Page 23 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

She landed inside the claiming circle on her hands and knees.

Human.

The circle seized me by the blood. I should have moved away. I should have ordered her out. I should have let Ronan’s guards take her before the magic noticed what had fallen into its mouth. Then she lifted her head and her eyes met mine. My wolf rose with no warning, no struggle, no permission and the world emptied.

No brother.

No pack.

No rite.

Only her.

The sound that came out of me was not a word. It was older. Lower. A claim dragged up from the place where men were meat and wolves were law.

Mine.

Chapter 4:

One Hell of a Wrong Turn

Cassie

Running barefoot across a luxury resort lawn in a blush bridesmaid dress was exactly the kind of thing people would later pretend had been inevitable.

Of course Cassie chased the dog. Of course Cassie made a scene. Of course Cassie could not simply sit through one dinner without turning someone else’s wedding weekend into evidence.

I could hear the story forming behind me while I ran. The gasps. The scraping chairs. Tessa calling Henry’s name in that high, breaking voice that made people rush to save her from consequences. My mother saying my name with enough warning to stop a small war. Aunt Linda laughing once, sharp and delighted, because if this weekend was determined to become a disaster, she at least appreciated momentum.

Henry didn’t care about any of us. He flew down the garden path with his pink leash snapping behind him, a white blur under the terrace lights, moving with the deranged conviction of a dog who had seen the truth and wanted no part of marriage.

“Henry,” I called, lifting my skirt higher as gravel bit into my bare feet. “I swear to God, if you make me die in chiffon, I’m haunting your tiny ass.”

He didn’t slow down.

Behind me, a man’s voice called, “Ms. Morgan, please stop. Staff will retrieve him.”

Very calm. Very professional. Very unhelpful.

I kept running.

The path curved away from the terrace and into the gardens, where the cheerful wedding lights thinned and the resort’s landscaping became more expensive than friendly. White flowers climbed stone walls. Citrus trees lined the path in square planters. Somewhere, hidden speakers still played the dinner music, but each step carried me farther from the warmth of the terrace and deeper into the part of the property guests were politely discouraged from exploring.

There were signs. Of course there were signs.

PRIVATE GROUNDS.

NO GUEST ACCESS.

EVENT IN PROGRESS.

I saw them all as I passed, which meant I would have no legal defense beyond temporary dog-related stupidity.

“Henry, stop!”

The dog darted through an iron gate someone had left slightly open. I saw the gap. I saw the black-painted bars. I saw the silver plaque beside the latch that said authorized staff only in tasteful serif lettering, because even trespassing was apparently more elegant at Halcyon Ridge.

I also saw Henry’s leash vanish through the opening.