Page 125 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

His jaw tightened. “You should not be doing this.”

“I know. We covered that right before I agreed to do it anyway.”

Sava came closer with a glass of water and a pill cup. “You will not run the way wolves run. The course can be adapted without invalidating the old law. Medical witness. If they object, they can take it up with me.”

“You’re very scary for someone with a stethoscope.”

“I know.”

I took the pills because arguing with Sava had begun to feel like arguing with a locked pharmacy. Ian waited until I swallowed.

“The hunt has three proofs,” he said. “Find. Guard. Return.”

“Find me, protect me, bring me back.”

“Yes.”

“What does return mean?”

His gaze held mine for one second too long. “Traditionally, the wolf returns with his mate.”

“Please define with.”

Sava made a sound that might have been approval.

Ian’s face went hard with discomfort, but he answered. “Among wolves, the marked mate usually yields once found. The wolf carries or leads them back.”

“Yields.”

His mouth tightened. “Yes.”

“I hate that word.”

“I know.”

“Do I have to do that?”

“No.”

He answered so fast the spoon stopped halfway to my mouth.

Sava looked at him.

Ian didn’t take his eyes from me. “If I find you and you tell me not to touch you, I do not touch you. If that makes the room question the hunt, they question it. If it makes us fail, then we fail.”

My throat tightened. I covered it by eating soup. Very dignified. Very adult. Almost no emotional collapse.

“You realize I agreed to this so they don’t kill me,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Failure seems counterproductive.”

“I will not use old law as an excuse to put hands on you.”

The room went quiet. That was the thing about Ian. He didn’t say these things softly enough for them to feel like comfort. He said them plainly, almost harshly, like facts he had carved into himself and expected to hurt.

I looked at the soup because soup was safer than his face.