THIRTEEN
ELECTRA
Consciousness drifted back to Electra like sunlight filtering through morning mist. Her eyelids fluttered open, and the unfamiliar ceiling above her sent a brief jolt of confusion through her system before memory crashed back in vivid, heated waves. Rune’s cabin. His bed. The dining room table and scattered dishes and the most explosive sex of her entire thirty-five years.
A slow, satisfied smile curved her lips as she stretched against the soft cotton sheets, her body deliciously sore in places that reminded her exactly how thoroughly she’d been claimed. The space beside her was empty but still warm, the indent in the pillow and lingering scent of pine and masculine heat proof that last night hadn’t been some fever dream.
Instead of eating the beautiful dinner he’d prepared—she’d barely managed two bites of the incredible comfort food—she’d grabbed him by the collar like some starved woman and kissed him with a desperation that still made her cheeks burn. The memory of yanking him across that table, of dishes clattering to the floor as he lifted her onto the polished wood, sent fresh heat spiraling through her core.
Tyler had never been like that. Her ex-boyfriend, the most serious relationship she’d managed before everything imploded, had been adequate in bed. Predictable. But Rune? Rune had been a force of nature wrapped in iron control, all that devastating power held in check until she’d begged him to let go. And when he had...
Her body still hummed with echoes of that pleasure, a bone-deep satisfaction she hadn’t known was possible. She’d read about it, written about it in countless scenes, but experiencing it? That was something else entirely.
The way he’d worshipped her body, the deliberate precision of every touch and every thrust. How he’d made her feel both utterly conquered and completely cherished at the same time. When he’d carried her to his bed afterward, she’d been too overwhelmed to speak, too wrung out to do anything but melt into his arms and feel.
For the first time in her adult life, she had felt truly safe with a man.
No demands. No expectations. Just solid warmth and the steady rhythm of his breathing against her hair as sleep claimed her.
Now, in the clear light of morning, embarrassment crept in alongside the satisfaction. She should have said something afterward. Should have told him how incredible it was, how he’d made her feel things she’d only imagined in her novels. But somehow, she suspected he already knew.
The mate bond.
The thought sent a shiver of equal parts excitement and terror down her spine. She’d written about mate bonds dozens of times, crafted scenes where the connection between shifter and mate deepened after claiming, where emotions and sensations flowed between them like a living current. She’d always assumed it was literary license, romantic fantasy to heighten the stakes.
But now? Now she could feel something humming beneath her skin, a warm awareness that seemed to tug gently toward wherever Rune was in the cabin. It wasn’t overwhelming, not yet, but it was there. Real and undeniable.
Panic fluttered in her chest as she sat up abruptly, clutching the sheet to her bare breasts.
What have I done?
Yes, she’d wanted him with a ferocity that had shocked her. Yes, it had felt right in a way that defied logic. But now she was completely exposed to him, wasn’t she? If her research was even remotely accurate, he could sense her location, her emotional state, maybe even her thoughts. The idea of being that transparent, that vulnerable, made her chest tighten with familiar anxiety.
I can’t hide anymore. Not from him at least.
The thought was both terrifying and, strangely, a little liberating. She’d spent so long building walls, maintaining distance, protecting herself from the kind of hurt that came with letting someone too close. But those walls felt paper-thin now, irrelevant in the face of whatever had awakened between them.
Her gaze fell on a black t-shirt draped over the chair in the corner—his, obviously. She slipped from the bed and pulled it over her head, the hem falling to mid-thigh. It smelled like him, pine and spice and something uniquely male that made her want to bury her face in the fabric and breathe deeply.
Focus, Electra.
As she padded barefoot toward the bedroom door, that strange new awareness pulsed stronger. Not intrusive, but present—like a thread connecting her to him even when he wasn’t in sight. She could feel his presence somewhere in the cabin, a warm, steady anchor that both comforted and unnerved her.
Her writer’s brain was already spinning, desperate to capture this feeling, this experience, before it faded. The creative spark that had been dormant for a week was roaring back to life with a vengeance, fed by the intensity of the past twelve hours. She needed to get back to her cabin, needed to pour this all onto the page while it was fresh and raw and real.
But first, she needed to find Rune. To face whatever came next with the man who’d just turned her entire understanding upside down.
The scent of bacon and coffee drew Electra down the hallway like a lifeline, her bare feet silent against the hardwood floors. The mate bond hummed stronger as she approached the kitchen—that warm tether that seemed to pulse in rhythm with her heartbeat.
She found Rune standing at the stove, his broad shoulders filling out the crisp lines of his sheriff’s uniform. The sight of him—all controlled power and masculine authority even in the simple act of plating breakfast—sent heat spiraling through her all over again. He’d already showered and dressed for work, his black hair still slightly damp at the nape of his neck, and she felt a ridiculous pang of disappointment that she’d missed watching him get ready.
His head turned before she’d taken another step, those gray eyes finding hers with unerring precision. Of course he’d sensed her approach. The mate bond worked both ways.
“Morning,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar note of controlled warmth that made her stomach flutter.
The smile that spread across his face was slow and devastating, his pupils dilating as his gaze traveled over her body. She was acutely aware of how she must look—tousled hair, bare legs, drowning in his black t-shirt.
“Good morning,” she managed, her own voice coming out huskier than intended.
