Page 27 of Trusting Her Mate

Caine steps onto the low platform at the front of the hall and the room quiets. Not silent, Katu wolves don’t do silent, but the energy shifts, conversations dimming to a murmur as attention focuses forward.

Caine doesn’t need to raise his voice. He never does. “Katu Pack,” he says. “We have a new wolf among us.”

Every head turns toward Wren. My wolf surges, wild and immediate. Instinct claws at me to step in front of her, block the stares, shield her from the weight of all those eyes. I don’t. She wouldn’t want that.

“Wren Smith came to us seeking sanctuary,” Caine continues. “She left a pack that tried to claim her without consent. Katu does not recognize contracts signed without the female’s agreement.”

A low rumble moves through the room. Approval.

“She is under Katu protection,” Caine says. “And she is claimed.”

The word hits the room like a match. I feel it, the collective sharpening of attention, every wolf leaning in, nostrils flaring.

“Boone Carter has declared his intent to pursue a mate bond,” Caine says. “And Wren has accepted his courtship.”

My name ripples through the crowd. Faces I’ve known for years turn to me with expressions ranging from surprise to amusement to something that looks suspiciously like satisfaction.

Max raises his cup from across the room. “About damn time, Boone.”

Someone laughs, and the tension cracks, just enough. But Caine isn’t done. His gaze sweeps the room, and when he speaks again, his voice carries an edge that wasn’t there before.

“Ashstone Pack has challenged the legitimacy of this claim. They say it’s a fabrication. A ploy for sanctuary.” Silence now. Real silence. “So tonight,” Caine says, “we witness.”

He doesn’t explain what that means. He doesn’t need to. Every wolf in this room knows the old custom. When a mate claim is questioned, the pack witnesses the bond. Not through words or documents. Through presence. Through scent. Through the undeniable evidence of two wolves who belong to each other.

They need to see it.

They need to feel it.

And if they don’t ... if there’s doubt, hesitation, a single crack in the performance, word will reach Ashstone before morning.

Caine steps down and the room shifts, rearranging itself, wolves drifting toward the edges, creating space at the center. Wren’s hand turns cold in mine. I look down. Her face is pale, jaw locked, but eyes fierce. She looks like a wolf cornered by hunters, ready to bite instead of run.

“Wren.”

“I know,” she whispers.

“You don’t have to...”

“I said I’d start it.” She pulls her hand from mine and turns to face me. “My terms.”

The room watches. I can feel them—fifty pairs of eyes, a hundred wolf senses, all trained on the space between us. Waiting. Measuring.

Wren steps in. Her hands rise, shaking, and press flat to my chest. The touch burns through my shirt, hot and claiming. Her eyes search mine. Looking for something. Permission, maybe. Or proof that I won’t hurt her. Or proof that this isn’t Dax, isn’t Ashstone, isn’t another male taking what he wants in front of an audience.

I keep my hands at my sides. Open. Visible.

Hers.

“Tell me this is okay,” she whispers.

“It’s okay.”

“Tell me you’re not just doing this for the pack.”

My wolf presses against my ribs, the truth claws at my throat.

“I’m not just doing this for the pack,” I say.