Page 36 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

Pain had a schedule.

I learned that sometime after midnight, though midnight was a guess based on the number of times I woke, wished I had not, and found the same cold room waiting for me.

The first wave lived in my shoulder. That one was obvious. Teeth had gone into me. A giant wolf had put his mouth on my body and torn through skin, muscle, and whatever reasonable ideas I had left about the world. The bite burned with a heat so bright and vicious it felt intelligent.

The second wave moved under my skin. That one was worse. It crawled from the wound in thin black lines, branching across my chest and down my arm, pulsing in time with a heartbeat that seemed increasingly offended to still be working. Every time the lines spread, my body seized against the table and a sound came out of me I would have been embarrassed by if I had enough room left in my head for pride.

The third wave was Ian.

He sat beside the bed because every time he moved too far away, the first two waves got ambitious. I hated knowing that. I hated him being necessary. I hated the way my body calmed under his hand before my mind could remember to be afraid of it.

At some point, I woke with his palm pressed against my uninjured shoulder, warm and heavy through the thin hospital blanket someone had tucked around me. His fingers were still. He didn’t stroke me. He didn’t murmur comfort. He barely seemed to breathe.

He looked carved there. Bare torso, dark hair, blood washed from his mouth but not from the memory of it. Someone had given him loose black pants, which didn’t do a thing to make him look less dangerous. If anything, it made the rest of the room seem badly prepared.

His gaze was on the monitor beside me. The monitor beeped with a stubborn little rhythm that felt personal.

I swallowed badly, my throat was raw.

“Are you waiting for it to stop?”

His eyes cut to mine. Gold flashed there and vanished so quickly I almost convinced myself it was fever.

Almost.

“No.”

His voice was low enough that I almost felt it before I fully heard it.

Liar, I thought, because I was not dead yet and therefore still myself.

I tried to lift my hand to my shoulder. Pain cut through me so fast the ceiling went white.

Ian’s hand shifted, pressing me down without force. “Do not touch the bite.”

I laughed and it came out as something scraped and ugly. “That feels optimistic.”

His jaw tightened.

Good.

I wanted him uncomfortable. I wanted everyone uncomfortable. I wanted discomfort passed around the room with hors d’oeuvres and signature cocktails, since my family had been so fond of making me hold it alone.

“Where’s Henry?” I asked.

“Sleeping.”

“Dead?”

He paused. “No.”

“You hesitated.”

“I was deciding whether to tell you he bit a doctor.”

My eyes closed for half a second. “Good boy.”

A faint sound came from the corner. Henry was there, curled inside a ridiculous luxury towel that had probably never expected this kind of assignment. His pink leash lay coiled beside him. His floral collar was crooked. He looked exhausted and offended, which meant at least one of us was handling the night with consistency.