Page 85 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

“I hate how competent you sound.”

“That means you understand me.”

Ian stood near the window with his arms crossed, watching the exchange without entering it. Ronan had left an hour earlier after issuing enough instructions to make the room feel crowded even in his absence. Two guards waited outside the door. Lucien had come and gone twice with updates from the west side, all delivered in the bland language of luxury hospitality and hostage management.

My father was still in the lobby. Aunt Linda had insulted three members of Grant’s family. Tessa was “resting,” which I understood to mean crying in a beautiful room while everyone brought her tea. Grant had asked whether the rescheduled ceremony could be held in forty-eight hours if my condition stabilized.

Sava removed the blood pressure cuff. “Ian will help you.”

“No.”

Ian’s gaze came to mine. He didn’t look offended. He looked as if he had expected the refusal and agreed with it, which made refusing him less satisfying.

Sava said, “The mark responds to him.”

“The mark and I have different standards.”

“I am not asking whether you want him to carry you into a sunset. I am telling you that if you stand and your heart rate spikes, he may be the fastest way to keep you conscious.”

I looked back at Sava. “You could help me.”

“I will be here with the medicine. He will be here with the magic.”

“Love a divided care team.”

Sava’s eyes moved to Ian. “Ask her.”

Ian came away from the window, stopping beside the bed, far enough that I could say no without him already being in my space.

“May I help you stand?” he asked.

His voice was rough. Not from sleep, he hadn’t slept, I knew that without asking. That was another thing I didn’t want to know. I had become aware of his exhaustion. It sat behind my ribs, faint but present, like a bruise that belonged to someone else. He didn’t yawn or complain. Ian looked carved out of the same hard restraint as before, but the bond or mark or whatever unwelcome thing lived in my shoulder had started translating him into sensations my body understood without my consent.

Tired. Guilty. Hungry, though not for food.

I ignored that last one with the maturity of a woman throwing a blanket over a fire and hoping it respected boundaries.

“You can help me stand,” I said.

His eyes held mine. “If you fall, I will catch you.”

“Please don’t say that in a voice.”

“In a voice?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No,” he said, and for once there was something almost dry beneath it. “I rarely do.”

I hated the tiny warmth that moved through me. It was not the mark. I refused to blame the mark for everything. Some mistakes were mine, and apparently one of them was finding restraint attractive when it came wrapped around a man who looked capable of tearing doors off hinges.

Sava moved the IV stand to the side. “Slowly.”

Ian offered his arm, not his hand. That mattered too. His hand felt intimate now because my body had turned it into medicine. His arm gave me something to use without pretending the touch was anything gentler than support.

I put my fingers around his forearm and heat moved through me immediately.

Not fever.