Page 134 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

“I heard that,” Sava said.

“I intended you to.”

By the time we returned to the suite, my muscles had gone loose with exhaustion and the bite had started to ache. Sava ordered bed. I didn’t argue because unconsciousness had begun making a persuasive case.

Ian helped me stand from the chair, his hands staying at my elbows, light and careful. His thumb rested near the inside of my elbow, steady and still. His hands were large enough to make me feel fragile, but he held me as if fragile didn’t mean lesser.

Ian looked down at me.

“You’re tired,” he said.

“Very poetic.”

“It is true.”

“Most boring things are.”

His eyes softened by one degree. I hated that I had learned to see one degree.

He helped me sit on the edge of the bed and released me at once and the mark protested the loss. So did my skin. I ignored both with equal maturity.

Sava began checking the bandage.

Ronan remained by the door, speaking low with Cormac.

Ian stayed beside the bed, hands at his sides, waiting to see if I needed anything and refusing to assume I did.

I looked at him, really looked. Tired eyes. Hard mouth. Scar at the jaw. Bloodless now, clean, controlled. Still the man who had bitten me. Also the man who had told a guard to use my name. The contradiction sat between us, ugly and alive.

“I’m not ready to trust you,” I said quietly.

His gaze held mine. “I know.”

“But I need you to teach me how to survive the hunt.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t get to treat me like I’ll break.”

His eyes moved once to the bandage, then back to my face.

“No,” he said. “I treat you like you are injured and stubborn.”

“That is annoyingly fair.”

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we train outside.”

Chapter 17:

An Extremely Poor Time for Chemistry

Cassie

The bite changed after midnight.

That was the only way I knew the hour had turned. The suite lights had been dimmed and the curtains were drawn. Ian had stayed, though not in the chair beside the bed this time. I had told him earlier that sitting there made him look like a haunted bodyguard in a luxury hotel brochure, and apparently that was not the tone he wanted to set. He had taken the chair near the door instead, close enough that the mark stayed quiet, far enough away that I could pretend I had privacy.

Pretending had become one of my last remaining hobbies.