Page 32 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

“She will not live to reach the infirmary.”

Ronan gave him a cold look. “Then I suggest you stop wasting what little time you believe she has.”

Ronan turned to me again. “Ian, listen to me carefully. I am going to have her moved.”

My wolf surged so violently my vision narrowed.

No.

The grass tore under my claws.

Ronan didn’t back away, which was brave of him and foolish.

“If she stays in this circle,” he said, “she dies in front of every wolf here. If she dies on this lawn, Silas will use it before the moon sets, Malrec will bury every answer with her, and the humans will start asking why their bridesmaid never came back from chasing a dog.”

Bridesmaid. That detail went through the haze and struck something almost absurd. She was wearing a torn bridesmaid dress. She had fallen into a claiming rite dressed for a wedding, bleeding from the foot, furious at a dog, and brave enough to tell a circle full of wolves she would scream if we touched her.

My wolf wanted to put her somewhere dark and warm, lie over the door, and kill every sound that upset her. The man understood Ronan was right.

I hated him for it anyway.

Ronan stepped closer. “You will shift back, and you will carry her.”

Malrec recoiled. “Alpha.”

Ronan didn’t look at him. “The mark is his. His wolf is the only thing in this circle she has any chance of surviving.”

Whispers moved through the gathered wolves. Evelyn made a sound I almost missed. Her mother held her tighter, but Evelyn’s eyes went from Cassie’s wound to the silver basin.

There it was again.

The look.

Ronan lowered his voice. “Ian.”

The shift back was worse than the change into wolf. It always was. Wolf to man meant surrendering teeth when teeth were the only thing I trusted. It meant taking pain and making it smaller than sound. Bone pulled inward. Muscles tore and reformed. Fur burned back into skin. Claws split to fingers. The air hit me cold and full of scents too sharp for a human-shaped body.

I came back on one knee over Cassie, naked, shaking, and covered in her blood.

My hand went to her throat first.

Pulse. Fast. Wild. Still there.

The relief was so violent it almost put me back on four legs.

Cassie’s eyes were closed. Her lashes cast dark shadows against skin already fever-hot. Dirt streaked one cheek. Her mouth was parted around shallow breaths. The bite at her shoulder was ugly, blackened at the edges where the mark tried to root in flesh not made for our magic.

I had seen throats torn out. Bellies opened. Men beg with their intestines in their hands. This wound almost made me sick, because I had put it there.

I slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. The second I touched her, her body arched toward me and a gasp broke from her lips. The mark flared black under her skin.

Every wolf on the lawn saw it. Every wolf smelled the truth. The bite recognized me. Her body, dying or not, recognized me too.

My brother swore softly.

I gathered her against my chest as carefully as my hands knew how. There was no way to do it without hurting her. Her face tightened even unconscious, and I felt each small reaction as if the mark had put hooks under my own skin.

The dog growled when I moved. A ridiculous sound from a ridiculous animal. I looked at him and he growled again, braver than several wolves on the lawn.