She's definitely asleep now. Her breathing is deep and steady, and she's rolled onto her side facing me, one hand tucked under her cheek.
She looks younger like this. Peaceful. The worry lines between her eyebrows smoothed away, her mouth soft. I should not be watching her sleep. That's creepy behavior, the kind of thing that would rightfully terrify her if she knew.
But I can't seem to look away.
The blankets have slipped down slightly, revealing the curve of her shoulder. There are freckles there too, scattered like constellations. I could trace patterns in them if I let myself.
I don't let myself.
Instead, I catalog the injuries I'll need to treat in the morning. The scrapes on her palms are superficial but need cleaning. The bruise on her knee is already turning purple. She must have hit it hard. The cut on her cheek should be fine, but I'll check it for debris.
Taking care of her feels natural. Right. Like this is what I'm supposed to be doing.
The bear rumbles approval, and for once, I don't fight it.
Maybe it's not the worst thing in the world, this bond. Maybe it doesn't have to mean disaster. People have fated mates all the time, or they did, back when I was part of shifter society. Most of them seemed happy about it.
Of course, most of them weren't also responsible for the deaths of their entire unit.
The memory surfaces before I can stop it. The ambush. The firefight. The moment when everything went wrong and the bear took over, consumed by rage and bloodlust and the single-minded need to destroy the threat.
I can still smell the blood. Still hear the screaming. Still see their faces when the rage cleared and I realized what I'd done.
My hands are shaking. I clench them into fists, breathing through the panic.
This is why I can't have a mate. This is why I live alone, why I drink myself stupid most nights, why I've buried the bear so deep it's a wonder it can still breathe.
I'm dangerous. Broken. A loaded weapon with a faulty safety.
She deserves someone whole. Someone good. Someone who won't wake up one day covered in her blood because the beast got loose.
"Rhett?"
Her voice makes me jolt. I thought she was asleep.
"Yeah?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Are you okay?"
"Fine. Go back to sleep."
"You're breathing really hard. And your hands… You're going to hurt yourself."
I look down. She's right. My fists are clenched so tight that my nails are digging into my palms.
I force my hands open.
"Nightmare," I lie. "Sorry if I woke you."
She's quiet for a moment, and I think maybe she'll accept the explanation and drift back off.
Instead, she asks: "Do you get them a lot?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It matters if you're not sleeping."
"I sleep fine."
