The mirror doesn’t lie. The blouse I chose dips a little lower than necessary. My hair falls softly over my shoulders. My perfume—the one I usually save for nights out—hangs in the air like a poorly kept secret. “Professional,” I mutter to my reflection. “Totally professional.”
If I believe it hard enough, maybe he will too.
Makari Medvedev is a no-way kind of man. I’ve come across plenty of them since my daughter was born. Even with Andialways toddling around, it was hard not to feel lonely; but with every man there was ano-way.A reason not to get involved beyond a stolen kiss or a quick tryst.
Tugging on a light jacket, I list all the reasons getting close to The Bear would be a mistake:Too old. Too dangerous. Too much.
The man’s a rumor wrapped in cashmere and gunpowder, a killer who donates more to Maine’s wildlife trust each year than most governments. I’ve seen the reports myself—millions poured into conservation projects, reforestation, endangered-species initiatives. It makes no sense. The contradiction of him scratches at me. I spent the entire car ride trying to balance his soul against all the good he’s done, wondering if he does it out of caring or covering his ass.
By the time I make it to the main house, fog curls over the pines like breath. The morning is damp, hushed, waiting. I climb the stairs to his private office, heart hammering in a way that annoys me.
I knock. No answer.
“Mr. Medvedev?”
Silence, then a deep voice from inside. “Come in.”
He’s half-dressed when I push the door open—shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, sleeves rolled, damp hair pushed back. He stands by the window, fastening a cufflink, sunlight carving the edges of his shoulders and making the silver hair on his barrel chest gleam.
Every sensible thought I’ve ever had melts away.
He glances up, catches me looking, and something sharp flickers behind his eyes. “You’re early.”
“I’m punctual,” I say too fast.
His mouth curves like he knows exactly what that means. “Then let’s begin.”
I drop my bag onto the chair, trying to steady my breathing while he finishes dressing. The scent of his cologne—wood, citrus, a hint of tobacco—fills the room until I feel drunk on it. When he shrugs into his jacket, the small motion pulls the fabric across his chest, and I suddenly understand why people call him The Bear.The room feels smaller with him in it.
He hands me a clipboard. “You’ll shadow me today. Observe. Take notes. Speak only if spoken to.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Is that a rule or a preference?”
“Both.”
“Got it. Dictatorship with an open-door policy.”
His eyes narrow, but I catch the ghost of a smile before he turns away.
We spend the morning moving through Ursa Arcane’s maze of offices, workshops, and hangars full of equipment that probably has more than one use. I’ve seen bits and pieces of it before, but now it feels like I’m following a predator into the maze. And I might not make it out without his help.
Everywhere we go, men stop talking when Mak enters. Their eyes drop; their backs straighten. Is it out of respect or fear?
He introduces me only when he feels like it. “Myassistant,” he says, voice clipped, one hand occasionally finding the small of my back to guide me through narrow halls. The touch is light but electric, ownership disguised as politeness.
At the operations yard I meet Jesse, the land manager—a broad-shouldered man with weather-lined skin and a grin that says he’s seen everything, twice. I like him already; unlike the other men who wear tactical gear and hidden holsters, Jesse looks like a blue-collar guy. He could be any construction worker, any farmhand. He shakes my hand, eyes flicking from my blouse to my face. “So you’re the one giving the big man headaches.”
“Not on purpose,” I answer.
Jesse chuckles. “Good. You’ll be good for the Bear.”
Makari’s head snaps toward him, a silent warning that wipes the grin clean off Jesse’s face. I swallow a laugh.
We move on. Meetings, signatures, more silence. Makari rules every space with minimal words, like the air itself bends to accommodate him. And when another man—one of the logistics officers—lingers too long while explaining a shipment schedule to me, Mak’s expression darkens.
“Eyes up,” he says to the man, flat and quiet.
The poor guy mumbles something and bolts.
