“Hey,” he said softly. “We’re here.”
Jamie mumbled something incoherent, burrowing deeper into the seat.
Sloane slipped one arm under Jamie’s knees, the other around his shoulders, and lifted. His mate weighed less than expected, fitting against Sloane’s body like he belonged there. Because he did. He’d always belonged there.
His mate deserved to be carried, to be cared for, to be cherished.
Jamie’s head lolled against Sloane’s shoulder, his breath warm against Sloane’s neck. One hand curled into Sloane’s shirt, holding on even though Jamie was unconscious.
The house stayed quiet as Sloane carried him inside, up the stairs, down the hallway to his room. He shouldered the door open, grateful he’d left the bedside lamp on earlier. Soft light filled the space, enough to navigate without jarring Jamie awake.
Setting him on the bed took more coordination than expected. Jamie wouldn’t let go, his fingers twisted in Sloane’s shirt, as he made small protesting sounds when Sloane tried to pull away.
“Shh,” Sloane murmured. “Just getting your shoes.”
He worked Jamie’s sneakers off, setting them beside the nightstand. Then the jacket, carefully working one arm free at a time. Jamie shifted, rolling onto his side, curling into a pillow.
Sloane pulled the blanket up to Jamie’s shoulders. His mate immediately burrowed deeper, sighing contentedly.
For a moment, Sloane just stood there watching. Jamie’s face had relaxed completely in sleep, no trace of the fear and tension from earlier. Here, safe in Sloane’s bed, he looked younger. Vulnerable. Precious.
Mine to protect. Mine to care for. Mine.
The thought settled into Sloane’s bones with absolute certainty. Whatever had happened with William, whatever threats still lurked, Sloane would handle them. Jamie would never have to face violence alone again.
Sloane moved to the other side of the bed, stretching out on top of the covers. Close enough to respond if Jamie woke confused or frightened.
In his sleep, Jamie rolled toward Sloane’s warmth. One hand reached out, finding Sloane’s shirt again, fingers curling into the fabric.
Sloane let him hold on. Let himself imagine countless nights like this—his mate safe in his bed, reaching for him even unconscious, trusting him completely.
Rain finally started outside, pattering against the windows. The sound mixed with Jamie’s quiet breathing, creating a rhythm that pulled Sloane toward sleep.
His hip still ached. His shoulder would be bruised tomorrow. But Jamie was here, safe, fingers twisted in his shirt like Sloane was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Worth every second of pain.
Worth everything.
Chapter Eight
Jamie groaned before his eyes even opened, every muscle screaming. Why on earth had he shown off last night?
Because you wanted to impress Sloane.
Oh right.
And now he was paying for it. His eyelids even hurt as he opened them, wincing at the sunlight spilling into the room. Then he noticed the absence of heat. Where was Sloane?
Bathroom. He needed a bathroom. Jamie pushed back the covers and attempted to sit, his body protesting each movement.
Then he went completely still. Either he was still sleeping or that was an actual wolf lying on the floor.
His breath caught. What the actual fuck?
With a strangled sound, Jamie yanked the covers back over himself, holding perfectly still as if the slightest movement might attract the predator’s attention.
Too late.
