Page 25 of Trusting Her Mate

I understand. I understand so well it makes me want to hunt Dax Mercer down and tear him apart, slow and methodical, until he knows what it feels like to be powerless.

“Then we make it different,” I say. “You start it. You choose when. You choose how. I will follow your lead.”

She blinks. “You’d let me lead?” She doesn’t hide her surprise at my suggestion.

“In this, yes.”

“Even though your wolf is currently trying to eat through your ribs?”

I stare at her. “How did you...”

“I can feel it.” She touches her chest. “Something’s been ... pressing. Since yesterday. I thought it was anxiety, but it’s not mine.”

She’s feeling the bond. My wolf goes silent. Waiting.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she says quietly. “That pressure. That heat.”

I should lie. I should deflect. I should do anything except stand here while she figures out that the fake mate claim is less fake than either of us planned.

“Yes,” I say.

Her eyes widen. She wasn’t expecting honesty.

“I don’t know what it means,” I continue, which is a lie. I know exactly what it means. But she doesn’t need that weight on top of everything else right now. “But it’s there. And if you’re feeling it, too, then tonight doesn’t have to be a performance.”

Her throat works. “Boone...”

I clarify. “All I’m saying is the chemistry doesn’t have to be fake. We just let it exist and let the pack see it.”

“That’s a dangerous line.”

“I know.”

“What if it gets out of hand?”

“Then we stop.”

“What if we can’t?”

I look at her. Fear, fight, and want all tangled up in her eyes. Bare shoulders, damp hair, the sandals I buckled with hands that ached to touch more.

“Then we figure it out,” I say. “Together.”

She exhales. Something in her posture loosens, and she uncurls her arms, letting them drop to her sides.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll start it. On my terms.”

“Agreed.”

“And if I freeze?”

“You stop. We’ll deal with it.”

“And you don’t grab my face.”

The words land like a slap. Not because she’s being cruel, but because she needs to say it. Because someone taught her that hands on her face mean ownership.

“I won’t touch your face,” I say. “Not unless you put my hand there yourself.”