Page 136 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

I hated not knowing which parts belonged to me.

“Is it yours?” I asked.

His head turned back. “The want?”

The word came quietly, but it still filled the room.

I swallowed. “Yes.”

His hands flexed once, then stilled. “Some.”

That answer hit harder than a denial would have.

Some, not all. My body knew the rest before my mind wanted it. Some of this was mine, and the knowledge made me look back at the ceiling as if flat hotel plaster could offer legal counsel.

“I don’t like that,” I said.

“I know.”

“I don’t like when you say that either.”

“I know.”

A ridiculous laugh caught in my throat, and this one came closer to real. “You are impossible.”

“Yes.”

“Stop agreeing with me.”

“I can try.”

The faintest warmth moved through the bond, not lust and not pain, something almost human that made my chest ache worse than the bite. I pushed the sheet down with my good hand and sat up too quickly. The room tilted, and Ian was there in two steps, then stopped himself so hard I saw the motion break through his whole body.

“Cassie.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not.”

“I am upright. Lower your standards.”

“You are shaking.”

“I have had a busy couple days.”

He stayed where he was, close enough that the heat from him reached me, not close enough to touch. I hated how careful he was, though that was not exactly true. I hated that I needed the carefulness. I hated that every restraint he offered made Grant look worse in memory. I hated that Ian, who had put the mark on me, kept asking. I hated that the man who had hurt me most physically was the only man in this whole miserable resort who seemed determined not to take another inch without permission.

The anger and want braided too tightly to separate.

“I want water,” I said.

“There is water beside you.”

I looked at the glass on the nightstand. So there was.

“Fine. I want different water.”

“That is not true.”