Page 28 of Trusting Her Mate

Something shifts in her expression. Something shifts in her face. The fear stays, but something warmer pushes up beside it. Hope, maybe. Or want. I don’t breathe. I let her close the distance, let her choose, let her set the pace the way I promised.

Her mouth brushes mine. Barely. A question. And the room disappears.

There is no pack. No gathering. No Ashstone. No performance. There is only Wren, her hands on my chest, her breath warm against my lips, her scent finally breaking through the last of the herbs, wildflowers and rain and something that tastes like home.

I keep my hands at my sides for one more second. Two. Three.

Then she makes a sound—soft, impatient, frustrated—and presses closer, and my control snaps like a frayed rope. My hand finds her waist. Not grabbing but settling. Fitting around the curve of her hip like it was built to rest there. My other hand lifts to the back of her neck, fingers sliding into her damp hair, and I feel her shiver.

I kiss her back. Not gentle. Not careful. Not the restrained, calculated contact of a male performing for an audience.

Her mouth opens under mine, and the taste of her hits me—sweet, sharp, and devastating. She arches up, fingers twisting in my shirt, dragging me closer, and the bond I’ve tried to ignore explodes, hot and reckless.

Blinding and absolute.

My wolf howls, silent and savage, shaking through my bones, rattling my teeth, surging against my skin with a recognition so fierce it feels like violence.

Mate.

The word doesn’t whisper this time. It doesn’t suggest. It declares. It carves itself into every cell of my body with the permanence of a brand.

This female is mine. Impossible. Reckless. Stubborn. Brilliant.

Not because I claimed her. Not because a contract says so. Because the moment her mouth touched mine, every instinct I own rose and said yes in a voice that brooks no argument. I break the kiss because if I don’t, I’ll take her in front of a room full of wolves.

Forehead to forehead. Both of us gasping. Her fingers still tangled in my shirt.

“Boone,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“That wasn’t...”

“I know.”

She’s feeling it, too. I see it, her pupils blown wide, lips swollen, her scent gone dark and rich, nothing left of the herbs. The bond is there. Between us. Awake and undeniable. And every wolf in this room just felt it.

I lift my head. The hall is silent. Not the polite silence of wolves waiting for a speech. The stunned silence of wolves who just witnessed something they weren’t expecting.

Raine’s mouth is open, and Max’s cup is frozen halfway to his lips. Talon’s hand is gripping Calum’s arm hard enough to leave bruises. Peyton, standing near the front, has both hands pressed over her mouth. Her eyes are shining. Caine looks at me. His expression doesn’t change, but something moves behind his eyes, something knowing.

He nods once.

That’s it. That’s all the confirmation I need. The pack felt it. They saw it. They believe.

Wren’s hands loosen. She steps back, barely, eyes locking on mine. “What was that?” she breathes.

I can’t answer her. Not here. Not with fifty wolves watching and her scent wrapped around me and the bond humming between us like a live wire.

“That,” I say, “was us selling it.”

She stares at me. She knows I’m lying and I know she knows. But she lets it stand, because right now, the lie is the only thing holding us together.

Someone starts clapping. Then someone else. Then the room erupts, not just polite applause but howls, stomping, and the raw, physical approval of a pack that has decided this is real. Raine whistles so loud my ears ring.

Wren flinches at the noise, then laughs, startled, breathless, and real. I slide my arm around her waist. She leans into me. Not because I pull her. Because she chooses to. My wolf settles. Not calm but satisfied for now.

The room returns to noise. Food appears. Drinks are pressed into our hands. Wolves crowd around to offer congratulations, and Wren fields them with shaky humor while I stand beside her like a wall. She’s still trembling.