“He’s going to live happily ever after,” I mumble into my elbow, yawning. “Getting pawed at by females and barking orders from a metal folding chair.” “I doubt it.” Abertha plops a crock of home-churned butter in front of me and drops into a chair with way too much oomph for a sixty—seventy?—year old woman. “I yanked the mate bond out of you.” She waggles her arched eyebrows. “Didn’t touch his now, did I?”
