This is the stupidest thing I've ever agreed to.
And I've agreed to some monumentally stupid things in my life. Joining black ops. Thinking I could control the bear in combat. Living alone on a mountain with nothing but moonshine and guilt for company.
But this? Sharing a bed with her?
This might top the list.
I lie rigid on top of the blankets, staring at the ceiling, every muscle in my body tense. She's six inches away from me. Six inches. I can hear every breath she takes, smell the lingering scent of rain in her hair mixing with that wildflower sweetness that seems to cling to her skin.
The bear is purring. Actually purring, like a contented house cat instead of an apex predator.
*Mate,* it rumbles. *Close. Safe. Ours.*
"Shut up," I mouth silently.
She shifts slightly, and the movement sends a wave of her scent over me. I dig my fingers into the blanket beneath me to keep from doing something insane.
I can still see her. Not now, in the darkness, but earlier, when I stripped off her wet clothes with hands that shook despite my best efforts to stay clinical.
I tried not to look. I really did.
But she was right there, soft curves and freckled skin, and I'm not made of stone even if I've pretended to be for five years. Her thighs were thick and strong. Her stomach was soft, curving gently. Her breasts—
I force the thought away, but it's too late. My body is reacting, and there's nothing I can do about it except stay absolutely still and pray she doesn't notice.
She thought I'd be disgusted. The idea is so absurd it would be funny if it didn't make me want to punch something.
Disgusted? By her?
She's perfect. She looks like comfort and home and everything I've told myself I don't deserve. And that's exactly why I lied. Why I told her I didn't look, didn't notice, didn't care.
Because if she knew the truth, that I noticed every freckle, every curve, every inch of her skin, she'd see it for what it is. Proof that I'm exactly the monster I know I am. A predator who sees a vulnerable woman and thinks things he has no right to think.
She deserves better than that. Better than me.
But the mate bond doesn't care about what she deserves. It just keeps pulling tighter, insisting that she's mine, that I'm hers, that this is inevitable.
I've spent the last few hours trying to convince myself it's not real. That the bond is just my imagination, the bear's wishful thinking, a side effect of five years of isolation making me latch onto the first person who's shown me kindness.
Except I can feel it. A tangible thread connecting us, thrumming with her heartbeat, her emotions, her presence. When she was dying in that shed, I felt her slipping away like it was my own life bleeding out.
And when I found her, when I held her, when I brought her back here, every instinct in my body screamed *mine, protect, keep safe*.
That's not imagination. That's not loneliness. That's the mate bond. Real and undeniable and absolutely fucking terrifying.
Her breathing is slowing, evening out. She's falling asleep.
Good. At least one of us will get some rest.
I close my eyes and try to think about anything except the woman in my bed. The knife I was making. The firewood that needs splitting. The leak in the roof I noticed last week.
Anything.
An hour later…
I'm still awake.
The fire has burned down to embers, casting the cabin in a soft orange glow. Outside, the storm has finally passed, leaving only the sound of water dripping from the eaves.
