Page 260 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

Impossible.

Alive.

Ian sat beside me through all of it, his hand wrapped around mine.

That night, when everyone finally slept or pretended to, Ian brought me to the suite. Our suite, apparently, though I had not approved the possessive language on the paperwork.

Sava had cleared me for “rest, sleep, and nothing interesting,” then looked directly at both of us while saying it. Ian had gone so still beside me that I almost laughed.

“Subtle,” I had told her.

“I am not paid for subtle.”

Now the room was quiet. Clean sheets. Low lamplight. Rain at the balcony doors. No blood on the floor. No council in the corner. No wolf watching from the edge of Ian’s skin, waiting for me to disappear.

Just him.

Just me.

Just the bond, warm and steady between us.

Ian stood near the foot of the bed, looking at me as if I were something fragile and sacred and likely to yell if mishandled.

That was accurate.

“I can sleep on the couch,” he said.

I stared at him. “Absolutely not.”

“You need rest.”

“I need several things. Rest is on the list. You leaving the bed is not.”

His eyes darkened, and the bond warmed in answer to the sudden heat that moved through him. He tried to lock it down.

I pointed at him. “Don’t.”

His jaw tightened. “Cassie.”

“I am not made of glass.”

“You are injured.”

“Yes, which is why we are going to sleep, and you are going to hold me in a medically respectful manner.”

His mouth almost moved.

“You may laugh,” I said.

He came to me slowly, as if giving me time to change my mind.

I didn’t.

When he lay beside me, I eased carefully against him. Everything hurt, but less when his arm settled around me. The bond went quiet in the best way, like a house finally locked against the storm.

Ian pressed his mouth to my hair.

“I almost lost you,” he said.