Page 6 of Ravaged Wolf
No. What am I thinking? Trevor is as big as Dad, but how big is his wolf? And can he fight? Would he fight for me? What if he lost? Dad’s wolf is a beast, and Dad can spin anything. He’d say he was protecting me.
I can’t run. I can only make myself small and bend my neck until it aches, but I’m so hot, and for some reason, my wolf isn’t shrinking in her fur. She wants me to make a break for it. She’s sure if we can get to Trevor, we’ll be okay.
“You need to pull yourself together,” Mom says to me as she strokes Dad’s arm. “This mating cannot happen before quarter-end. Izzy? Are you hearing me?”
I am, but my thoughts are sludging through my brain, and my subconscious isn’t serving me the usual script of apologies and promises designed to appease Dad and his wolf.
I blink, trying to focus, and I see Dad read my silence as defiance. Before I can open my mouth to make it right, his wolf snarls. Dad’s sneer morphs into bared fangs, his long nose and chin lengthening into a muzzle.
I shove myself as far back in the chair as I can get and cower, bending my head until the tendon in my shoulder feels like it’s going to tear, and right before I screw my eyes shut so I don’t see the blow coming, Mom’s phone rings.
Dad hesitates.
Mom holds up the screen. It readsHowell.
I don’t move a muscle as Dad hisses around his teeth, “Well, answer it, Elen.”
Mom taps a button. “Howell! You got my message.”
Her bright voice is a glaring mismatch to the thick stench of fear and aggression in the room. My body shakes like it always does once the danger is over.
“Catrin told you? Yes, Izzy’s here. She’s fine.” Mom rubs circles on Dad’s back as she talks to Uncle Howell. “Shedidn’t tell us, either. No. No.” She cups the bottom of her phone and hisses at me, “When did you realize that boy was your mate?”
“A-At lunch the other day.”
Dad’s wolf growls.
“Whatday?” Mom hisses.
“Um. Uh.” I can’t think. “Last week.”
Mom opens her mouth to ask which day last week, and I desperately try to remember while my thoughts grow slipperier the harder I try to grab them. She must see it on my face because she gives me an exasperated look and says, “She’s not talking.”
There’s a long pause as Uncle Howell’s muffled rumble pours out of Mom’s phone. Uncle Howell is so dominant that Dad has to fight the instinct to bend his neck at the sound of his displeasure, and he can’t help but tilt his head. He loves that he’s related to the pack beta, but he can’t stand submitting to his own brother. That’s why Mom’s always the one mediating between them.
“Yes, Howell. We’ll come up. Give us five.” Mom murmurs a few more times in agreement and ends the call.
“They want us to come up to thirty-nine.” Even as mad as she is, you can hear the excitement in Mom’s voice. Dad immediately sets about re-tucking his shirt. They live for being invited upstairs.
“Go wash your face and comb your hair,” Dad snaps at me.
“Howell said to leave her here and let her get some rest.”
I exhale. Thank goodness. I know they just want to plot behind my back, but it’s still the first good thing that’s happened today.
Mom bustles to the bathroom to freshen her makeup, and Dad gets a clean jacket from his room. When they come back, if not for the grim strain on their faces and thelingering reek of rage in the air, it could be one of their date nights.
I go stand by the door to see them off as I’m expected to do. Dad strides off down the hall, but Mom hangs back a moment and fusses with my hair like she did when I was little. She leaves off quickly, though, grimacing as she wipes her fingers on her slacks.
“Take a shower while we’re gone.” She spares me one last disapproving glance. “And then maybe help yourself to one of Mommy’s pills. They’re in the drawer of my nightstand.” She pats my upper arm. “You’ll look better once you’ve gotten some sleep.”
And then she speeds off to catch up with Dad, and they disappear into an elevator, muttering urgently to each other under their breath.
What are they going to talk about with Uncle Howell? Mating isn’t business. You can’t call the team into the war room and come up with an action plan. Mating happens, and you deal with it. If you try to fight it, either the female loses control and presents—basically gets on her hands and knees and begs to be mounted—or the male goes into rut. Nothing but a tranq can stop a male in rut. At least that’s what they say.
I don’t want to go face down and ass up.
Trevor Floyd’s face floats up in my mind, his messy curls and warm eyes. His shy, wry smile. He’d probably die from embarrassment if I got down on all fours and flashed him my bare ass. I would die, too, obviously, but he might go first.
