They were having one of those discussions again.
This time, though, it was in the kitchen, not in bed. Jack was leaning against the countertop, Callum stood in the middle of the room like a tourist without a group.
This time it was about a faint claw mark on the inside of Jack’s thigh. Last night had been a bit on the rough side, mainly because Jack had tried his best to provoke the werewolf inside. He was so fed up with Callum constantly holding back. Surely Callum knew how much it hurt him to watch his lover restrain himself all the time.
But Callum didn’t want to see. He stood slumped in the kitchen, his facial expression one of grave self-resentment.
“For the hundredth time, Callum,” Jack repeated. “I’m perfectly fine. You barely scratched the skin, it didn’t even bleed or anything
