Page 120 of Red Rooster

The other wolf was tall, and slim – a distant, rationally-thinking part of his brain likened those traits to his own slender frame – with a thick cascade of long black hair that fell past his shoulders. Pale. Dressed in a clinging black t-shirt and skinny jeans; engineer boots with lots of straps up the sides.

He looked like a rock star.

Like a Hollywood vampire, even.

But he smelled and sounded like a rival.

Sasha ducked his head as much as he was able, trying to shield his throat. The other wolf did the same, his growl growing louder, more violent, high and frenzied–

“Stop!” Annabel shouted, throwing herself between them.

The other wolf startled hard, gaze going to her. Anguished. “Get out of the way–” He had a British accent under his awful snarl. And he looked at Annabel like…

Oh.

It clicked into place for Sasha, then: they were mates.

His growl died in his throat. He straightened. Tested the air with his nostrils.Mates. Philippe had said that wasn’t possible, that wolves were, by nature, loners. But that wasn’t true; it had pained him to hear it at the time, had felt wrong to him. Wolves were pack animals. He’d thought of the simple joy he’d felt when the rest of his pack pressed up around him, four- and two-legged, and he’d recoiled from the idea that wolves weren’t supposed to mate. To have a partner in life on whom they leaned. Whom they loved.

And here, right in front of him, stood proof that Philippe had been a liar: a mated pair. When he breathed now, he could smell the ways their scents overlapped and held one another: his on hers, and vice versa.

Despite his circumstances, he found a kernel of happiness, and he smiled because of it.

“Fulk. Stop.” Annabel put her hands on her mate’s – on Fulk’s – chest and he stopped. He could have pushed her aside, but he didn’t; he let her hold him back.

Because she was his mate. And he didn’t want to hurt her.

“He’s chained up,” Annabel continued. “Look.” She stepped to the side so he could see Sasha, one hand still clenched tight on his arm.

The other alpha took in a few ragged breaths through his mouth, chest heaving. Slowly, slowly, the fight drained away – or, rather, was pulled back into something manageable. A human level of aggression that could be packaged and dispensed at will.

“Babe,” Annabel said, “meet Sasha. Sasha, meet Fulk. My husband. The territorial jackass,” she tacked on, growling a little herself in clear warning.

Her mate stopped growling. Mostly. Just a low rumble deep in his chest. His lips closed over his teeth, and when he wasn’t snarling, Sasha could see that he had sharp, cruel features. And that his hair was pulled back at the crown, thin, elaborate braids arching over each ear in an almost elvish fashion.

“Fulk,” Annabel said, patient, quiet. “You’re gonna stop freaking out soon, right? Before Ad-vla comes to see what all the fuss is about?”

Sasha had gone through a phase in the early nineties when he thought pig Latin was hilarious. It was, admittedly, a short phase – about a week – because Nikita hated pig Latin worse than he hated country music, and that was saying something. So Sasha had dropped the habit, but not the knowledge.

“Vlad?” he said, and both halves of the mated pair turned to regard with him surprise. “I’ve talked to Val, remember? I know who his brother is. And that he’s awake.”

They blinked at him.

He gave a little wave, cuff heavy on his wrist. “Hello. I’m Sasha.” His head was clearing, his anger ebbing. “Are you mates? You are, aren’t you? I’ve never met mated wolves before.” He managed a smile.

Fulk looked at him, and then at Annabel. Back to Sasha. “What?”