She reaches up to pat me. “Now get home before this storm gets any worse. I don’t care that you’re a bear shifter. You’re still my little cub, and I don’t like you driving in this.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You always say that.” She reaches up to kiss my cheek. “Be safe. And Tolin?”
I pause at the door.
“The clan is still your home. Ronan is still your brother. Whatever happened between you, it doesn’t have to be forever. You could come back. You could?—“
“Goodnight, Mother.”
I step out into the storm before she can finish.
The drive back takes longer than usual.
The wind has picked up, howling through the trees like something alive and angry. Snow piles on the road, but my bear’s instincts guide me through drifts that would bury a human vehicle. The truck handles it fine. It’s built for this, same as me.
But it’s not the storm that occupies my thoughts.
It’s her.
Imani.
I roll the name around in my mind, tasting the shape of it. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Too beautiful. Dangerously beautiful.
My bear paces inside me, restless and eager. He hasn’t settled since we left the cabin. Since we saw her standing in the kitchen with her coat off, all those curves on display, that wild hair tumbling around her shoulders.
Breed, he growls.Breed her.
I grip the steering wheel tighter.
We can’t breed her. She’s not our fated mate. I would know if she was. The scent would hit me like a freight train, unmistakable and overwhelming. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.
But I didn’t catch her scent at all. Just that chemical smell from the cleaning solution, sharp and artificial, masking everything underneath.
She’s just another human woman from town. A temporary presence in my cabin, here to do a job and leave.Nothing more.
So why can’t I stop thinking about her?
The defiance on her face when she told me she didn’t scare easy. The set of her jaw, stubborn and proud, refusing to back down even when I was at my worst.
No one talks to me like that. No one challenges me.
But she did. And my bear loved it.
I take the last turn toward my cabin, the headlights cutting through the curtain of snow. Almost home. Almost back to her.
The thought makes my blood run hot.
Then I smell it.
Steak. Searing meat, the rich iron scent of blood and fat. Coming from my cabin.
She cooked dinner.
I pull up in front of the porch and cut the engine, staring at the light spilling through the windows. She’s in there. Cooking. For me? Or just for herself?
I look down at the bag of food my mother packed. Enough to last a couple of days, she said. I don’t need whatever Imani made. I have options.
