He’s not my mate. And that’s good. It’s so good. Remember the thicket? It was agony. I was torn and beaten and aching, and if I’d had the strength, I would have dragged myself on my belly to Killian’s door and begged him to mount me. I was alone and bleeding in a briar patch, and where was he? He’s not my mate. He can touch whoever he wants. He can bend Haisley Byrne over up there on the dais, and I might puke, but I won’t care. Not. My. Mate.
