Page 262 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

I held up the finger. “Again, dot.”

He crossed the room. The apartment felt smaller with him in it. Or maybe my old life felt smaller now that I had begun choosing what went with me and what didn’t. My couch was staying. My books were coming. My plants were coming because Ian had, horrifyingly, bought a plant care notebook and asked each of them what light they preferred. The bed was not coming. I had expected that to feel strange.

It didn’t.

Ian took my hand and inspected the paper cut with grave attention.

“You’re ridiculous,” I said.

“Yes.”

The answer was too easy.

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re agreeing with me again.”

“Yes.”

“That is suspicious.”

His mouth curved faintly. “I am trying to be supportive.”

“I do not require support against office supplies.”

The bond warmed and so did his eyes.

“No,” he said. “You do not.”

The air shifted. It did that now when we stopped pretending we were not constantly aware of each other. The bond had settled after the full moon, less intrusive than I had feared and far more intimate than I had been prepared for. It didn’t control.

It noticed.

His desire moved through it first as restraint. Always restraint. Ian still handled wanting like something that needed permission to breathe.

I stepped closer. “Ian.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth. “Cassie.”

“You have been very patient.”

His throat moved. “You were healing.”

“I am healed.”

“Sava said mostly.”

“Sava says many things. It is part of her charm and her malpractice prevention strategy.”

His hand settled at my waist, careful even now. “I will not hurt you.”

I lifted his hand and pressed it more firmly against me. “I know.”

The bond opened between us, warm and certain. His control didn’t vanish. Ian would never be careless with me. That was part of why my body softened when he touched me. He had the strength to take the room apart and the discipline to wait for the smallest shift in my breath.

I rose onto my toes and kissed him.

It started gently, which lasted about three seconds. Ian made a low sound and took my mouth with a hunger he had been folding away for weeks. I felt it through the bond, the long, careful patience of sleeping beside me, bathing me, bandaging me, wanting and refusing to let want become pressure.

Now I was not bleeding. Now I was not fevered. Now I was not saying goodbye in a courtyard full of death. Now I was alive, and so was he, and the bond between us burned with something that didn’t need a crisis to make it honest.