Page 89 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

Still.

Ian stayed where he was, several feet from the chair, hands at his sides.

“I didn’t mean to stare,” he said.

“No, you meant to brood silently until the room apologized.”

His mouth moved slightly. Not quite a smile, but close enough to be suspicious. I looked away because noticing almost-smiles on the man who bit you felt like going down a road with poor signage.

A wave of dizziness moved through me and I gripped the arms of the chair. Ian moved one step but I lifted my hand and he stopped.

Good.

Useful.

Annoying.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“You are not.”

“I know. It’s a figure of speech.”

“I dislike that figure.”

“You dislike many things, I suspect.”

“Yes.”

“Talking?”

“Yes.”

“Furniture that gets between you and doors?”

“Sometimes.”

“People touching my things?”

His eyes met mine. There it was again, that direct hit of attention.

“Yes.”

I should have been afraid of that answer. I was, partly. Another part of me felt a low answering warmth in the mark, a satisfied pulse at his honesty. Not possession exactly. Recognition of being defended.

That was how cages started, probably. One bar at a time, each one polished enough to look like care.

I leaned back, suddenly tired of my own body’s betrayals.

“You can’t do that,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Make my things your burden. Or my father. Or Henry. Or the emotional weather of my face. I know the wolf is apparently having a very intense day, but my life is not territory.”

His gaze lowered.

“No,” he said.