Page 102 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

The mark tightened at that and Ian looked at me, not Ronan.

Me.

I hated that the question was there, because I didn’t want the responsibility of answering it. I hated more that if I refused, he might actually stay.

“Go,” I said.

His gaze didn’t move.

“I don’t want you to,” I added, because lying seemed pointless when my pulse had become public property. “But go.”

The honesty did something to him, something I felt. A low, aching warmth and beneath it, that wolf presence turned toward me with terrible attention.

Ian stepped through the gate and the second he disappeared beyond the hedge, the mark pulled.

I gripped the chair arms.

Sava moved in front of me. “Eyes on me.”

“I am not going to faint.”

“Eyes on me anyway.”

I looked at her because arguing required more air than I had.

One minute passed. Then two. The pull became pain, but not the same as before. It was less fire now, more absence. A cold line drawn from the bite through my ribs toward wherever Ian had gone.

I could sense…direction? That realization frightened me enough that the pain spiked.

Sava touched my wrist. “Breathe.”

“He’s that way,” I said.

Ronan turned towards me. “What?”

I pointed before I thought about it. Not toward the gate. Beyond it, left down the slope, toward a place I could not see.

“He went that way.”

Lucien looked at the tablet. “That path leads toward the old service dock.”

Ronan’s expression changed.

The old service dock meant something, but before I could ask, Ian came back through the gate with a strip of torn black fabric in his hand.

His eyes were gold.

My body settled when I saw him and the relief was so immediate it embarrassed me.

Ian noticed. He came straight to me, stopped at the edge of the chair, and held himself there with visible effort.

“Pain?” he asked.

“Less now.”

His shoulders eased by a fraction.

Sava saw the monitor. “Mark response stabilized on visual contact.”