Page 91 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

“No.”

He looked at me again. “What else do you feel?”

I should not have answered. I knew that. The whole room was built around reasons not to answer. Ronan wanted information. Sava wanted data. Ian wanted to know whether the thing between us was getting stronger. I wanted my body back, my father, my phone, a world where the worst thing that happened this weekend was Grant making a toast.

But Ian had asked me plainly and some traitorous part of me wanted to answer him plainly in return.

“You’re tired,” I said.

“Yes.”

“You’re hungry.”

“I can ignore hunger.”

“That sounds healthy.”

“It is common.”

I watched him a moment. “It shouldn’t be.”

His brows drew slightly, as if that was not a response he had expected.

I continued before I could regret it. “You feel guilty all the time. Not just about me. About everything you do with your hands.”

His eyes dropped to his hands. They were scarred. Big. Still. Killer’s hands, probably. Also the hands that had held my foot as if a scrape deserved reverence.

My throat tightened.

“You don’t trust yourself near me,” I said.

“No.”

“But you trust yourself more than you trust anyone else.”

His gaze lifted and I saw the hit had landed.

Good.

Let him be seen too, since apparently I was bleeding secrets through a bandage.

“I trust myself to stop,” he said. “I do not trust them to stop when I tell them to.”

“The council?”

“The council. The guards. Evelyn. Ronan.”

“Your brother?”

His face tightened. “Especially Ronan.”

I glanced toward the door. The guards outside had not moved, but I felt the pressure of them now. Muted. Irritating. Like people whispering in another room when you knew they were talking about you.

“Because Ronan will make the hard choice.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m the hard choice.”