Page 42 of Trusting Her Mate

I stand in the middle of it all. Naked beneath Boone’s shirt with blood on my hands, a claiming mark on my throat, and my mate’s arms around me. And for the first time in my life, I am not afraid.

Chapter Twelve

Boone

The walk back to the cabin is silent.

Not the bad kind. Not the loaded kind. The kind of silence that comes after a war ends and the soldiers are too spent to celebrate. Wren walks beside me, barefoot, wearing my jacket and nothing else, her hair matted with dirt and blood that isn’t hers. The claiming mark on her throat is dark against her skin. Her knuckles are scraped. Her shoulders are steady.

She took down a wolf twice her size and left him broken in the dirt.

My mate.

The bond hums between us, still buzzing from the fight, from the adrenaline, from the raw animal violence of watching her shift and defend what belongs to her. Defend me.

No one has ever done that.

No one has ever fought for me.

I open the cabin door and she steps inside, and the familiar warmth wraps around us. Home. Ours.

She stands in the middle of the room, looking lost. The jacket hangs off her shoulders. Blood streaks her arms and dirt smudges her cheek. She looks like a warrior who just walked off a battlefield and doesn’t know what to do with her hands.

“Shower,” I say.

She blinks. “What?”

“You’re covered in blood and dirt. Shower.”

“Oh.” She looks down at herself like she’s seeing the mess for the first time. “Right.”

I take her hand and lead her down the hall. The bathroom is small, barely enough room for one person, let alone two. But I’m not letting her out of my sight. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I turn on the water, and steam fills the space, fogging the mirror. Wren stands beside me, quiet, watching me with those dark eyes. I peel the jacket off her shoulders and let it drop. She’s naked underneath. Bruises are blooming on her hips from the shift and a shallow cut scores her ribcage. But the claiming mark on her throat is vivid.

I kneel and her breath catches. “Boone, what...”

“Hold still.”

I start with her feet. Lifting one, then the other, rinsing the dirt from her soles. My hands cup her ankles and my thumbs trace the bones. She trembles but doesn’t pull away.

I stand and reach past her for the soap. Work it between my palms until lather builds, then lay my hands on her shoulders. She shivers.

“Easy,” I say.

“I’m fine.”

“I know. Let me do this.”

I wash her, slowly, methodically. Down her arms, lifting each one, cleaning the blood from her skin. Across her collarbone. Over the claiming mark. She inhales sharply when my fingers brush it, and the bond flares.

“You were incredible today,” I say.

She shakes her head. “I just...”

“You shifted to protect me. You fought a male twice your size and won.” My hands slide down her ribs, careful around the cut. “You left him alive. That took more control than killing him would have.”

Her jaw tightens. “I wanted to kill him.”