Poor Jelly. his name is now Spotted Stone Wolf, but his mate mockingly refers to him as Spot.
Poor Stone. Snared by a pair of pansy brown eyes as hot and wild as a prairie fire, and almost as gentle. What does a wolf have to do to get a little petting? Apparently, getting shot twice in the belly is just the ticket.
The bedsprings groaned under him as he stretched one arm above his head to test the torn muscles in his belly. Searing pain told him he wouldn’t be getting up for a while. Footsteps, light and quick, tapped in the hall outside the bedroom and the door opened. His mate came to the bed and scowled down at him. Ah, yes, that was his sweet mate.
“When someone points a gun at you, you’re supposed to move,” she said, brows pulled straight over narrowed eyes.
“I did!” he protested.
“Away from it, Spot, you idiot, not toward it.”
Spot. He hated when she called him that. Time for a little payback. “The gun was pointed at you, little girl. I had to stop the bullet.”
The way she clenched her jaw at his nickname for her made him want to grin. She huffed. “With your stomach?”
He almost forgot his wound but remembered just before he would have shrugged in a show of nonchalance. “It was handy.”
“You idiot,” she murmured, leaning over the bed to stroke his tangled hair. “You idiot.”