Page 132 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

Ian’s gaze snapped back. “No.”

“He is council, but not Malrec’s. He is old enough to count and vain enough to enjoy being useful.”

“I said no.”

Ronan’s voice lowered. “And I heard you.”

I spoke before Ian could. “Will Cormac try to kill me?”

Ronan looked at me. “Not in this corridor.”

“That was not as comforting as you think.”

“He will not touch you.”

“Can he stand behind a door without making it weird?”

Ronan glanced toward Ian. “That depends on Ian.”

I rubbed my forehead. “I’m too tired for all of you.”

Sava touched my wrist. “Then say stop.”

Everyone went quiet. I looked at her and she held my gaze. The simplest thing in the world, apparently. Stop. A word that should have belonged to me all along and had somehow become revolutionary in this building.

I looked at Ian. He was still crouched in front of me, every line of him locked against the test. Against another wolf. Against anything that put me at risk for proof. But he said nothing, he was just waiting, letting the final word be mine.

“I can do one more,” I said.

Ian’s jaw tightened, then he nodded.

Cormac arrived ten minutes later wearing a dark green jacket, a gold-threaded cravat, and the expression of a man delighted to have been pulled away from boredom by possible scandal. He was older than Ronan, younger than Malrec, with gray at his temples and a limp he disguised badly enough that I respected the vanity.

He looked at me and bowed. “Ms. Morgan.”

I blinked. “A wolf with manners? I was beginning to think that was illegal.”

His mouth curved. “Only unfashionable.”

Ian made a low sound.

Cormac glanced at him. “Do calm yourself, pup. If I intended to die today, I would have worn better shoes.”

I liked him for exactly three seconds. Then I remembered everyone here was dangerous and wanted me dead, so I adjusted my expectations.

Ronan explained the test.

Cormac listened, then looked at me. “You will try to find Ian and ignore me.”

“Story of my weekend, really.”

His smile widened.

Ian didn’t enjoy that. This time, the jealousy that came through the mark was unmistakable. Not as strong as with Grant, more annoyed. And because Cormac was not Grant, because he had not written about my mouth or tried to climb back into my life through old damage, the jealousy didn’t make me feel strange. It made me feel aware.

Of Ian’s body between mine and the room. Of the width of his shoulders. Of his attention catching on every man who looked at me too long. Of how little that attention resembled Grant’s.

Ian’s eyes cut to mine.