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and forth.
    This was bad. This was oh so very bad. If the spirits were able to physically control Aslan, then they didn’t have much time. Before he could help his mate close the gateway, though, he had to find out what was causing Aslan’s defenses to deteriorate.
    Just then, as he rocked the smaller man and stroked his spine, none of it really mattered. All Torren cared about was seeing Aslan’s eyes open again. Natalie, Phillip, Becker, The Council, the witches, or impending war—none of it even registered on his radar just then.
    They could all go fuck themselves as far as he was concerned.
    Aslan needed him. While he hadn’t been a very good mate up to this point, that was all about to change. It was obvious that he was only doing more damage than good—to both of them—by keeping his distance. The fact that he hadn’t even known what Aslan was until the previous night was no excuse.
    He’d been afraid. It wasn’t an emotion he was used to feeling. So he’d dealt with it the only way he knew how—kicking its ass, pushing it to the back of his mind, and pretending like it didn’t exist. As long as he stayed away from Aslan, there was nothing to fear. If he didn’t acknowledge their status as a bonded pair, then he didn’t have to worry about becoming weak or vulnerable. If no one knew they were fated for each other, then no one could use Aslan against him.
    Aslan needed him, though. Torren was the only one who could help him now. Finally submitting to what he’d known all along, he also realized that he didn’t want the man to depend on anyone but him. That same protective instinct that had welled up inside of him upon their first meeting resurfaced, dragging with it a healthy dose of possessiveness.
    A soft, pain-filled groan reached his ears as Aslan’s eyelids began to flutter, and his head rolled back and forth against Torren’s shoulder. “Open your eyes, baby.” Please be okay.
    “Hurts,” Aslan moaned, but his eyes finally opened, and he tilted his head back on his shoulders to look up at Torren. “What happened?”
    “You fell and hit your head.” It wasn’t technically a lie, though not exactly the truth, either. Torren didn’t want his little man getting all worked up and hurting himself again, though. “Do you feel nauseous? Is your vision blurry?” Torren held up two fingers close to Aslan’s nose. “How many fingers do you see?” The giggle he received in return warmed his heart and made him feel like a king. “I’m fine. My neck is a little stiff, and my head is really sore. Other than that, I’m pretty sure I’m going to survive.”
    “Smart-ass.” Torren pressed his lips against Aslan’s forehead, relief flooding him that his mate was well enough to poke fun at his concern. “What can I do to make you feel better?” That was his job now—the most important job. Whatever Aslan wanted or needed, Torren would provide it. He still had his responsibilities as elder, but the moment he’d stopped fighting the pull he felt to be with his mate, Aslan had become his priority.
    “My scarf is ruined.” Aslan pouted, his bottom lip protruding as he examined the stained material.
    “I’ll buy you a new one.”
    Aslan peered up at him for a minute before his eyes lit up and his soft, pink lips parted in a grin. His arms shot out to lock around Torren’s neck, squeezing him tightly as he molded their mouths together. “Thank you,” he breathed long moments later when they finally pulled apart.
    Hell, if it got him another kiss like that, Torren would buy his little man a whole truckload of scarves in every color he could find.
    He hadn’t wanted this. It was too dangerous for them to be together, but every time he looked into those deep brown eyes, he found himself helpless against their magnetism.
    He’d never felt anything with such extremity and swiftness as the emotions that crashed over him like a tidal wave when Aslan said his name. He blamed it on the magic that