Page 11 of Trusting Her Mate

“We will return,” Dax says.

“I know,” Caine replies.

Dax looks at Wren. “Think carefully. Your mother remains in Ashstone.”

Wren’s fingers turn ice-cold. The clearing changes—air crackling, wolves bristling, every heartbeat tuned to violence. Every Katu wolf catches the threat. Growls rise from the wolves behind Caine, from the trees, from me. Even Peyton’s face goes hard.

My vision narrows on Dax. “You threaten her family again,” I say, “and the next thing you taste will be the dirt.”

Wren inhales sharply, the sound slicing the hush. Her fingers clench, white-knuckled.

Dax looks pleased for half a second, like my reaction proves something. Then he seems to think better of it. He gives Caine a shallow nod and turns, and his enforcers follow him back to their vehicle.

They drive away, the sound fading down the mountain road. No one moves until it’s gone. Then every eye in the clearing turns to Wren and me.

Fucking wonderful.

I release her hand, or try to, but she doesn’t let go.

I look down at her.

Her smile is gone. Without it, she looks younger, not innocent, just scraped raw. Shadows bruise the skin beneath her eyes, and there’s a jagged edge to her exhaustion that makes me ache for her, even as I hate that it gets to me.

“You can let go,” I say.

She blinks, as if she forgot she’s holding me. “Right.”

Her fingers slip from mine. The second her touch leaves, my palm burns with absence, as if I’ve just lost something I can’t get back. It feels empty. I curl it into a fist.

Caine looks at me. “We need to talk. All of us.”

Chapter Four

Wren

The pack’s central hall is a cavern of shadows, every beam and floorboard heavy with wood smoke, wet earth, and something older, like ghosts of ancient arguments, alliances, and pack law. I walk in with panic curdling at the back of my throat, every heartbeat a sick, stumbling thud that has nothing to do with running and everything to do with how badly this could go sideways.

My palms sweat and my wolf paces, restless and wild, pressing at the edge of my skin as if she could escape if I let her.

Caine shuts the door behind me, and the forest’s wild noise dies, replaced by a hush so deep I hear the blood rushing in my ears. Boone stands near the hearth, arms folded, jaw tight, his wolf coiled beneath his skin, bristling but barely leashed. Peyton sits in a worn chair, legs crossed, watching me with the steady patience of someone who has witnessed too much and survived it all.

She gestures for me to join her, gentle but unmistakably in charge. I try to keep my shoulders back, chin high, to look like someone who hasn’t just blown up her entire life for a sliver of hope.

I sink into the seat, legs trembling, hands slick and useless with sweat. I clamp them together in my lap, desperate to keep them from shaking.

Boone and Caine stay standing, silent and immovable, shadows carved from stone. It isn’t dominance, not exactly, but the message is carved into my bones—I am outnumbered, outmatched, and drowning in waters way too deep.

“I know that looked bad,” I manage, my voice wobbling over the silence.

It’s so quiet my skin crawls, as if the whole room is waiting for me to break. “Fine. It looked fucking terrible.” The curse slips out, sharp and honest, there’s no point pretending.

No one corrects me. I force myself to keep going, because stopping now means I’ll never start again. “In my defense, I panicked.”

Boone’s voice is flat as a cutting board. “That’s not a defense.”

I point at him. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.”