Page 67 of Their Rejected Queen

Warmth rushes over my limbs as the potion does its work, and soon I’m on the other side.

Glancing at the rope secured to a tree, I presume I’m supposed to grab the other end and shimmy down the tree.

I hope no one is watching this.

Building up my courage, I leap for the rope on the other side of the tree, then swallow a scream as my elbow pops and I dangle from the other side. I somehow manage to waddle down, and I want to kiss the ground.

“Made it,” I say as I blow out a breath.

A slow clap makes me freeze.

I turn, finding that the attractive Outcast has been watching me this whole time.

I’m both humiliated by my ungraceful landing and terrified that he’s obviously been waiting for me. I just left the protection of the encampment, and I’m now alone with the hunter.

He watches me with his mismatched gaze. One eye is white and cloudy, but the other is a gorgeous dark brown. He’s as rugged as he is beautiful.

I flinch when he pulls something from his cloak.

Is it a dagger?

Is this how I die?

Staring at the pad of curled paper he’s withdrawn, I watch in bewilderment as he takes out a writing instrument and scratches out a note.

Then he rips it off the pad and hands it to me.

Taking it, I read the simple words: Follow me.

He’s seriously writing me messages right now? I wonder if he could only talk inside my head because of that tonic he had given me.

One I have zero intention of ever giving back.

He turns without saying anything, leaving me the freedom to follow or not.

He doesn’t seem like a brutal killer who would make even an Alpha like Godric nervous, but then again, I’m apparently not the best judge of character.

Taking my chances, I follow the Outcast and hurry to keep up because the forest shows no evidence of his passing.

For someone so large, I’m not sure how he doesn’t leave tracks.

My breath is coming in short pants by the time we finally reach a small clearing with the crackle of a brook.

He pauses at the edge and kneels down to fill up a waterskin. He offers it to me when he’s done.

I take a sip, only to be polite. I’d just watched him fill it up. Then he smiles and drinks some himself.

For some reason, the gesture of sharing his waterskin feels intimate.

“What’s your name?” I ask. “Or do you just go by the Outcast?” I say in my imitation of Godric.

Smirking, the male wipes off his hands, then takes out the pad once more. He scratches something on it, then hands it to me again.

Ze’ev.

“Ze’ev,” I say aloud.

He sucks in a breath at the sound of his name, as if he isn’t used to hearing it.