Page 229 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

His face changed when he saw me. Not because I was shifted. He had seen my wolf. He had stood beside him in border wars and executions and hunts that ended before they began because enemies knew better than to run.

He changed because he could not find me inside it.

“Ian,” he said.

The name moved across the rain and didn’t reach anything that could answer. The wolf lowered his head and a growl rolled through the courtyard.

Ronan’s power rose. Alpha command, old and iron-deep, filled the stones beneath my feet.

“Stand down.”

The command hit and slid off.

The wolf’s lips peeled back.

Ronan went very still. Around him, his wolves froze. Some with blood still on their jaws. Some half shifted. Some injured. Some frightened enough now to stink of it.

Good.

Fear kept them away from the gate.

Ronan took one step toward me.

“No,” Cormac said from somewhere behind him.

Ronan ignored him.

“Ian.”

The wolf watched his throat.

Brother.

Alpha.

Threat.

Ronan’s voice dropped, losing command, losing audience, losing everything except the boy who had once washed blood from the weapon’s hair and hated their father for calling it useful.

“Don’t make me do this.”

The wolf heard tone, but tone didn’t matter.

The gate mattered. Cassie’s distance mattered. The torn roots in the chest mattered.

A wolf near the service arch shifted his weight.

One step.

Toward the route.

The wolf lunged.

Ronan shouted my name but there was no name left to catch.

Chapter 25:

The Wrong Kind of Right