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“I am going to treat your daughter like the queen she is. You never have to worry about that.”
Her eyes sparkled in the sun, and within it, Timber caught a glimpse of Lyra. She gave him a fun wink.
“Oh, I am sure of it.”
Timber left Karen’s home, elated. He knew at that moment that he had never really truly felt happy before in his life. Sure, there was relaxation, there was sex, there was fun, there was the thrill of the hunt, and the leadership of the Montana Maul. But meeting Lyra and falling in love with her had made him feel something he never thought his grumpy bear self could ever scrape the surface of.
Contentment.
He dreamed of a life beyond that day with Lyra and Marigold and with other offspring. He dreamed of them growing old together, learning new and exciting facts about one another daily. Things would change, surely, but they would only ever get better and better.
He drove into the sunset, a tear gliding down his cheek.
FORTY-FOUR
LYRA
The week had been long and arduous for Lyra. Although every day felt like a sparkling dream to her, there were still times more taxing than others. Marigold’s teeth were coming in, which made her fussy and difficult to settle at night. The weather had been moody, seeming to cast a permanent veil of bleak gray over the previously stark blue shimmer she was used to.
It had made her own disposition a little downcast too. She had been thinking about what her mother had said to her about being made anhonest womanwith a marriage proposal. She hated that her mother’s words were having an effect on her, but there was no point in denying it; she had started to wonder if the proposal had been on Timber’s mind at all.
Lyra wasn’t traditional by any means. She hadn’t been the little girl who fantasized about marrying her perfect man one day. She felt that if it was in the cards for her life, then so be it. She never longed or pined after it.
But meeting Timber had changed all that. She daydreamed about calling him her husband. It was simply formal wording, something made by signing a sheet of paper. But the romance of it appealed to her, the infinity, the dedication to withhold and withstand the steady climb toward the grave and beyond.
Maybe that was what the mating ritual was like for shifters. She hadn’t considered that. Every time the brush of Timber’s fingertips moved over the indent in the crook of her nape, she had started to think, subconsciously, that it was.
At first, he seemed concerned that it had hurt. It had somewhat, but it was a sweet sting. That, mixed with the transcendent orgasm, had made the experience supernatural and beyond fulfilling.
Then it became almost ceremonial.
On the weekends, such as this morning, Timber would often let her sleep in while he tended to Marigold. She woke up with the golden sun in her eyes, letting out a deep, satisfying sigh as she buried her face in the pillow. It was nice to finally see the sun after a week of drab conditions.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
Lyra fluttered her eyes open to the astounding sight of her man, shirtless and all, the mountain and valleys of his muscles reflecting like a Greek god in the sunlight. Looking at him in any way, clothed or not, made Lyra feel a fever she hoped would never fade.
And, alas, he was holding a steaming cup of coffee for her.
She sat up in bed, raising her arms in the air for a big stretch.
“Mmm, good morning, my darling.”
Timber gently handed her the mug, kissing her lips and then each eyelid. Lyra felt like she was floating.
“I have some plans for us tonight that I think you’ll enjoy,” he said, stroking her hand. “I have called your mother, and she’s agreed to watch Marigold tonight.”
Lyra pursed her lips as she raised the mug up to her mouth, barely awake and already floored. The sun surrounded Timber’s half-naked body, giving his form a vibrating, halo effect.
She licked her lips and tilted her head at him endearingly.
“Where did you come from?” she whispered.
He grinned, then raised a single finger to his lips.
“It’s a secret.”
That evening, the sun dipped below the horizon, emanating a canary-yellow glow over the still waters. Timber had taken her on a river cruise on the Clarks Fork River not far from his property. Torches flickered around them as they ate a succulent steak dinner, a warm velvet blanket wrapped around Lyra’s arms that were exposed to the winter air. They talked, laughed, and drank cherry wine with great merriment.
