They'd think she hit her head during the storm. Hallucinated. Experienced a mental break. Maybe that would be better. Let her think it wasn't real. Let her dismiss it as trauma-induced delusion and move on with her life.
But the thought of her doubting her own reality, questioning her sanity…
The bear snarls. *No. Mate knows truth. Mate deserves truth.*
"Mate deserves better than this," I say out loud. "Better than me."
*No one better. No one stronger. No one who will protect her like we will.*
And that's the hell of it, isn't it? The bear is right. I might be broken and dangerous and fundamentally unsuited for human connection, but I would die before I let anything hurt her. Would tear apart anyone or anything that threatened her. Would burn down the world to keep her safe.
But what if the thing she needs protection from is me?
What if I lose control again? What if the bear takes over and she's the one who ends up torn apart, one more body on the pile of my failures?
The thought makes my stomach turn.
I can't let that happen. Won't let that happen.
Which means I need to stay away from her. Need to let her go back to town in the morning and never come back. Need to deny the mate bond no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much the bear rages against it.
It's the only way to keep her safe.
From me.
Her breathing changes. Deepens. She's waking up.
I back away from the bed, putting distance between us. Giving her space. Making sure she doesn't wake up with me hovering over her like some kind of—
Like the predator I am.
Her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first. Then they land on me and everything sharpens. She scrambles backward until she hits the wall, pulling the blankets up like they'll protect her from what I am.
"Easy," I say, keeping my voice as gentle as I can. "You're safe. I'm not going to hurt you."
"You—" Her voice cracks. She swallows and tries again. "You turned into a bear."
"Yes."
"That's not possible."
"And yet you saw it happen."
She shakes her head, like she can physically deny the reality of what she witnessed. "I'm hallucinating. The hypothermia, it damaged my brain, I'm seeing things that aren't—"
"You're not hallucinating," I interrupt. "Your brain is fine. What you saw was real."
"People don't turn into bears!"
"Most people don't. I do. So do others like me."
"Others?" She looks like she might pass out again. "There are more of you?"
"Shifters exist. Have always existed. We're just good at hiding."
She stares at me, and I can see her brilliant mind working, trying to categorize this information, trying to make it fit into a worldview that has no space for it.
"This is insane," she finally says. "This is… I need to go. I need to leave."
