Page 33 of Rejected By the Winter Wolf

Astra.

She was damaged when I found her. When she called to me like…

Like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

Damaged and dying, and for a split second, I was completely out of control. The red haze of fury overtook my vision, and it was all I could do to stay human and push enough healing energy into her skin to keep her alive.

I downplayed it with her. The claw marks on her back were ten times worse when I carried her into pack territory. Her heartbeat was erratic, her breathing shallow and labored. Every inhale hurt—and not just her.

Me, too.

She had left a trail of blood in her wake, across the flat shale rock face. She was only meters away from reaching a straggly clump of plants.

And what if she had reached them?

Desperation made her call to me. A last resort.

And only luck—or fate—made sure I arrived on time.

My pack didn’t welcome her. Why would they? Why should I? We do not save witches, and we certainly don’t bring them home with us.

Which means something is wrong with me. Something I need to eradicate.

Jessamine says nothing when I head upstairs. My footsteps are silent, my breathing rationed. I contemplate abandoning the food and letting her go hungry. There’s something thrilling about knowing her stomach is in knots, chewing at itself, while food is just out of her reach.

My wolf whines. It vibrates in my throat, and I’m slow to realize it’s coming out of me. I bite my tongue hard enough to taste blood, but the pain only draws out the sound.

Stop, I won’t let her go fucking hungry, I snap.

The sound trails into silence.

Besides, hunger won’t help her heal any faster. She only serves a purpose if she’s at full strength, and purpose will keep her safe while she’s here.

That doesn’t tackle the matter of how I’m going to wrestle her into cooperating with my plan. Carrot or stick?

I unlock the door and go inside, finding her curled in one of the chairs by the fireplace. It’s burning low, nearly out, but still enough to warm the air in front of it.

The year moves swiftly toward winter, with snow threatening any day. Wolves burn hotter than humans, and the temperature feels okay to me, but perhaps she’s cold. She certainly trembles like she is.

Winter is my season. It’s in the name I carry, and the ice that lingers under my skin, and a semblance of the fur of my wolf.

She doesn’t move when I enter, or when I set the bowl down on the small table beside the chair. She’s got one leg up under her, the other pulled up with her arms wrapped around it. She hunches forward. My attention is drawn to her back. Blood from the wounds has seeped through the thick cotton of my shirt, staining it pink. The fabric sticks to her skin.

Her eyes are open. She didn’t fall asleep sitting up.

“Astra.”

Her brows lower. “How do you know my name?”

Her gaze is locked on the fire. I want it on me. An impulse that guides my next words.

“Your mother was taken by demons.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but she does what I desire and focuses on me. She rests her cheek on her knee, and I hate the sadness that hides in the depths of her gaze. She tries to hide it, but I’m usually good at reading people.

My wolf’s whine is building back up. It takes everything in me not to let that sound out. He wants me to heal her, to save her from torment. To put everything back together and make her happy⁠—

I can’t. I won’t do that and put my pack at risk. Not with everything at stake.