Page 20 of Trusting Her Mate

My voice is tight. “How public are we talking?”

“Pack gathering. Tonight. All eyes on you. If Boone’s mystery mate is just a story, Ashstone gets their pound of flesh.”

My hand clenches tight. I set the mug down before I drop it, fingers trembling. Boone moves in, close enough that his shoulder presses against mine, solid and warm, the only steady thing in the room.

“You all right?” he asks, low.

I don’t answer. I look at him, and for a second, he’s the only thing holding me together.

“If we don’t pull this off?” My voice comes out smaller than I’d like.

Peyton’s silence is answer enough. If we fail, Ashstone takes me, Dax wins, and I become property.

Boone’s looking at me, and I see something raw in his eyes—anger, fear, maybe a little hope.

“Then we sell it,” I say.

He nods. “Together.”

It isn’t trust. It isn’t hope. It’s just the raw, desperate promise that we’ll fight like hell, even if it kills us.

Raine grins, teeth flashing. “Oh, this is going to be a fucking circus.”

Boone and I, in perfect, miserable harmony. “No.”

Peyton just smiles, and I already hate that smile. It’s one that means she’s already three moves ahead and we’re all just catching up.

Chapter Seven

Boone

The cabin smells like her now.

That hits me while I’m standing at the kitchen sink, washing the mugs from last night. Three days. She’s been here three days, and her scent has already worked itself into the wood, the fabric, the goddamn air. Chamomile and fear-sweat and something underneath, wild and bright, that I can’t stop noticing.

I slam the mug into the sink. The crack rings out, sharp and ugly.

“Subtle,” Wren calls from the bedroom doorway.

I don’t turn around. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Nope. Banned from going anywhere alone, remember? Your rule.” The mattress creaks as she throws herself back on it. “I’m trapped in here with your knives and your terrible pillowcases. Did you buy those, or did they come with the cabin? Because if you chose them voluntarily, we need to have a conversation.”

“They’re pillowcases.”

“They’re the color of depression, Boone.”

My fingers dig into the counter. Four hours. That’s all I have before I stand in front of every wolf in Katu and try to sell them a lie. That this female—chaotic, stubborn, impossible, arguing about pillowcases while her life hangs by a thread—is mine.

My wolf paces beneath my skin, restless and hot. He’s been worse since yesterday. Since the practice. Since Talon made me put my arm around her shoulders and her body fit against mine like a lock finding its key.

Useless exercise. And thinking about it only makes it worse.

I dry my hands on a towel and turn. She’s sprawled across my bed again, bare feet dangling off the edge, one arm thrown over her eyes. The oversized green sweater Peyton sent rides up at her hip, exposing a sliver of skin above her waistband.

I stare at the ceiling, fighting the urge to look at her again.

“You need to get ready,” I say.