“Just distracted,” I say.
That’s one way to put it. I slide back out from under the truck, wiping my hands again, though they’re not particularly dirty. I don’t need to check the bookstore. I know exactly where she is.
My tiger tracks her without effort, mapping her movements in a way that’s instinctive and precise. Too precise. It shouldn’t be this strong already. It shouldn’t feel like this. I straighten, my gaze drifting—against my will—toward the open garage door. Toward her.
I catch a glimpse of her through the bookstore window, moving between shelves, carrying a stack of books. She looks smaller inside that space, dwarfed by the leaning structures around her. Vulnerable. The word hits hard. My instincts surge again, sharp and immediate. Go. Fix it. Keep her safe. I grit my teeth. Not my job. Not my place. Not yet. If ever.
I force myself to turn away. This is exactly why human mates are a problem. They don’t know the rules. They don’t understand the risks. And if the wrong people find out?—
My thoughts cut off sharply. Rogues. The scent had been faint this morning, barely there. I’d dismissed it at first, thinking it might be a passing stray. Now I’m not so sure. I glance towardthe street again, my focus shifting. Protecting her isn’t just instinct. It might be necessity.
That realization settles into something heavier. More dangerous. I wipe my hands again, then toss the rag onto the workbench.
“I’m stepping out,” I tell Mike.
He raises a brow. “Again?”
“Won’t be long.”
I don’t wait for a response.
I cross the street in a few strides, pushing open the bookstore door just as the crash echoes through the space. Too late. Or almost. She’s right there. This time, she’s caught in the path of a fixture falling out of the moldy wallpaper and straight for her head.
She just stands there, her eyes wide, her body frozen for half a second too long.
My body moves before the thought fully forms. I catch the heavy brass lamp an inch before it cracks her skull. Plaster rains down from the gaping wound in the plaster above her head. I hold the antique monstrosity in the air, unwilling to move lest the ceiling cave in over her at any second. Finally, I step away. Then I look at her.
Up close, the connection is so much harder to resist. Her scent—clean, warm, uniquely hers—fills my senses. My tiger presses forward, restless, insistent.
Mine.
I shut it down. Again. Hard.
She thanks me. Again. Her voice is steadying, but I can still hear the edge of adrenaline in it.
I don’t respond. Because if I let myself engage—really engage—I won’t keep the distance I need to. Instead, I assess the damage. The building is worse than I thought from the outside. The structural issues are obvious now. Dangerous.
She doesn’t belong in here.
“I told you this place isn’t safe,” I say, letting the heavy brass lamp clank down on the front counter.
It comes out sharper than intended, but I don’t soften it. She needs to understand. She continues to push back, though. Not backing down, even now. Good.
My tiger approves immediately. I don’t.
3
TESSA
Morning light filters through the dusty front windows in uneven streaks, turning the floating particles in the air into something almost magical—if I ignore the fact that I’m breathing them in.
I stand in the middle of the bookstore, hands on my hips, taking it in again with fresh eyes. Day two. And somehow, it looks worse.
“That’s not possible,” I mutter.
But it is. Now that I’m not running on adrenaline and blind optimism, the problems stand out in sharper detail. The warped floorboards. The subtle sag in the ceiling. The faint discoloration creeping up one wall where moisture has clearly been making itself at home for far too long.
I step carefully across the floor, testing each shift of weight. It holds, but there’s a softness beneath certain boards that makes me wary.
