Page 30 of Gunnar

8

Gunnar

For a moment I lie still, staring up at the dark ceiling of my room while the old lodge creaks softly around me. Wind moves through the trees outside, brushing the roof with a long, low whisper. Somewhere down the hallway Orson snores like a chainsaw chewing through timber.

Nothing unusual.

Nothing that should have woken me.

I let out a growl of annoyance.

Of course, I know what woke me.

My beast.

Again.

For the third damn time tonight.

It has spent the entire night pacing beneath my ribs, nudging me awake every hour or so with the same relentless demand.

Mate.

Go check on mate.

Make sure she is safe.

“She’s fine,” I mutter into the darkness.

My beast is unimpressed.

Mate is alone.

“Yes,” I whisper irritably. “In a closed room. In the middle of a mountain. Inside a lodge full of grizzly shifters.”

That should be more than enough security to satisfy anyone.

But my beast continues to prowl beneath my skin, claws scraping against my patience.

Mate.

With a sigh I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards are cold beneath my feet as I drag on a pair of jeans and shove open the door.

The hallway is shadowed, faint gray light leaking through the window at the far end.

Her door is still closed—as it was the time before, and the time before that.

I force myself to walk on light feet as I go along the hallway to her room, burning to be near her.

When I reach her door I pause, listening.

I hear the slow breathing of deep sleep. Quiet, like an angel.

Good.

My mate is safe.

I close my eyes briefly and press my palm against the wall beside the door.