Rebel
Tristan came down to dinner for the first time since his injury on the training field.
He came in slowly with one hand braced against the doorframe, and lowered himself into the chair beside mine in stages. His color was better, but he seemed to be healing slowly, for a man with a healthy wolf. When his butt finally hit the seat he let out the breath he was holding.
“You’re an i***t,” I said quietly.
“I was bored.”
“You were in pain in a bed. Now you’re in pain in a chair.”
“Different scenery.” He actually flashed me a tight smile. “Dr. Rowe said movement’s good for the lungs.”
“Rowe said gentle movement. Stairs are not gentle movement.”
“Are you going to nag me all through dinner?”
“Yes.”
He picked up his water glass with his good hand, and under the table his knee came to
