Page 26 of Trusting Her Mate

She stares at me for a long moment. Then she nods once, sharp and certain.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go sell a lie.”

Chapter Eight

Boone

The pack hall is already full when we enter. Conversations buzz in clusters, low voices, clinking glasses, and sharp bursts of laughter. The air is thick with roasted meat, fresh bread, woodsmoke, and wolf. Too much wolf. My own wolf bristles at the crush, the noise, the bodies packed tight into one room.

Then Wren’s hand slides into mine.

Not desperate. Not panicked. Deliberate. Her fingers thread through mine, firm and warm, and she steps closer until her shoulder brushes my arm.

I glance down.

She’s looking straight ahead, chin up, jaw set. The brave face is back, sealed into place like armor. But her thumb traces a slow circle against my knuckle, and I realize she’s not performing for the room.

She’s steadying herself, so I close my hand around hers, and we walk in together.

Heads turn and conversations dip. Not dramatically, Katu wolves are subtler than that, but I feel the attention like a physical weight, pressing against my skin from every direction.

Raine materializes first, appearing from the crowd with two drinks and a grin sharp enough to cut glass. “You made it. I had a bet going.”

“Don’t,” I say.

“Twenty bucks says you’d be five minutes late because you’d be arguing about something stupid.” She hands Wren a drink. “You’re only two minutes late. Disappointing.”

Wren takes the cup. “What was the stupid thing?”

“Whether shoes count as formal wear.” Raine glances down at Wren’s sandals. “I was right.”

Talon appears beside Raine, Calum shadowing her. She looks at our joined hands, then at Wren’s face, and something in her expression eases.

“You good?” she asks Wren softly.

Wren nods. “Peachy.”

“Liar,” Talon says, but she smiles.

Calum claps my shoulder. “You look like you’re going to a funeral.”

“I might be.”

“Cheer up. The food’s good and Peyton only cries once per gathering.”

I shoot him a look. He grins and steers Talon toward a table.

The hall fills around us. Wolves drift over, some I know well, some I’ve only seen in passing. Each one says hello to me, then lingers on Wren with undisguised curiosity. A few females introduce themselves. An older wolf named Margot brings Wren a plate of food without being asked.

Wren handles it better than I expected. She jokes. She smiles. She leans into me at the right moments—just enough contact to read as intimacy, not enough to look forced. When someone asks how we met, she tells the story we rehearsed—border patrol, river crossing, a month of secret meetings.

Her voice doesn’t waver, and her hand stays in mine. She sells it like she was born for it. But I feel the tension in her hand. The way her fingers clamp down every time a new wolf gets close. The way her breath catches when someone stands too near. Too close.

I pull her against my side, and she looks up, startled.

“You’re doing fine,” I murmur against her hair.

Her grip loosens, but just a fraction.