Page 7 of Trusting Her Mate

The words land like a plate smashing on tile.

Dax freezes.

Caine goes very still.

Peyton’s hand tightens around mine.

Behind me, someone whispers, “Oh, Goddess.”

That seems fair.

Dax laughs once. “No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“Who?”

Excellent question.

A stunning question.

Possibly one I should have considered before lying in front of an Alpha, a Luna, and three Ashstone wolves.

My eyes dart around.

The wolves behind Caine. No. Too young. Too old. Too amused. Then one of them moves.

He steps forward from the tree line like he’s been waiting for the exact wrong moment. He’s carrying a crate of glass bottles—supplies, maybe—and he’s tall. Ridiculously tall. Broad shoulders stretch a dark t-shirt that has seen better days, clinging to his chest in a way that feels personally aggressive. His hair is dark brown, cut short. Jaw shadowed. Mouth set in a line that suggests he disapproves of most things on principle.

His gaze lifts.

Hits mine.

Something in my chest trips.

Not stops. Trips.

Like my heart has missed a step on a staircase and is now pretending it meant to.

His eyes are a deep, steady hazel. Serious eyes. Wolf eyes. Annoyed eyes.

He looks from me to Dax to Caine.

“What happened?” he asks.

His voice is rough.

My wolf goes very, very quiet.

Oh, no.

No.

Not that one.

He looks like he alphabetizes weapons.

Dax follows my stare.