Page 92 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

He didn’t answer.

There it was. Plot, as Aunt Linda would say, becoming personal.

I let my head rest back against the chair and closed my eyes. “I miss when my biggest problem was Grant being a predatory linen advertisement.”

Ian shifted sharply.

I opened one eye. “Do not go murder him.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

His nostrils flared once. That might have been his version of a laugh. Or indigestion. Hard to tell with murder men.

“He made you afraid,” Ian said.

I opened both eyes.

Careful, something in me warned.

“He made me tired,” I said.

Ian’s gaze stayed on my face.

I sighed. “Men like Grant don’t usually scare women by becoming monsters. They scare them by convincing the room the woman is the monster first.”

His expression went very still.

“He followed me to the bathroom before Henry ran,” I said.

The words came out softer than I intended. Ian didn’t move which was the only reason I kept talking.

“He said things. Usual Grant things. Just enough to make me react if I was stupid, not enough for anyone to believe me if I did. Then Henry ran, and I chased him, and now Grant gets to act worried while telling everyone I was unstable.”

The room felt colder.

Ian’s voice was controlled so tightly it sounded almost empty. “Did he touch you?”

“My wrist. Earlier. In the lobby.”

His eyes went gold.

“Barely,” I said quickly.

The gold remained.

“Ian.”

His name did something. Not just to him, but to both of us. The mark pulsed, but instead of pain, I felt the wolf turn toward my voice. Not gentle. Not tame. Listening.

Ian closed his eyes. His hands opened, slowly, until the claws I had not noticed pressing at his fingertips slid back under skin.

A breath left me. I had called something dangerous back without touching him.

He opened his eyes. They were dark again, but not fully human.

“Thank you,” he said.