Into Their Woods (The Eerie, #1)(80)

Fuck.

“As a naif, as a lone wolf outside a den, you’re more susceptible because you don’t have any other connection to help stave off damage if our link is severed,” Perth adds.

“That’s why it’s especially important for you to make sure that your magic has what it needs before the next full moon,” Ellery finishes, and his words have me feeling like my stomach is suddenly made of rocks.

Everything he’s saying feels strangely like the rock slide from earlier, all of it just careening through me, smashing and obliterating everything in its path. Silence slips into the room like thick fog, hiding my reeling thoughts from the way that they’re studying me, worrying about how I’m going to take this.

“So if our bond breaks, does it hurt you too?” I ask, looking at each of them.

“Not in the same way, no,” Perth answers. “Mostly because our bond as a den helps, and then of course our connection to the pack protects us too. The severing of a mate claim can be dangerous for a den, but it’s usually a claim that’s older and has been established for a long time. Then the loss can be catastrophic.”

“Okay, so how do I join a den then?” I counter, trying to find some loophole, some workaround that gives me more time to figure this all out. “Not as a mate, but how you guys are with each other,” I tell them, gesturing to each of them on the couch. “Wouldn’t that solve the problem?”

“You could Blood In to a den, but only before you’ve been given a mate claim bite,” Ruger answers.

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.