Page 131 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

That made her feel even better.

“Still, there are…practicalities.”

He scowled. “Hang practicalities.”

“I can’t leave my monsters. Or Granny.”

He scowled harder. “When did I ask you to?”

“You’re an earl,” she reminded him. “Don’t you have”—she waved a hand—“earl things to do?”

He crossed his arms stubbornly. “I go where you go.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

“Your work. I can’t give up my monsters, and you can’t give up your dusty old things.”

“I don’t have to. There’s the portal to London and museums enough in Hallow. In fact, the Lycan Museum here needs a serious overhaul. Their sorting system is atrocious.” Her answering smile was tremulous but true. He dug his fingers into the hair at her nape. “What else?”

“I’m not a wolf.”

“I’m not a witch. And I don’t like parsnips.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You don’t like peas,” he reminded her. “Practicalities.”

“Hmph. What about your Pack? You’ll have one now, won’t you?” She frowned at him. If he was finally finished running from himself, she would not be the one to hold him back. Even if it broke her heart. Her everything. “Alphas need a Pack, don’t they?

“Your Pack is my Pack.”

Her entire chest went warm. His words, his stern tone, his certainty tingled through her.

“I don’t have a Pack,” she pointed out. “Don’t I need to be a wolf? And an Alpha?”

“You are an honorary Lycan. The Red Wolf. And you have a Pack: mine. Do you think Tavish will give you up? He’s smitten.” His smile was dry. “And you do have a Pack—a ghost, a vampire, a Minotaur, and a bloodthirsty unicorn.”

“That’s true.”

He touched his lips to her throat, to the ghost of his bite. A gentle, open-mouthed kiss. The scrape of his teeth, the heat of his tongue. The rest of her went as warm as her chest. She clutched at his shoulders, blue spirals under her fingers.

She kissed him, a fierce claiming of her own. “Yours.”

He kissed her back, growling gently. “Yours.”