Idara
“I’m not yours, Mr. Chester,” I said firmly, shaking my head. But my words seemed to slide right past him.
“You are mine,” he murmured, voice low and certain, “as I am yours.”
We were going in circles, and it was getting us nowhere.
“You’re my wife,” he repeated, softer this time.
I let out a long, exasperated sigh. “I never agreed to that. Don’t I get a say? Don’t you need my consent?”
A slow, almost predatory smile curved his lips. “Yes… when we hold the mating ceremony. When I present you to the pack as mine.”
I blinked, trying to parse his words. “So that means I’m not your wife yet.”
The tiny flicker of relief I felt died the instant he spoke again.
“No. The moment I marked you, you became my wife. The ceremony is only tradition—formality.”
My eyes widened in disbelief
