Page 27 of My Shifty Bodyguard

My father's face flushes dull, angry red. "Someone shot an arrow at you. In the forest. It missed you by inches."

"I shot the arrow into the tree myself." Drusilla folds her arms.

"The silver in the oatmeal—"

"I put it there. After making absolutely certain that its scent was strong enough that Violet would smell it before she touched it."

"The perfume—"

"I did it. She was never in any danger. I made sure of that, every time.”

Of course, the Truth Mage never spoke to my stepmother. Why would he have? She would never have been a suspect, especially when we thought the assassin was trying to take her out too.

I should be horrified. I am, a little. But mostly I am looking at this woman who raised me, who told me my chewy crispy pancakes were delicious and now that I think about it, maybe was just sparing my feelings—and I am realizing she set the whole world on fire to give me a door.

"Why?" My father's voice has gone rough.

Drusilla turns to him, and all the bravado drains out of her, and what's left underneath is just tired. "Because she's miserable, Jasper. Because she's twenty-five and she'd never once stood on ground you didn't own. Because you were never, ever going to let her grow up, and I love her too much to watch her shrink to fit inside your fear."

"She's not miserable!" My father spits out the words angrily.

"She absolutely is," Dax says.

“I kind of am,” I say quietly.

“No, you’re not.” My father glares at me and I almost apologize and agree with him, but instead I borrow courage and strength from my mate.

“You do not know how I feel,” I inform him, with a quaver in my voice. “And you do not get to tell me how I feel.”

"She questions herself constantly," Dax goes on, and his voice is very level, which is how I've come to recognize that he is not level at all. "She apologizes for existing. She does not believe she is good at anything—"

"Well, she isn't," my father snaps.

And there it is. Out loud. In a room full of people. My eyes fill, hot and instant, tears spilling onto my cheeks.

The growl that comes out of Dax is unnatural and terrifying. Fur ripples down his forearms, his claws slide out, and for one second the man I love is mostly not a man.

"What," he says, very softly, "did you just say about my mate."

My father glares at him. Dax glares back.

“Look at her! You made her cry!” Drusilla shouts. “Are you going to try to pretend those are tears of joy?”

"I mean, she doesn't have to be good at anything," my father says, his voice a little less sure now. "She's my daughter. I love her. My job is to keep her safe. That's all that matters."

"She is my fated mate." Dax's claws retract, one finger at a time, by what looks like sheer force of will. "I love her. And it is now my job to keep her safe."

"She trips over her own feet," my father says. "She drops things. She could hurt herself."

His voice trails off into uncertainty.

"I drop things and trip over things when you're watching," I tell my father, "because you're always watching, and you're always waiting for me to do it wrong, and it terrifies me. You decided a long time ago what I was, and I've spent my whole life trying not to disappoint you at it."

My father makes an impatient gesture, the one I've watched my whole life, the one that means that's enough now. " It doesn't matter anyway. I lost your mother. I am not losing you. You're coming home."

I blink away hot, furious tears. "Do you expect me to never have a mate?"

"If you want a mate, I'll find you one." Another gesture. "A good one. We'll bring him to live on our lands, where I can keep an eye on—"