Page 9 of Trusting Her Mate

The air is suffocating, thick with the taste of fear and the bite of tension. The only sound is the bottle hissing foam onto the ground, syrup crawling over my boot, gluing dust and leaves to the leather like blood to skin.

The female, Wren, if I caught her name right, smiles at me, brazen as a fox, like chaos is just another Tuesday. Like females walk into pack territory every day, steal a male’s hand, declare him their mate in front of an Alpha, a Luna, and three hostile Ashstone wolves.

“Hello, darling,” she says, her voice feather-light.

Darling?

My wolf lifts his head inside my chest, pricking his ears, curious despite himself, and I shove him back down. Hard.

“No,” I say.

Her smile twitches.

It’s a small twitch. The kind of thing you’d miss if you weren’t close enough to count the freckles scattered across her nose or see the bruised exhaustion smeared like soot beneath her eyes. Close enough to catch the tremor in her breath. Close enough to smell...

Nothing.

Not nothing exactly.

Her scent is wrong, all muddled and masked. Bitter herbs, road dust, fear sweat, stale coffee, pancakes—everything tangled and desperate. The barest trace of female wolf is buried so deep beneath the camouflage it slips through my senses like a ghost I can’t catch.

My wolf growls. Not at her. At whatever is hiding her from us.

I clench my jaw. No. Absolutely not. This is not my problem.

I look at Caine. “Alpha.”

Caine opens his eyes and gives me the look he usually saves for wolves who are about to make his life harder. Unfortunately, I’m not the wolf making his life harder. The female still holding my hand is.

“Boone,” Caine says carefully.

I know that tone. That’s his ‘do not make any sudden movements’ tone. I fucking hate that tone. It’s the sound that means shit’s about to go sideways, and I’m going to end up cleaning it up.

The blond wolf by the gate laughs under his breath. Dax Mercer. I know his type before anyone introduces us. Smooth coat, polished boots, and empty eyes. He smells like expensive cologne, overpriced hair gel, and pure fucking entitlement.

“That,” Dax says, pointing at our joined hands, “is not her mate.”

Wren’s grip tightens, knuckles bleaching, like she’s bracing for a blow or for the ground to give way beneath her. And there, a tremor, small and involuntary.

My gaze drops to her. Her chin is up, shoulders squared in defiance, eyes glittering reckless and fierce. But her pulse thrashes at the base of her throat, a wild bird trapped beneath her skin, desperate to break free.

She is terrified. I taste it in the air, raw and electric, a storm wound tight and ready to shatter. Something in my chest locks down, cold and unyielding.

Dax takes one step forward, and my growl rips out, raw and involuntary, echoing off the trees. The clearing freezes around the sound. I don’t plan it. I don’t approve it. It tears through me before thought, low and savage, enough to make the trees themselves hold their breath, leaves shivering in the hush.

Dax stops and so does everyone else. Wren goes perfectly still beside me but my wolf lunges against my ribs, teeth bared, snarling mine in a voice that’s older than language.

Mine.

The word slams through me, a brand searing itself into bone. I nearly flinch from the force of it.

No.

Not mine.

Not anything.

I don’t know this female. I don’t know why she’s running from Ashstone, why she smells like bitter herbs, or why she’s decided I’m the best shield when an Alpha is standing ten feet away. All I know is Dax moved toward her, and every instinct I have howled to protect, violent and absolute, a promise carved into blood and bone that I never chose. And it’s damn inconvenient.