Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
I gasp at the memory and stumble where I stand, alone in front of the shed. Shame burns my face. The voice is playing dirty.
I’ve walked by the river since then. Only a few months ago, during a full moon, Kennedy stayed on Quarry Pack territory for once and shifted. When the pack took their usual path eastward, he ran along the river.
Usually, on those nights, I’d shift and hide in my room, curled in a corner with the curtain cracked so a sliver of moonshine would fall in the window, but that night, something got into my wolf. She followed Kennedy’s at a distance, trotting silently in the huge footprints he left in the frosted grass. If Kennedy noticed, she never mentioned it, and neither did I.
I’ve been to the river plenty of other times, too. I went a few days after the mating to hide whatever was left of my nest, but there was no sign of it. No whiff of scent left, neither his nor mine. The wind had blown it all away.
He was wrong about me. I’m not a coward. I’m afflicted with fear, and most of the time, it wins, but not always. They say courage is being afraid and doing it anyway. And I do. Sometimes.
So why not now?
I wipe my sweaty palms on my corduroy skirt and take off toward the north.
Don’t be reckless. Don’t be stupid. You know what happens. Fangs. Fists. Sightless eyes. Twisted mouth.
I lengthen my stride and pick up my pace. The voice is bringing out the big guns.
Most of the time, I hate her. But once in a blue moon, like now, I’m so sorry for her that my heart breaks. She can’t ever be brave, even a little bit like I’m being right now.
I hurry along the edge of the nettle field, passing the trailhead where I usually turn and taking the next one a few yards further on instead. It’s a patrol path, so it’s as well-worn as the one I usually take. It goes straight up a steep incline at first, so I’m panting by the time I hear the river rushing in the distance. My heart pounds, harder than it should. The hill is steep but short.
Turn back. Now. Before it’s too late.
Too late for what? A nice view?
I square my shoulders and trudge on, eyes on my muck boots. If I look at the rushing river or the darkening woods past the far bank, I might lose my courage, and it’s not like this should require bravery.
I’m tromping through an overgrown field, stirring up crickets. Una attacked Haisley and claimed Killian in front of the entire pack. I’m taking the scenic route home.
And all I can look at is the green rubber toes of my boots peeking from the threadbare hem of my skirt.
Run. Home. Now.
The voice brays at the top of her lungs, but where’s my wolf? She’s quiet. Watchful.
Expectant.
She’s on her feet, nose pressed to the border between us. Staring at the river.
Don’t look up. Run.
My wolf whines. Softly.
I glance up. My feet sputter to a halt.
Run, the voice screams. A fresh surge of adrenaline crashes through my veins, sending my heart thumping into my breastbone. I moan.
He’s there.
My hands clutch my skirt, my teeth sinking into my lower lip.
My mate is standing on the other side of the river.
Glaring at me.
My wolf is afraid to move. She plays a statue, her tail motionless in mid-air. Watching me.
I let go of my skirt, letting my shirt cuffs fall over my fisted hands. I should run.
Why am I not running?
Justus’s long brown hair is snarled, but loose strands still fly when the wind picks up. His gnawed ears poke from his tangled mane, pointed and furry. Wolf ears.
His face is hard, every angle sharp, every plane spare. His beard hides his mouth. He’s wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants and no shirt. My breath catches in my lungs. His chest is fascinating.
He’s bigger than he was when we mated, but he’s not beefy and bulging like our males. This must be what the word sinewy means. He’s not pumped up; he’s honed. Before, his right pec and bicep had been covered in tattoos, but now, every inch of skin on the entire right side of his body is covered in black ink. From this distance, I can’t make out the individual pictures and patterns. It looks like latticework. Or lace.
His veiny arms hang loose at his side, but his chest rises and falls like he sprinted here.
And he’s angry. His whole body declares it. The way he stands. The angle of his chin. The line of his jaw.
I can’t get enough air. I need air.
The voice shouts run in the back of my head, like always. Like the boy who cried wolf.
She can’t save me, though, can she? She can’t make anything better; she can’t protect me. All she can do is scream.
My mate waits, stock-still, but neither my wolf nor I are fooled—he’s calculating. He didn’t come this far to look at me. He’s coiling, preparing to attack.
Our eyes meet. I can’t tell the color or expression. He’s too far away. But I can feel him in my chest.
I press my palm against the place where it hurts.
My wolf tilts her head.
He smiles.
No.
It’s not a smile.
He bares his fangs, his muscles tightening. He’s going to strike.
Run, run, run, run, run!
I whirl on my heel, trip, and pitch forward, my kneecaps grinding as they hit the ground. Behind me, I hear a splash.
I scrabble back to my feet and bolt for the woods, arms pumping, my skirt trapping my legs, hampering my stride. I hike it above my knees. Damn these boots. I curl my toes to keep from slip-sliding inside them. What was I thinking to wear these boots, this skirt?
The fresh spring grass squeaks against my rubber soles. I skid and lose a second. And then another. I pump my arms harder, as if that can make my legs longer or stop the splashes in the river from growing closer and closer.
What was I thinking? This is my fault. Again. I did this to myself.
If I can just get past the tree line, there are places to hide—thickets, hollow logs, dead falls. It’s so close. Three yards. Two.
One.
I plow into the underbrush. Vines whip around my ankles. My foot slips from the boot, and I turn, teetering on one leg as I flip the boot upright to shove my foot back in. More seconds lost.
There are no sounds to track him by now. No splashes, no steps. The wood muffles everything except its own chirrups and cracks.
I hold my breath and strain to hear him between the thuds of blood in my ears.
He hates me. Why would he come after me?
To kill you. To make you sorry.
A twig snaps.
I whirl.
He’s there, ten feet behind me, water dripping from his beard. His pecs. The ridges of his hard stomach. His wet pants sag low on his hips and cling to his thighs.
He stares me straight in the eye and then very, very deliberately, he lifts his foot from the branch he snapped.