Page 8 of Trusting Her Mate

“Wren,” he says softly. “Who is your mate?”

Panic decides for me.

I move before courage can abandon me.

Crossing the distance between us, I stop in front of the crate-carrying male. Up close, he’s even bigger, which is inconvenient because I enjoy breathing and he seems to have stolen the air supply.

He frowns down at me.

“Can I help you?”

“I am so sorry,” I whisper.

His frown deepens. “For what?”

I grab his free hand and turn to face the others.

“This is my mate.”

The crate cracks.

One of the bottles pops open and sprays across the ground.

The male beside me goes utterly still.

His hand is warm around mine. Calloused. Strong.

My wolf presses against my skin with a shiver that feels far too interested for someone involved in a life-ruining lie.

Dax stares at our joined hands.

Caine closes his eyes for half a second.

Peyton covers her mouth.

I think she’s trying not to laugh.

The male slowly looks down at me.

His expression doesn’t change much, but something dangerous wakes behind his eyes.

“What,” he says quietly, “did you just do?”

I smile at him with all the confidence of a woman setting her own life on fire.

“Hello, darling.”

Chapter Three

Boone

The female clutching my hand is chaos incarnate—wild, unpredictable, a fucking storm with a pulse.

That’s my first thought. Not beautiful. Not warm. Not soft. Not the impossible way her fingers lay claim to mine, possessive and desperate, like she’s drowning and I’m the only thing keeping her afloat.

Insane.

Completely, dangerously, recklessly insane.