Page 232 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

“One of them is mine!”

My mother made a broken sound.

Tessa got out of the SUV despite my father shouting her name. “Cassie.”

“Stay here.”

“You just said you’re going back.”

“Yes.”

“So am I.”

“No.”

Her face crumpled and hardened at the same time. “You do not get to vanish for days, show up half dead, throw us into a werewolf hostage situation, then tell me to sit in a car.”

“Tessa, if you follow me, I will have to worry about you instead of him.”

Her mouth closed.

I pushed myself upright, shaking. Sava helped because she was practical, not because I had given permission. My hip screamed. My ribs joined in. My shoulder felt like someone had stuck a hand through the mark and started twisting.

The bond pulled again and I nearly fell again.

Sava caught me. “You cannot run.”

“Then I’ll limp angrily.”

“This is not funny!”

“No. It is worse. Which means if I stop making jokes, I’m going to start screaming, and no one has time for that.”

My father came around the SUV. “Cassie, listen to me.”

“No, Dad. You listen to me.” My voice shook, but I made it work. “You are going to get Mom and Tessa out. You are going to keep Henry in the car. You are going to not let Grant drive anything, because I may be dying, but I am not dying stupid.”

Grant’s voice came from inside the SUV. “I can hear you.”

“I know.”

My father looked like I had slapped him.

Good. Maybe it would keep him awake.

“I need you to leave,” I said. “If you come after me, Ian dies trying to protect all of us at once. If you stay here and go when Sava’s people tell you, I have a chance to get him back.”

“You have a chance?” he repeated.

I didn’t answer, because the truth was, I didn’t know. The truth was, going back felt like signing my name at the bottom of a death warrant. Mine. Maybe Ian’s. Maybe everyone’s if Ronan lost whatever thin hold he had left on the pack.

But leaving felt worse. Leaving meant Ian died believing he had only ever been a weapon. Leaving meant all those wolves got to be right about him. Leaving meant the one good thing between us, however ridiculous, however bloody, however inconvenient for every old law in the building, ended because he thought sacrifice was the only language love understood.

“I have to go,” I said.

My mother got out of the car then. She didn’t cry this time. She came to me, put both hands on my face, and looked at me the way she used to when I was little and feverish and pretending I was fine because I didn’t want medicine.

“You come back,” she said.