Page 21 of Trusting Her Mate

“I am ready.”

“You’re lying on my bed.”

“Your bed is surprisingly comfortable for something owned by a man who decorates with hunting knives.”

“Wren.”

She lifts her arm, peering at me with one eye. “What?”

“The gathering is in four hours.”

“I’m aware. I’ve been counting down like it’s my own execution.” She pauses. “Which it might be.”

I cross the room and stand at the foot of the bed. Her gaze tracks me, cautious beneath the bravado. The bravado never fully reaches her eyes. There’s always something raw underneath, something watchful and bruised that she tries to bury under jokes.

I should say something reassuring. Something that makes this easier.

“You need to shower,” I say instead.

Her mouth drops open. “I showered this morning.”

“Shower again. You still smell like the road.”

She sits up, indignant. “I do not smell like the road.”

“You smell like bus seats and gas station coffee.”

“That’s my personality.”

“It’s not. It’s your blocker, and it’s fading, and if you walk into a pack gathering smelling like a pharmacy, every wolf there will know something’s wrong.”

That shuts her up. Her fingers twist in the hem of the sweater, and the bravado cracks, just for a second. “I know. I ran out of the tea two days ago. I didn’t think I’d need it this long.”

“How long does it take to clear?”

“Xavia said three to five days after the last dose, so...” She counts on her fingers. “Maybe another day. Maybe two.”

Too damn long. The gathering is tonight, and if her scent is still tangled up in blockers, every wolf in the room will smell the lie.

“Water,” I say. “Hot. As much as you can stand. Sweat it out.”

She stares at me. “You want me to flush my system through my pores.”

“I want you to smell like a wolf when you walk into that hall.”

Her jaw tightens. “I know what you want, Boone. You want me to be convincing. You want me to walk in there and hold your hand and let every wolf in Katu sniff me like I’m a piece of meat at a market.”

The words come out sharp, and I hear what’s underneath them. Not anger. Memory. Dax, presenting her at that joining dinner. Dax, putting his hand on her neck in front of half the pack. Every wolf in Ashstone, looking at her like she was already his.

I crouch in front of the bed, so we’re eye level. She stiffens, and I stop, giving her space to pull back, but she doesn’t.

“This isn’t that,” I say. “No one is going to sniff you like meat. The pack will see us together. They’ll watch how we act. If they believe we’re real, Ashstone has nothing.”

“And if they don’t believe it?”

“Then we make them believe it.”

Her eyes search mine. “How?”