Shit. “She’s one of those used women, isn’t she? That’s why you got so upset.”
“My father thought her beauty would be useful. Intelligence and power were not. He made sure she knew how to hide very well who she wanted to be.”
Well, damn. Now Giuliana felt like shit. The girl was obviously not being taken for who she was, most of the Lombardi Pack hated her, and she’d never be comfortable in a place where she had been intricate in plans of a coup.
“I’m sorry.”
Pasquale sighed. “I should have explained better, but I’m used to not claiming her for who she is. It wasn’t until my father died that we could even act as siblings. Our people knew, but they were too afraid to go against what my father demanded.”
And Giuliana had given in to the prejudice she had against his pack—especially Fabiana. She wasn’t naïve to think a simple explanation would smooth things over with many of the pack, but at least she could help it be easier.
“I’ll talk to Dominic about her. Zoey’s always about the underdog; I know she’d help too.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because when it comes out my father had a son, they will start looking at me as possible challenge to Romano or Dominic. It’s the way of our kind. How long before you think they’d want to push us out?”
He was right, of course. They may walk on two legs, but the wolf inside them would see the power as a challenge, even if the other male wasn’t interested in taking position.
“I can see why you said nothing.”
“I’m only telling you so you understand something.”
“What’s that?”
“Claimed or not, you are the only woman I will ever worry about when it comes to being the match for me or my wolf. Claimed or not, you will always have me behind you. This life may have fucked us in having what we wanted, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be there for you.”
Swoon.
Shut up, wolf!
But she was right. Pasquale, for all the weight on his shoulders, was everything Giuliana could have hoped for in a mate. And if this was all they could have, so be it.
Chapter Seven
Heath’s trail overlapped in the Greenwald several times over, slowing them down and spinning them in circles. Pasquale grew frustrated. He trusted his nose and knew it wouldn’t steer him wrong. The man had been through here. But the skill with which the scent was laid so pristinely worried him.
What if they were off track?
It was possible for a scenter to lose a trail, but it usually was obliterated by water, exhaust, or magic. They hadn’t crossed any riverbeds yet, though he could hear them, and obviously no motorized vehicle could travel through the Greenwald. The trees were too densely packed that at times he had to slip through sideways to make it. There were only a few places that allowed for open space on the ground.
And as the sun began to set, he was worried Giuliana may not be able to continue.
She kept quiet, letting him lead, and followed him without complaint, but he wasn’t sure she could handle the path like a scenter. For one of them, the scent was all that mattered. Heath’s signature was odd, barbed with dark undertones and vegetation Pasquale couldn’t quite put his finger on. When he took in the young man’s clothes in his room, the scent stayed on the back of Pasquale’s tongue in heightened receptors scenters had to use for reserve—much like hounds used the tips of their ears as they dragged them along the ground.
When a scenter caught a scent, he couldn’t let it go until he tracked it to where it stopped, like an obsession. Normal wolves needed time to rest.
Still … the scent aggravated him.
Tracer is going in circles.
Pasquale slid to a stop, his chest heaving as he took in great gulps of air. His wolf was right. There were tracers—scent markers people didn’t know they left behind—everywhere. A brush against a tree here, broken branches with minute skin cells attached, the grit of bare feet on ground leaving fading heat. It was the perfect attraction for a scenter. A lure.
“Dammit,” Pasquale cursed.
“What is it?”
