Chapter 16 A Practical Exercise in Bad Ideas #3
Cormac arrived ten minutes later wearing a dark green jacket, a gold-threaded cravat, and the expression of a man delighted to have been pulled away from boredom by possible scandal.
He was older than Ronan, younger than Malrec, with gray at his temples and a limp he disguised badly enough that I respected the vanity.
He looked at me and bowed. “Ms. Morgan.”
I blinked. “A wolf with manners? I was beginning to think that was illegal.”
His mouth curved. “Only unfashionable.”
Ian made a low sound.
Cormac glanced at him. “Do calm yourself, pup. If I intended to die today, I would have worn better shoes.”
I liked him for exactly three seconds. Then I remembered everyone here was dangerous and wanted me dead, so I adjusted my expectations.
Ronan explained the test.
Cormac listened, then looked at me. “You will try to find Ian and ignore me.”
“Story of my weekend, really.”
His smile widened.
Ian didn’t enjoy that. This time, the jealousy that came through the mark was unmistakable.
Not as strong as with Grant, more annoyed.
And because Cormac was not Grant, because he had not written about my mouth or tried to climb back into my life through old damage, the jealousy didn’t make me feel strange. It made me feel aware.
Of Ian’s body between mine and the room. Of the width of his shoulders. Of his attention catching on every man who looked at me too long. Of how little that attention resembled Grant’s.
Ian’s eyes cut to mine.
Damn. He had felt that.
My cheeks heated.
Sava glanced at the monitor and muttered something unkind under her breath.
“Begin,” Ronan said.
I closed my eyes. At first, there were two presences. That was the only word I had. Cormac felt like age, spice, old smoke, and amusement laid over teeth. A wolf, yes, but contained differently from Ian. Looser. Less brutal. Less mine.
Mine.
My eyes opened.
Nope. Absolutely not. I was not using that word.
Ian was behind the left door.
I knew it. The mark leaned toward him, but so did something lower in me. Something that recognized the particular shape of his restraint, the way his anger folded inward instead of outward when I was near.
“Left,” I said.
Ronan watched my face. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, the center door feels like trouble wearing cologne.”
Cormac laughed from behind the door as Ian opened the left door.
Ronan nodded once. “Enough.”
Sava said, “Finally.”
Cormac stepped out, still amused. “Well. That is inconvenient for several people.”
“Explain,” Ronan said.
Cormac’s gaze moved from me to Ian. “The human knows him.”
I stiffened. “I just met him, well kind of, if you can count wolf prison as a meeting place.”
Cormac inclined his head. “Not his biography, Ms. Morgan. His presence. His temper. His pull. That is harder to fake than pain.”
Ronan’s face gave nothing away, Ian stood very still next to him.
Cormac continued, softer now, “A false mark can inflame. It can sicken. It can attach to proximity and fear. It does not teach a human woman to sort one wolf from another by the shape of his restraint.”
My throat tightened and I looked at Ian. He was already looking at me, and for once, I had no sharp line waiting. The mark pulsed once between us.
Warm.
Uncertain.
Ours, maybe.
That was the first time I let the word exist without immediately killing it, if only for a second.
Then Sava ruined the moment by saying, “She is done before she falls out of that chair and proves everyone here stupid.”
Cormac stepped aside. “A wise physician. Rare and unpleasant.”
“I heard that,” Sava said.
“I intended you to.”
By the time we returned to the suite, my muscles had gone loose with exhaustion and the bite had started to ache. Sava ordered bed. I didn’t argue because unconsciousness had begun making a persuasive case.
Ian helped me stand from the chair, his hands staying at my elbows, light and careful. His thumb rested near the inside of my elbow, steady and still. His hands were large enough to make me feel fragile, but he held me as if fragile didn’t mean lesser.
Ian looked down at me.
“You’re tired,” he said.
“Very poetic.”
“It is true.”
“Most boring things are.”
His eyes softened by one degree. I hated that I had learned to see one degree.
He helped me sit on the edge of the bed and released me at once and the mark protested the loss. So did my skin. I ignored both with equal maturity.
Sava began checking the bandage.
Ronan remained by the door, speaking low with Cormac.
Ian stayed beside the bed, hands at his sides, waiting to see if I needed anything and refusing to assume I did.
I looked at him, really looked. Tired eyes. Hard mouth. Scar at the jaw. Bloodless now, clean, controlled. Still the man who had bitten me. Also the man who had told a guard to use my name. The contradiction sat between us, ugly and alive.
“I’m not ready to trust you,” I said quietly.
His gaze held mine. “I know.”
“But I need you to teach me how to survive the hunt.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t get to treat me like I’ll break.”
His eyes moved once to the bandage, then back to my face.
“No,” he said. “I treat you like you are injured and stubborn.”
“That is annoyingly fair.”
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we train outside.”