Chapter 65
SIXTY-FIVE
T he emotional aftermath should have terrified Thora. Sex had always been transactional for her—physical release without attachment. But as Artair pulled her against his chest, she found herself nestling closer, craving his warmth and solidity.
“So,” he murmured against her damp hair. “Royal tiger lineage. That’s quite the revelation.”
The simple acknowledgment of what had driven her to his gym broke something loose inside her. Words spilled out—the Tiikeri ceremonial courtyard, Aleksander’s formal recognition, the pendant that glowed at her touch, Elder Willow’s pointed observations.
“I don’t know how to be what they want,” she admitted, fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “They’re looking at me like I’m some lost princess returned to save the kingdom. But I’m a bounty hunter. I track people, fight people, and move on.”
Or at least, she had. Until Enchanted Falls. Until Artair.
The thought no longer panicked her as it once would have. When had that changed?
“You don’t have to be anything you’re not ready to be,” he said, his fingers combing gently through her damp hair. “Titles and expectations—they’re just external things. They don’t define who you are inside.”
The understanding in his voice soothed something raw within her. “Is that how you handle it? Being the Maxen heir, carrying all those responsibilities?”
His chest rose and fell with a deep sigh. “Not always well. Sometimes the weight of it all—the family legacy, the business, the clan politics—it can be suffocating.”
Thora propped herself up on one elbow to study his face, recognizing the shadows there. “Calan,” she guessed softly. “You’re thinking about your brother.”
Pain flashed in his eyes, raw and unguarded. “We were inseparable once. The pride and joy of the Maxen clan—twin bear shifters destined to lead together.”
“What happened after the accident?” she asked, running a gentle hand along his jaw.
Artair’s gaze fixed on some distant point, revisiting memories she couldn’t see. “After our parents died, I stepped up—took on leadership roles, shouldered responsibilities.”
The grief etched into his features stirred something protective in Thora’s chest. Without conscious thought, she leaned forward to press her lips to his forehead, a gesture of comfort she’d never offered anyone before.
“All these years, he’s been alive,” Artair continued. “Planning, plotting. And I never looked for him. Never questioned the explanation of his missing body.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Thora insisted.
“But I should have felt it.” His hand spread across his heart. “He’s my twin. My blood. There should have been some sense that he survived.”
The wounded certainty in his voice resonated with Thora’s own confusion about heritage and blood bonds. His scent shifted subtly, tinged with the acrid note of self-recrimination.
“Maybe he didn’t want to be found,” she suggested gently. “Some people run because they’re looking for something else. Not because they hate what they’re leaving behind.”
Her words hung between them, applying as much to her nomadic lifestyle as to Calan’s disappearance. Artair’s eyes searched hers, understanding dawning in their golden depths.
“Is that why you never stay? You’re looking for something?”
The question pierced deeper than she expected. Thora considered deflecting with humor or changing the subject entirely. Instead, she found herself answering honestly.
“Maybe I’ve been looking for a place that feels right. Somewhere I could belong without losing myself.” She traced the line of his collarbone, keeping her eyes on her finger’s path rather than meeting his gaze. “Or maybe I’ve been afraid of what happens if I do stay.”
“What are you afraid would happen?” His question was barely a whisper as if he feared speaking too loudly might spook her into silence.
“Loss. Betrayal. Pick your poison.” She attempted a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Easier not to have roots if you’re going to be uprooted anyway.”
His palm cradled her cheek, thumb brushing her lower lip with exquisite tenderness. “And now? Are you still afraid?”