Page 93 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

The words were rough. I had absolutely no idea what to do with them.

“You’re welcome,” I said, because apparently etiquette remained undefeated.

The door opened without a knock and Ronan stepped in.

Of course.

His gaze moved from Ian’s face to mine, then to the monitor, then to the chair, the space between us, Ian’s hands, my bandaged foot.

“You stood,” he said.

“Briefly. Heroically. There may be a plaque.”

He ignored that and looked at Ian. “Why is Sava in the hall?”

“Because she has survival instincts?” I guessed.

Ronan’s eyes came to me.

Ian said, “Cassie felt a memory.”

Ronan’s expression didn’t change, but every line of him tensed. “Describe it.”

I laughed once in disbelief. “Absolutely not.”

Ronan looked at me. “If the bond is transmitting memory while you are awake, I need to understand it.”

“And there he is, the man who makes kidnapping sound like project management.”

His stare didn’t move and I stared back.

Ian stepped slightly between us and the tension changed. My pulse jumped, and the mark warmed, reacting to both men like a deeply inconvenient referee.

“Don’t,” I said.

Both brothers looked at me. I gripped the arms of the chair and forced myself straighter, even though my body complained and the bite answered with a low black ache.

“I am tired. I hurt. I have apparently started receiving unauthorized Ian content directly under my ribs. I do not have the strength for the two of you to turn every conversation into a dominance seminar.”

Sava slipped back in behind Ronan, took one look at the room, and stopped.

“Did I miss the seminar?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Apparently it’s ongoing.”

Ronan’s jaw tightened and Ian looked down.

Sava came to me and checked the monitor. “She needs back in bed.”

“I want my phone first,” I said.

Ronan’s answer came immediately. “No.”

“Then I want to know why a dog could get through your apparently secure private grounds.”

Everyone went still.

Good.