at Kennedy. Kennedy stares back with wide-eyed innocence as she pops another piece of cheddar into her mouth.

Mari huffs, drops into a chair at the kitchen table, and snaps into her meat stick. “Is Una still up at the cottage?” she asks Kennedy.

Kennedy takes her snack to sit in the chair across from her. “Yeah.”

“What did y’all do today?” Mari asks.

“Brought in the last of the squash, and then we canned apples. Una thinks they’ll move at the market.”

“Everyone sells canned apples.” Mari scarfs down the last of her snack, licks her fingers, and looks longingly at Kennedy’s cheese.

“Yeah, but ours were grown, picked, and canned by real, live shifters.” Kennedy waggles her eyebrows. “That puts a premium on them.”

I will never understand humans. They’re afraid of us, but they’re also fascinated. The humans with booths at the Chapel Bell farmers’ market resent us for stealing “their” business. They tell stories behind our backs about how we go on killing rampages during the full moon, but darn if they don’t make sure to come by our stall before we sell out and get themselves a few of whatever we’ve got on offer. They probably resell our stuff online with a three-digit markup.

I hate going into town. Sometimes my nerves and my wolf won’t let me, but if I can take my turn, I do. The money we make buys my tea and yarn and Wi-Fi and our streaming services. Without my little coping mechanisms, I’d be even worse off than I am. I’d have nothing to drown out the voice.

I dab my sweaty forehead with a dish towel and flip open my wooden tea chest. I need something to cool me off. Mint? Lemon? I draw in a breath to let my nose choose, but there’s that strange scent again, wafting in from the cracked window above the sink. Maybe because I have tea on the brain, I feel like I can make out notes of oolong or yerba mate.

My stomach unfurls, somehow making more room for my lungs so I can take another, deeper breath.

The kettle screams.

My heart explodes.

I fling my arms into the air. My legs skitter on the floor tiles, and then I drop, crouch, and tuck to protect my soft parts, huddling against the oven door.

The knife! In the block! Grab it!

Run and hide, run and hide, run and hide.

The voice and the wolf shout louder and louder, trying to top each other.

Oh, hell. I forgot to flip the whistle up on the teapot.

I curl my fingers around the handle on the oven, squeezing until my knuckles blanch so I don’t snatch a knife and bolt out the back door.

I don’t need to run.

There’s no one to fight.

It was only the teapot.

I try to talk myself down, and it’s like talking in the middle of a hurricane. Nothing in my body—not my nerves, my muscles, my adrenaline, my cortisol—nothing is listening. I’m not fleeing the cabin like my heels are on fire, though, so it’s a win.

I used to run all the time when I was a pup. Once, the door was locked when I had a freak out. I hit it at full speed, and it didn’t give, so I bounced backward, landed flat on my butt, and bruised my tailbone. My brain broke, and I crawled under the kitchen table and wouldn’t come out for hours.

Eventually, Una crawled under the table after me, despite her bad leg. She dragged me out and held me on her lap, rocking me until I fell asleep. She couldn’t walk the next day, her leg was so stiff. That was the last time I made a run for it because of a sudden loud noise. Sometimes, shame is more powerful than fear.

Sometimes.

In the here and now, Mari and Kennedy politely ignore me while I force my fingers to release the oven door and take a few deep breaths. The weird smell is stronger. When I finally rise on my shaking legs, I peer out the window. There’s nothing but the deck, the flower bed, our tiny yard, and then beyond it, the steep bank to the ridge that runs behind our cabin. I don’t see anything.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t smell like danger. That’s a change of pace. Usually, everything unfamiliar smells like a threat.

I unwrap a bag of orange pekoe, pour the water, and carry my tea to the table. My hand is still unsteady, so the cup rattles in the saucer. Kennedy pushes my chair out for me with her foot, and I sink into it with as much grace as I can muster.

For a second, we’re silent, and then all three of us exhale a long sigh in unison. Mari drops her head back and closes her eyes. Kennedy slumps forward and slices herself another hunk of cheese.

I know exactly what they’re thinking. It’s been a long day already, and we’re not even halfway done. In a few minutes, we have to head down to the lodge to prep for dinner. Then we have to serve and clean up and prep for breakfast, all while ducking and weaving around the meathead males of the pack.

I’m so hot and sweaty. I feel like a wrung-out washcloth.

I slump forward, push my teacup forward with the tips of my fingers, and lay my cheek on the cool linoleum table.

“What’s wrong with you?” Kennedy asks.

“I think I have a fever.”

“Shifters don’t get fevers.” Mari reaches over to feel my forehead. Pups get fevers, but we grow out of it by the time we’re old enough for the Academy. I haven’t had one since before Killian became alpha and moved me in with Una and the others. “You’re really hot.”

Kennedy reaches over and feels my face for herself. “Gross. You’re all wet.”

I blow out my cheeks. “I know.”

I can’t see Mari and Kennedy exchange looks, but I hear them shift meaningfully in their chairs. Neither dares to say it for a minute, but finally, Kennedy takes the leap.

“Do you think you’re in heat?” she asks.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t know. How can you tell?”

There is a long pause before Mari ventures an answer. “Well, I guess you get really hot and turned on, and you recognize your mate. Do you know who he is?’

I moan. “If I knew who he was, I’d know that I was in heat.”

There should be a class on this at the Academy. I can solve for X, and I know that iambic pentameter has ten syllables made up of alternating stressed and unstressed syllables, and that each of these pairs is called a foot, and each foot is called an iamb, and the opposite of an iamb is a trochee, but my body is burning up, and I have no idea if it’s heat, and I don’t even write poems.

“Well, are you horny?” Mari asks.

I turn my head so my nose and lips are mashed against the cool tabletop. Your mother is supposed to tell you this stuff, and if she’s not around, then your grandmother or your aunts. My aunt lives in Salt Mountain, and even if we did talk, I’d never ask her about this in a million years.

I don’t think Una knows any more about heat than we do, and I’d feel weird asking her about it. She’s kind of like the nun from the movie with the singing children. And besides, if we talked about it, I’d let on that I’m terrified of the whole thing. My brokenness makes her sad, so I try to play it off like I can’t wait for a mate like Mari.

“Well, do other males smell bad to you? I’ve heard that when you find your mate, other males stink until you do the deed.” I can picture Mari’s turned-up nose from the tone of her voice.

“Do any males smell good?” Quarry Pack males smell like unwashed gym socks. High-ranking Moon Lake males smell like too much human cologne, and the low-ranking ones smell like pipe tobacco and swamp water. Salt Mountain males smell like chewing tobacco and gasoline.

You know they do. Don’t pretend. Face facts. It’s heat. You need to run.

Kennedy snorts.

“Well, when we get to dinner, you can take a good whiff, and that’ll be your answer,” Mari says, her chair screeching as she shoves herself back from the table.

Suddenly, the idea of doing the usual—showering, changing, hurrying to the kitchens, rinsing, chopping, mixing, serving, sweeping, wiping down, mopping, all while trying to stay invisible as I trail fear stink all around the lodge—feels unbearable. Insurmountable. I sigh, and my breath fogs the tabletop.

“I can’t do it tonight,” I say quietly. I’m never one to complain or shirk. The voice would never let me. If I’m not useful, I’m expendable. Maybe even a liability.

“Then don’t,” Kennedy answers like it’s nothing. “We’ll cover for you.”

Don’t you dare. You don’t want them to think you’re slacking. What if they decide you don’t need to eat since you’re not working? What then?

The voice flashes an image of the lodge basement in my mind, frozen in time ten years ago when the old alpha was alive.

It’s enough. I hoist myself up.

I feel like wilted lettuce. Right now, I can’t summon up any worry about getting my food cut off. The thought of eating anything makes my stomach churn, and besides, my rational mind knows that sort of thing doesn’t happen anymore now that Killian is alpha. Most of the time, my rational mind wins out, but that doesn’t mean the voice shuts up.

And that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know exactly what button to push in my brain to keep me vigilant.

What if they decide you’re only worth one thing? Better go anyway. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself.

The only people who’d notice if I was missing are Mari, Kennedy, Una, and Old Noreen. I’m furniture in this pack, and that’s how I want it. It’s safer.

You’re never safe.

And you’re boring, I want to say, but the voice doesn’t care about what I think any more than my belly button or my left foot does. Argument is futile. Ignoring is the only thing I can do.

“Are you sure you’re cool to cover for me?” I ask my roomies.

Mari and Kennedy both nod. “Take a long bath and veg out,” Kennedy says. “You’ll feel better.”

“Everything’ll be fine,” Mari adds, and they both head to their respective rooms to get ready to leave.

Neither of them actually believes what they said. If this is heat, I won’t feel better until I let a strange male mount me, and then I’ll be stuck with him for the rest of my life.

Killian Kelley. Lochlan Byrne. Alfie Doyle. Brody Hughes. Vaughn Lewis. Art Floyd. Dangerous, cold, mean, cruel, violent, heartless—it won’t matter who or what he is. Fate decides, and that’s that. Females get on their hands and knees and beg for it. If you somehow manage to resist the urge, the male descends into rut and makes you.

My stomach roils. The tea sloshes.

I push up from the table and trudge down the hall like a zombie. I need a shower. Ice cold. Maybe I’m lucky, and I just caught some human flu. I’ve never heard of it happening, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.

Some of the tension seeps out of my shoulders after I pop the lock in the bathroom. It’s not strong enough to keep anyone out, but if someone forced the door while the shower is running, it’d be loud enough to give me warning. I slide the wicker hamper in front of the door for good measure, wedging it as best I can under the knob. Then I get the wooden broom out of the linen closet and lean it on the wall next to the tub so it’s within reach.

I know a male shifter can burst through a standard door like it’s nothing, and this broom would probably break if I hit him with it, but I need the ritual so I’m strong enough to ignore the voice and take my clothes off.

What are you doing? You can’t get naked. What if you have to run? You’ve got no shoes. Nothing between you and them. Nothing to stop them.

I undress quickly, hanging my skirt, shirt, bra, and panties over the towel rod so that I can slip them back on as soon as I dry myself. I am a very efficient bather. Even with turning the water off a couple times to listen for phantom noises, I can wash, shave, shampoo, and condition in five minutes flat. The key is using shaving cream as soap and buying a two-in-one for your hair.

I actually stay a little longer than usual under the spray and run the water ice cold. For several precious minutes, the relief is more powerful than the voice. After I turn the faucet off, I press my palm to my chest. My skin is still rosy and hot to the touch, and my breath is shallow.

It’s heat. Run before you’re trapped. Get the hell out of here.

And go where?

The voice is silent. It always is when I call it out. It doesn’t have answers, just fear and hysteria and prophecies of doom and disaster.

I wish I could carve it out of my brain. Skewer it with a hot poker. Kill it with fire. Give it what it wants.

What does it want?

I pat myself dry and pull my skirt and shirt back on. I can’t bear the thought of squeezing my tender breasts into an underwire bra, and my underwear is ruined. I shove them deep in the hamper, covering them with one of Kennedy’s oversized sweatshirts and Mari’s flouncy party dresses.

I splash my face with cold water and brush my teeth. Like always, I dribble on my shirt, but there’s no help for it. I’m not about to stand in the middle of a room in nothing but a towel.

I moisturize and comb out my wet hair. It’s brown, like my eyes. I’m a very ordinary-looking female. I have a long torso, and my arms and legs are kind of gangly, but other than that, I’m pretty unremarkable.

My left breast is a B cup, almost a C. My right breast is a C, almost a B. My butt is square. My hips exist. Barely. I have a few moles, but none that show when I’m dressed.

I tie my hair back into a tight ponytail and check the effect in the mirror. Bland. Commonplace. Garden variety.

Will my mate be disappointed? Will he want me to wear crop tops and short skirts like Haisley and Rowan and the other young, mated females?

Acid rises in my throat as my adrenaline spikes.

He can make you do whatever he wants.

Run and hide. Run and hide. Run and hide.

I force myself to move the hamper back where it belongs, unlock the door, and walk at a steady pace to the back of the cabin. I’m not going to run. I’m just going to look out the storm door and remind myself that I can leave at any time. I’m not trapped.

Your mate can smell you. Once he mounts you, he can track you by the bond. Pull you by the leash. You’ll never get away.

My trembling hand grabs the knob, and I can’t stop myself from pushing the door open. I’m not going to run away. I don’t do that anymore. The last time, Una had to trek all the way up to the blackberry bramble in the west woods before she found me, and her bad leg was so sore the next day, she couldn’t make it up to Abertha’s cottage. I’ve outgrown running away. Years ago. I can control myself.

I venture to the edge of the deck and lower myself to sit at the top of the steps that lead to the small yard. The earthy smell is stronger now. I breathe it in, and for some reason, it slows my thudding heart. My wolf drops to her haunches and peeks out at the physical world, eyes narrowing, ears perking.

Someone is out there.

I steel myself for another round of run and hide, but she’s quiet. She cocks her head.

I scan the yard, the beds of purple phlox and salvia—not long for the world now that the first frost is coming any day—the sunflowers and pink panicle hydrangeas, the yellow strawflowers on the slope leading up to the ridge above our cabin.

The sun is sinking in the west, but it’s not reached that angle yet where the rays are blinding. There aren’t stark shadows cast on the grass. It’s like someone’s turned down the dimmer on the world, so the outside seems mellow and lovely and close and safe.

I take another deep breath. It feels amazing. Like my lungs can suddenly hold more.

It’s a trick. There’s something out there. Lurking. You just can’t see it.

It’s stupid to feel safe. It’s a delusion. I know that. No female is ever really safe. The reminder should spur my wolf back to her pacing, but she stays still, listening. Her nose quivers.

I take another look around, slower this time. Blades of grass flutter in the faint breeze, and so do the flower petals.

And so does the fur on the strange wolf hiding in the strawflowers.

Watching.

With gold eyes.

Every muscle in my body freezes.

Inside my head, I scream, but my throat has choked off my air. My lungs have seized mid-inhalation.

Don’t make a sound. Don’t move an inch. Don’t breathe.

No, no, no—this is the moment to run. I need to run.

I can’t. I don’t have the strength to stand. My legs are weak from terror. A droplet of warm pee dribbles down the crease of my thigh.

The wolf in the strawflowers rises to his four feet, up and up and up. He’s huge. A full-grown male. I can’t see his teeth, but they’ll be razor sharp. His ears are up and canted forward, like he’s listening for something.

My lungs seize.

My heart pounds louder, too loud. It thunders in my ears, ready to burst into mangled, meaty chunks.

The wolf lifts himself even higher, his head swiveling on his neck, scanning the horizon. He’s scouting for danger. Are there others?

I track his gaze, but I don’t see anything except flowers and shrubs and the shed where we keep the mower.

He lifts his snout in the air, his nostrils flaring. His furry brow knits. He’s confused.

He strides forward. I shrink in my skin. I want to squeeze my eyes closed, drop to the ground, and curl into a ball, but I can’t move, and besides, I need to see it coming for me.

It’s worse if you don’t see it coming.

I brace myself, pulse pounding, as he bulldozes his way through the bed of phlox and salvia, his huge paws trampling tender stems into the dirt. I cower in place, frozen and quaking at the same time. At any second, he’ll be on me. His teeth. His claws.

He pads across the lawn. A yard away. Ten feet. Five. A soundless scream escapes my throat, nothing but air.

At the last moment, he veers right and dashes to the perimeter of the yard, following it until he disappears around the cabin. Before my lungs can finish a gasp, he reappears around the other side and skids to a halt in front of me.

He stares at me, his bushy brow furrowed, leans forward in my direction and sniffs. His lip curls, showing black gums and shiny white fangs. I whimper.

His head snaps left, then right, like he’s trying to catch someone sneaking up on him. Finally, he bounds away up the slope to the ridge and stands there, outlined by the setting sun, surveying the landscape in three hundred and sixty degrees.

What is he looking for? What’s out there?

I need to run while he’s distracted, while he can be a decoy for whatever bigger danger he’s looking for.

I dig deep inside myself for the strength to move, but all that’s down there is blind terror, so I stare at the strange wolf, helpless and small and frozen.

Again.

He’s huge. Well, not as big as Killian, but still—massive. And he’s mangy. His mottled fur sticks up randomly in tufts, and it’s matted along his left haunch. Is that a twig stuck in it?

He’s not a natural wolf—he doesn’t have that way about him—but he’s not a pack shifter, either. Is he feral?

The sunset bathes him in light, and I can make out smaller details. The edges of his ears are ragged, and he has a bald patch on his side that runs on either side of a puckered scar. He’s young, not much older than me, but his body is battle worn, like the older generation in Quarry Pack who came up under the old alpha. They had to fight for food. Not in a ring, but for real.

How did this wolf get onto pack land without the patrols catching him?

The bottom drops out of my stomach. If he’s here, so far into our territory, I’ve been right all along. Safety is an illusion. Patrols can be dodged, locks won’t hold, doors won’t stand in anyone’s way, the alpha’s assurances are lies.

The voice is right. It knows.

I need to call for help, but the fear strangles my throat too tightly.

High on the ridge, the strange wolf takes a long final look around and trots back down the hill. When he comes to the yard, he keeps coming, but he slows down. Like he’s trying to be stealthy.

Like he’s stalking prey.

No. That’s not exactly right. He lifts his paw so carefully that the move is almost comical, and then places it daintily down before he lifts another. A wild thought pops into my mind. He looks like a pup playing red light, green light.

What is he doing?

He reaches the circle of dead grass where the bird bath used to be before Kennedy’s wolf accidentally bowled it over during one of her angry shifts. He’s close enough now that he could be on me in a single bound. My shoulders rise to my ears while my hands curl into fists.

He stops, his eyes trained on my face. The gold is so smooth and bright that they hardly seem real. They certainly don’t match the raggedy rest of him.

Slowly—very, very slowly—he lowers his hulking body to his belly.

I let out a shallow breath that I can’t hold anymore.

With exaggerated slowness, he rolls onto his back and cocks his rear leg.

I can see his butthole. And all the rest of his business, too. My face catches fire.

He cranes his neck and studies me, his ears perked.

His belly fur is filthy. The small patches on his back and haunches that aren’t matted and caked are a nice pale tan, but there aren’t many of them. It looks like he deliberately rolled around in a mud puddle.

Is he a lone wolf, on his way to going feral? Or is he Last Pack?

I desperately try to remember everything I’ve heard about them. They sleep in dens and feed on rodents and grubs and the occasional deer or hog. They live like animals, spend most of their time as wolves, and they kidnap females, who are never seen again.

What happened to their own females?

You know what happened. They killed them. You know what males do.

Another wave of panic crashes through me, spiking my blood with a fresh hit of adrenaline.

The wolf sniffs, his face screwing up like he’s caught a whiff of something foul. A tendril of embarrassment worms its way through my panic. My fear is really pungent.

He stares at me. I stare at the ground, neck tilted and bared, but I track him from the corner of my eye. He sprawls on his back and wriggles in the grass, his enormous balls drooping, not an ounce of shame or modesty. He’s not afraid.

Why would he be? I’m not a threat.

After a few more rolls, he gets bored and flips onto his flank to check my reaction. I’m not stupid. I know this is a display of submission, but I also know it’s a lie. He’s easily twice my size, and under the filthy, matted coat, his muscles are honed. If he attacks, I won’t have a chance against him.

He scrambles onto four feet.

I try to make myself even smaller, tucking my forearms to my chest and dipping my chin to emphasize my own submission.

I’m on my own here. No one will be home for hours. Which is good. I don’t want anyone else to be in danger. I need to pull it together enough to run.

I’ll head away from the commons. Lead him toward Abertha’s cottage. She’s old, but she can handle anything. She has nerves of steel, and I’ve smelled metal and gunpowder in the back of her pantry.

My brain sifts manically through escape routes while my body cowers and the strange wolf trots over to the flower bed with an exaggerated nonchalance.

What is he doing now?

He sniffs a sunflower and then glances over his shoulder to see if I’m watching. I am. I can’t tear my eyes away. He’s the clear and present danger. For once, it’s not in my head.

He casually wanders to a hydrangea bush and sticks his muzzle deep into the pink blossoms. The flowers are on their last leg, so when he delves his snout into a bunch, a handful of petals flutter to the ground. He sneezes. Another bunch of petals burst into confetti and drift down, sticking to his fur.

He glares at the bush, startled and a little put out. Then he casts me another look. This time, it’s expectant.

What does he want me to do?

He waits.

My stomach knots tighter and tighter the longer he stares. If my intestines were rope, they’d be frayed close to snapping.

Sometimes I marvel at all the ways I can mess up my body with the power of my mind—all the parts of my body that I can make ache. My belly, my head, my neck, my shoulders, my jaw. I wonder which part I’ll break first. Probably my teeth from grinding them while I sleep. And anytime I’m around the males of the pack.

I am so tired of myself, and I’m tired of cowering here, soaked in sweat and terrified, while a feral wolf makes a mess of our flower bed.

“Just do whatever it is you’re going to do,” I call to him. In my mind, my words are loud and clear. In reality, they splutter out of my mouth, mumbly and faint.

The wolf cocks his head. He’s meandered behind the sunflowers so he’s standing with all four paws in the mulch, facing me. His brow scrunches, as if he’s lost for what to do next. Then his ear twitches, knocking against a sunflower stalk. It sways, bopping his muzzle, and he startles, his clumpy fur bristling like a porcupine’s quills.

I can’t help it. A tiny smile flashes across my face, half hysteria, half reflex. I mean, he freaked himself out by accidentally whacking himself in the snoot with a flower. Totally something I would do.

His golden eyes light up, and he bumps the flower with his muzzle again, closely observing my reaction.

I gawk back at him. Is he playing?

He sits back on his haunches, reaches up with a paw, and bats the sunflower, watching me, waiting.

What am I supposed to do?

He picks up a paw and gently presses down on the stalk until the sunflower is touching the ground, and then he lets it go. It flies up and boops his snoot. His wooly brows rise in expectation. My eyes round. He cocks his head and blinks.

He’s being silly on purpose.

Quarry Pack wolves don’t play, at least not like this. When the males are in their fur, they act like animals. They might wrestle or chase each other, but they’d never fool around in a flower bed. They’d never be silly.

He’s looking around now, and I can see his gears turning. Suddenly, inspiration strikes, and he trots to stand between two flowers with small blooms growing close together. He shoves his shoulders between them, stretches his neck, and simultaneously shoves the bottom of the stalks together with his front paws.

He’s given himself sunflower antennae. He tilts his head left and right, showing off for me.

My lips curve again, of their own volition, and so do his, revealing wickedly sharp incisors. Fear snatches at my heart. I moan, my smile disappearing.

His wolf snorts a sigh and flops back down on his belly. Now he has really long sunflower antennae. He raises an eyebrow. It’s a question, but I don’t know what he’s asking.

He waits, watching and listening, but I can’t give him any reaction. Even if I knew what to do, my body wouldn’t let me. At the Academy, we learn about fight, flight, freeze, and fawn, but I’ve only got three in my repertoire, and if I can’t run, I’ll be playing possum.

Once, a possum got into Abertha’s cottage when someone—ahem, Kennedy—left the door open. The little guy freaked out and played dead in the middle of the kitchen. Abertha just picked him up and carried him outside like a baby. He didn’t move a muscle the whole time, his paws sticking straight up in the air and his glazed eyes wide open. I’ve never seen anyone more committed to a bit.

Sometimes, I imagine someone picking me up like that, carrying my stiff body outside and dropping me by the compost heap. It would be a relief.

The strange wolf is losing his patience. First, his tail begins to flick, and then he wriggles restlessly in place. When he gets bored enough, he begins to army crawl forward, keeping his body low to the ground. The closer he gets, the tighter every part of me clenches.

I don’t think he wants to hurt me. Obviously. The sunflower antennae were a giveaway. My body doesn’t believe that though. Neither does the voice that has reverted to tossing images in my mind like a game of fifty-two pick up.

Fangs tearing muscle. Fists pummeling flesh. Heart wrenching cries. Male laughter. Sightless eyes, staring at nothing. A mouth twisted in a frozen scream.

My hands shake in my lap. I curl them until the nails bite into the meat of my palm, and the pain doesn’t make it better at all, but it’s something else to think about besides the sharp-beaked birds of memory swooping and pecking at my brain.

I would give anything to not be this way.

“Please go away,” I mumble, but I can’t even hear my own voice.

The wolf keeps coming, and when he’s a few feet to my left, he casually turns so that we’re both facing the ridge with Salt Mountain rising beyond it in the distance. He sits beside me, watching the sun sink behind the peak for a long moment. My shallow breath is jagged and loud in the quiet.

He scooches his butt a little closer. I can really smell him now. The earthy scent is definitely him. It wafts from him like a just-opened air freshener. My wolf likes it. She sits very still at the edge of the boundary between us and peeks at him from the corner of her eye.

This wolf is my mate.

The heat, his smell, the fact that he’s here at all in our pack’s territory—my head might be jam-packed with all kinds of wild and unfounded fears, but at the same time, I don’t tend to delude myself. He’s here for me.

I swallow. I can hardly get the spit down my throat.

“Y-you should leave,” I say. “B-before they find you here.”

He glances at me out of the corner of a golden eye and snorts.

“They won’t care that you’re my mate. You’re on Quarry Pack territory without permission. My alpha will kill you.”

He blinks, unfazed, and keeps watching the sunset, but I know he’s as aware of me as I am of him. The silence stretches. My nerves would, too, if they weren’t already strung as tight as they can go.

“This isn’t going to work anyway.” I stare at the scuffed toes of my boots, peeking out from the hem of my long denim skirt. “I’m…I’m not right. I can’t do this. I can’t have a mate.”

His tail twitches, brushing the grass. My heart lurches at the sudden movement, and I gasp. He jumps to his feet, searching the distance, looking for the threat.

Kennedy’s wolf does the same thing when I freak out. He smells my fresh burst of fear, and in the second before he remembers that I’m just messed up, he starts howling, ready to shift and fight for our lives, and then he gets pissy when there’s no one to beat down. It’s a whole thing.

“There’s nothing out there,” I tell the strange wolf. “Ignore the smell.”

He either doesn’t believe me, or he doesn’t understand. Growling at me to stay put, he races up the ridge, and when he doesn’t see anything, he trots the perimeter of the yard and circles the house again before coming to sit beside me. Closer.

He glances over, considering me, a question in his eyes. I shrug a shoulder. He bends his head to sniff himself and then frowns back at me, clearly having trouble believing that whatever’s bothering me could possibly be him. It shouldn’t be a hard leap for him to make. He’s huge, and he looks feral—there’s a burr stuck in his belly hair and dirt inside his ears. I can’t believe females are easy in his company.

“You need to go,” I say with the softest, sweetest voice I can muster. “I can’t be your mate. I’m sorry.”

It’s not that I don’t want a mate. A home of my own. Warm and snuggly pups. A bright fire, thick walls, strong doors with solid bars, and a male made for me who’ll watch for danger while I sleep. It’s the kind of dream that’s so achingly sweet you don’t dare want it lest Fate snatches away what little you do have as punishment for your audacity.

Maybe that’s why Fate sent this wolf. I can’t mate him; there’s no way. He’s either a lone wolf, or he’s from the Last Pack. Either way, he lives in the wild. No walls, no doors, no locks. I couldn’t. Not in a million years.

And he’d want to—mount me.

There are knives in the kitchen. There is a baseball bat in Kennedy’s closet. You can run. You’ve got a clear path.

But I can’t move. I’m stuck here because my survival instincts are cross-wired. I’m a possum in a wolf’s world.

“Please go,” I murmur, knowing he’ll do what he wants. He’s male, and he’s big.

He slowly rises to his feet again, turning to gaze at me, narrow-eyed as if he’s trying to figure me out. I stare at my feet.

I know I don’t really have a choice. Sooner or later, I’ll go into full-blown heat, and then it won’t matter that I’m scared. I’ll get on all fours and stick my butt in the air until he takes me. Or, if I manage to fend off the heat long enough, he’ll break first and go into rut. He’ll pin me down, and it won’t matter how hard I fight. I won’t have a chance against him.

A fresh wave of terror barrels through me like a freight train.

The strange wolf growls as he takes a few steps away, but this time, he doesn’t scan the horizon. He keeps his gaze riveted on me. He’s figured out that he’s the danger.

He stands at a distance a little longer, his head cocked, waiting. Confused. Or disappointed.

Sweat trickles down my face, but I can’t even raise my hand to wipe it away with my sleeve.

“Please go,” I mutter into my lap.

After a few more seconds, I hear him pad away. His scent fades, and my lungs can finally expand to take in a full breath. My muscles go slack, and I slump forward, resting my forehead on my knees.

What do I do?

I listen for the familiar, almost reassuring chant of run and hide from my wolf, but she’s silent and shaking. She knows it’s hopeless. We’re trapped. There’s no way out but through.

This is happening.

There’s no way to stop it.

We’re going to have to live through hell.

Again.