Page 175 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

Cassie’s eyes slid toward me. “I’m not sure brave nonsense is the biggest threat in the room.”

“No. The biggest threat in the room is sitting in a chair pretending he is not still deciding whether the curtains insulted you.”

“They looked at her wrong,” I said.

Cassie’s mouth curved despite the exhaustion.

Sava pointed at me. “That. Stop that.”

“I was joking.”

“No, you were not.”

I was not entirely sure either.

Sava gathered the ruined cloth, bloodied pads, and metal bowl. She didn’t turn her back on me until Cassie said, “He’s all right.”

Sava paused. “Is he?”

Cassie looked at me for a long moment. Her fingers were still around my wrist. Her thumb moved once against my skin, small and tired and more powerful than any command I had ever obeyed.

“He’s here,” she said. “That’s enough for right now.”

Sava looked as if she wanted to argue. Then she glanced at Cassie’s face and chose the argument that mattered most. “I am going to stand outside this door. If her breathing changes, if the mark darkens, if she spikes a fever, if you feel yourself slipping, you open the door and call me. You do not decide you can handle it alone.”

I nodded once.

Her eyes narrowed. “With words, Ian.”

“Yes.”

She looked at Cassie. “You need water, food when you can stomach it, and sleep.”

Cassie nodded.

“And you,” Sava added, voice lowering, “do not manage him at the expense of yourself. Do you understand me?”

Cassie’s face changed. It was subtle, but I caught it. The tiny stillness of a woman who had been seen too clearly.

“I understand,” she said.

Sava left, closing the door behind her.

For several breaths, neither of us spoke. The suite settled around us. The lamp beside the bed threw warm light across Cassie’s skin. Outside, the pack murmured in distant waves. Beneath it all, I could hear Sava just beyond the door, steady as a posted guard.

Cassie’s hand slid from my wrist to my fingers.

I looked down at the touch.

My knuckles were raw. Blood rimmed the edges of my nails where claws had torn free too fast. Some of it was mine. Most of it was not.

“You’re shaking,” she said.

“I’m trying not to.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”