Page 87 of Gunnar

I flip the covers back. A floorboard creaks under my bare foot before I realize I’ve moved.

I cross the room and press my ear near the door, hating myself a little.

“She can’t stay any longer,” Orson says. “Not now.”

There’s a pause.

Long enough that every muscle in my body tenses up.

Then Gunnar says, very clearly, “she’s my mate.”

I stop breathing.

Mate?

For one blank second, I think I’ve misheard. That my keyed-up brain has stitched those words together into something they were never meant to be.

But then Orson lets out a rough, disbelieving laugh and says, “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Not at all.”

“She’s human,” Orson snaps. “She doesn’t know anything about us. About what this means.”

“Then that’s my problem.”

“It becomes all of ours.”

“Good.” Gunnar’s voice is colder now. “Because you either accept that she’s my mate, or you leave the clan.”

Silence.

My heart is pounding hard enough that I feel it in my throat.

Footsteps hit the hallway. I freeze.

Then the front door slams.

I hurry to the window.

Orson’s hulking shape cuts across the drive. Then there’s a bunch of contortions, shredded clothes, and a bear in his place, bounding toward the forest.

I go back to the bed and sink down, my head spinning.

Mate.

Gunnar said mate.

He’s not just into me. He wants me to be his?

Like, forever-his?

I crack the door open, wincing at the sound, and slip into the dark hallway in my T-shirt and shorts, bare feet silent on the floorboards. The lodge is dim, the only light spilling from the kitchen at the far end, stretching across the floor in a thin strip.

I take two steps.

A shape detaches itself from the darkness near the main room.

Gunnar.