Page 119 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“The magic of the Order doesn’t work on the Lycan.” She sighed in relief. He noticed, and his expression softened. “Ever the defender,” he said.

“Ever the curator, complicating everything,” she returned with a kiss to his hard jaw. “I choose you, Aidan. The question is, do you choose me?”

He gripped her chin. “Always, Sorcha. I will always choose you.”

Relief made her lightheaded. “You do make a girl work for it, don’t you?”

“I still might not ever be able to share a bed with you.”

“I think we’ve proven that’s not the case.”

He shot her a quelling glance, fond, exasperated, serious—so Aidan it nearly made her want to cry. “I meant to sleep,” he added. “I still get nightmares.”

She shrugged. “I steal the blankets.”

“I may never fully trust myself.”

“I don’t care for peas.”

The laugh burst out of him in surprise. “Pardon?”

“I thought we were sharing things about ourselves again?”

He shook his head. “There’s no one like you, songbird.”

She smirked. She couldn’t help it. “What does Freya have to say about your transformation?”

He frowned. “Nothing.”

She poked him. “Ha! She agrees with me, doesn’t she? Admit it, wolf. You’re outnumbered.”

He stalked her backwards, caging her against the nearest tree. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’ll be the death of me,” he said. He dragged his fingers through her hair, tightening them into a fist. “And I’ll die smiling.”