Page 258 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

Ah. Secret conversation.

My new favorite way to become enraged.

Sava, seated nearby with a medical chart and no patience, said, “He intended to take you to your home to gather your things.”

I blinked and Ian looked mildly betrayed. Sava didn’t care.

“My apartment?” I asked.

“And your work. Your accounts. Your human life.” Ian’s voice was careful. “You will need to decide what you want brought here and what you want left behind.”

Brought here.

The words settled between us.

My old place. My old bed. My old chipped mug that said ask me about my terrible choices. My life before the island, before teeth and blood and full moons.

“You assumed I’m moving here?” I asked.

The room went quiet. Ronan looked like he regretted attending this portion of the conversation.

Ian didn’t look away. “No.”

The bond opened. He let me feel the truth before the word could hurt me.

Hope.

Fear.

Want so deep he was ashamed of it.

“I hoped,” he said.

That was unfair. It was impossible to be properly annoyed when a giant dangerous man chose emotional honesty in front of witnesses.

“I have a lease,” I said.

“I will pay to break it.”

“I have plants.”

“I will learn plants.”

“I have a favorite grocery store.”

“There are boats.”

“I have a life.”

“Yes,” he said. “I know.”

There was no argument in him. No claim. No old-law expectation that the word mate meant my world dissolved into his. He knew exactly what he was asking me to leave. He was willing to wait while I decided what leaving meant.

The bond warmed.

I sighed. “I hate that you’re being reasonable.”

Ronan looked at me. “He is not always.”