Page 261 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

“You almost threw yourself into death without consulting me.” I pointed out.

“I know.”

“I am still mad.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

He went still and I lifted my head. The look on his face almost hurt to see. Like the words had reached him again and he still didn’t know where to put them.

So I put them where they belonged.

“I love you,” I said. “You can get used to it. I plan to be obnoxious.”

His hand cupped my cheek.

“I love you,” he said.

The bond answered, deep and sure, and this time, neither of us flinched.

Epilogue

Six weeks later, I discovered two important things about mate bonds.

First, they didn’t make moving easier. Second, they made unpacking much more distracting.

“Ian,” I said, standing in the middle of my half-empty apartment with a roll of packing tape in one hand. “You cannot keep growling at cardboard.”

He looked up from the box labeled kitchen chaos. “It cut you.”

“It didn’t cut me. I got a paper cut because I am mortal and brave.”

“You bled.”

“A dot.”

His eyes dropped to my finger.

I lifted it away from him. “Do not lick my finger in front of my neighbor.”

Mrs. Alvarez from across the hall had already met Ian that morning, stared at his black shirt, black coat, black boots, and general presence of beautiful menace, then asked me in Spanish whether I had joined a very attractive cult.

My Spanish was good enough to tell her no. It was not good enough to explain werewolves, mate bonds, and why a man built like a private security incident was carefully wrapping my chipped mugs in newspaper.

Ian took the tape from me. “I will finish this.”

“You have said that about every box.”

“You are supposed to be resting.”

“I have been cleared by Sava.”

“For light activity.”

“Packing mugs is light activity.”

“Bleeding is not.”