My brow furrows and I stare at him, confused.
“When you find your denmates and you’re ready to bond, there’s a blood ceremony. We cut one another and exchange blood, and that forms the link between our magic and our minds,” Ruger explains. “A mate claim bite is different. It’s more powerful and the bond it forms is far more potent. It’s a bond that can only be created between a den and a lone wolf. Because we bit you in the Hunt, you can’t Blood In as a den member anywhere.”
“So if I had a den before…”
“We couldn’t have initiated a mate claim,” Perth answers.
Ellery’s eyes are full of apology as he takes me in. “This is why what happened to you is so egregious. The Hunt is sacred, and lone wolves don’t take running in it lightly. They know it can be dangerous. They know what’s at stake and what they’re risking. We don’t fuck around with that.”
A burst of emotion floods me, like a dam that’s cracked. I quickly try to shove it all back between the fissures, unwilling to look at what’s seeping through despite my efforts. I have to take a moment to control my breathing because my lungs are compressing and contracting like a bellows right now.
“So you just risk everything on some stranger and hope for the best? What if you’re wrong? What if you bite the wrong person or make a mistake?”
“We told you earlier that instinct drives us. We didn’t pick you the second we saw you, Noah. We picked you before. The second we scented you, we all knew. You’re the one.”
My knees threaten to buckle, so I take a seat on the hearth, gripping the stone edge. “That seems like a very flawed system.”
“It’s actually not. A wolf’s scent communicates a lot about them—it’s almost like an aura, but one you know with your nose instead of seeing it with your eyes. You can tell if a person’s grounded and calm, if they’re happy and free-spirited, if they’re a fit for you and everything you want.”
“And what am I?”
Each of the men on the couch answers simultaneously, but each of their answers is different and the words overlap. It takes me a second to sort out what they’ve said.
Wise came from Ellery. Fierce from Gannon. Perth said magnetic while Ruger claimed compassionate.
I shake my head as I stare at all of them and try not to scoff. “You didn’t even say the same thing; how does that make any sense?”
“No person is only one thing,” Ellery counters, and I eye him with annoyance.
He can take his psychological babble and shove it.
“Look.” Ruger stands and my neck cranes to follow him. “Try smelling me.”
I quirk a brow and have the urge to issue some sort of sarcastic remark, but I swallow it down, strangely curious despite my irritation.
When I move to stand, he holds out a tattooed hand. “You can stay comfortable. Trust me, your senses will be able to pick me up.”
I inhale a little, still skeptical, and I’m highly aware of the other three men in the room. Their gazes are laser-focused on the side of my face, making my cheek feel like it’s about to erupt in flames. The tiny pull of air in my nose doesn’t tell me anything though. My brain doesn’t light up with knowledge. He doesn’t suddenly feel like home or smell like Mr. Right. Then again, the tattooed expanse of hard male chest that my eyes are currently privy to very well might be dulling my other senses.
“Try closing your eyes,” Ruger coaxes.
I should be embarrassed, but I’m not.
Because Ruger suggested it instead of commanded it, I listen and let my eyelids flutter closed. I take a tidy little mental sponge—that definitely doesn’t resemble a pair of boxer briefs—and scrub the image of a half-naked Ruger from my mind in an effort to focus on the task at hand.
Taking a larger pull from the air around me, I do my best to focus on scent—a sense I’ve often taken for granted before. In the past, smells have either resonated or they haven’t. Fresh chocolate chip cookies, warm coffee, the jealousy-inducing scent of a neighbor grilling steak. I’ve always just walked past smells as they occurred, never intentionally seeking them out unless I’m selecting a shampoo or deodorant. Perfumes were always a struggle for me. They were too strong, too artificial. I have a feeling my eerie side is to blame for that. But now, I’m searching for a scent in this room deliberately, and it’s slightly unnerving.
Inhaling a third time, I try to still my mind. That’s when I catch a soft subtle scent I can’t quite identify. It’s almost like cinnamon, but not—the smell deeper, richer somehow. Instead of trying to make sense of the individual notes that comprise what I’m sensing, I attempt to take in what it represents to me on a more primal level.
Sweet nostalgia with promises of the types of big-family holidays I’ve always dreamed about being a part of. Shelter in the storm, tranquility amidst tumult. That’s Ruger, layered with so many other more subtle things it would take ages to pick apart and identify.
I open my eyes and he’s smiling broadly down at me. He holds that grin as he sits back down on the couch, his posture more relaxed than it’s been since he came down the stairs.
“Okay, so you can kind of get feelings from scents,” I concede, turning back to the rest of the group so that I’m not tempted to nuzzle the others and see what I can figure out. Well, everyone but Gannon, the honest ass.
“So when is the next full moon?” I ask, already knowing that the answer is never going to feel like enough time.
Ellery grimaces. “Twenty-four days.”
Fuck my life.
I choke out a horrified laugh. “Twenty days is a breath. A blink. How am I supposed to decide if I want to claim four men by then?”
“Shifters,” Gannon corrects.
I flip him off.
I have to stand. To pace again. The urge to panic, to scream, to rip something apart is riding me hard. I grab a throw pillow from the corner of the couch as I pass it, not sure if I need it to muffle my shrieks, absorb my tears, or take the brunt of my anger.
Things were fitting together. They were moving in such a good direction. I fell asleep in a great headspace, excited about my wolf, happy to be here with them. I just made out with grumpy Gannon for fuck’s sake, that’s how ready I was to try this, to give things a shot.
But try is where I’m at.
I’m nowhere near ready to decide on forever.
And now the moon has become a ticking clock? Each rise and fall in the sky is counting down to an end I don’t even know how to process. There’s a weight on my shoulders, a pressure that wasn’t there before, and it feels like it’s robbing me of my choices. First the attack, then the Hunt and being bitten, and now this.
Trapped.
All of a sudden, I feel trapped.
By my magic.
By these men.
By the bastard who threw me into the Hunt.