Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
A rtek moved through Meara’s kitchen with practiced ease, the familiar motions of cooking settling his restless bear. Steam rose from a pot of homemade marinara sauce, filling the cabin with the scent of herbs and garlic. His enhanced hearing picked up the soft scratch of pencil on paper from the living room where Meara curled in her favorite armchair with her sketchbook.
He’d noticed her drawing more since the attack as if channeling her emotions through art helped process the violence she’d witnessed. His bear rumbled with satisfaction at having her close enough to protect, to provide for.
“Something smells amazing.” Meara appeared in the doorway, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders. The bruises had faded to barely-there shadows, but his memory of her injuries remained sharp.
“Family recipe.” He stirred the sauce, catching the way she gravitated toward the stove. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.” She stole a breadstick from the warming plate, dodging his playful swat. “Almost completely healed.”
“Mm-hmm.” He raised an eyebrow, noting the slight stiffness in her movements. “And that’s why you winced reaching for cups earlier?”
“Spy.” But her smile softened the accusation. “It’s just a little residual soreness. Nothing serious.”
Artek added fresh basil to the sauce, studying her expression. “I know you’re eager to reschedule the workshop.”
“But?”
“But I’m glad you’re taking time to heal properly.” He caught her hand as she reached for another breadstick, bringing her fingers to his lips. “The retreat can wait.”
Her breath hitched. “You’re distracting me with food and sweet gestures.”
“Is it working?”
“Maybe.” She leaned into him, and his free arm wrapped automatically around her waist. “Though I might need more convincing.”
The timer chimed before he could demonstrate exactly how convincing he could be. Dinner came together quickly—pasta tossed in the rich sauce, warm bread, and a bottle of red wine Meara had been saving for a special occasion.
“This is incredible.” She twirled pasta around her fork, making appreciative noises that did interesting things to his pulse. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“My mother. She insisted all her children learn.” He topped off their wine glasses. “Said we couldn’t rely on take-out forever, no matter how successful we became.”
“Smart woman.” Meara’s eyes sparkled in the soft lighting. “Though I suspect she had ulterior motives. Like ensuring her future daughter-in-law would be properly fed?”
“Among other things.” He caught the slight widening of her eyes at the implied future, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she held his gaze, a soft blush coloring her cheeks.
After dinner, they settled in the living room. The fireplace cast dancing shadows across the walls as Meara curled into her chair, sketchbook balanced on her knee.
“Would you...” She bit her lip, suddenly shy. “Would you let me draw you?”
Something warm unfurled in his chest. “Of course.”
“Sit by the fire?” She gestured to the hearth. “The lighting’s perfect.”
He settled onto the thick rug, letting the flames paint his skin with amber and gold. Meara’s pencil moved across paper with swift, sure strokes.
“Tell me about your first shift,” she said, eyes flicking between him and her sketch. “Were you scared?”
“Terrified.” He smiled at the memory. “I was thirteen, all gangly limbs and attitude. The bear felt huge, overwhelming. But then my father took me running through the mountains, and suddenly everything made sense.”
“What did it feel like?”
“Freedom.” He watched her work, fascinated by the intensity of her focus. “Like finding a piece of myself I hadn’t known was missing. The forest opened up in new ways—scents, sounds, sensations I’d never experienced as a human.”
Her pencil paused. “Do you miss him? Your father?”
“Every day.” He traced patterns in the rug’s thick pile. “But especially during important moments. Meeting you. Knowing he’d never...” He trailed off, caught by the emotion in her eyes.
“He’d be proud of you.”
“I hope so.” He cleared his throat. “What about you? Did Betsy encourage your art from the start?”
“God, yes.” Meara laughed softly. “She converted our garage into a studio when I was eight. Said if I was going to paint the walls anyway, I might as well have proper canvas.”
They talked as she drew—sharing stories, trading quiet laughs. The fire crackled, wine warmed their blood, and something deeper than attraction hummed between them.
Finally, Meara sat back. “Done. Want to see?”
He moved behind her chair, and his breath caught. She’d captured more than his likeness—she’d somehow drawn the very essence of him. The way she rendered his eyes... there was tenderness there, and strength, and something that looked remarkably like love.
“Is that really how you see me?” His voice came out rough.
She turned, finding him much closer than expected. “Yes.”
The sketchbook slid forgotten to the floor as he cupped her face in his hands. Her pulse fluttered under his thumbs like a captured bird.
“Meara.” Her name emerged as a growl.
She rose to meet him, and he kissed her—soft at first, then with growing hunger as she melted against him. Her fingers threaded through his hair, drawing a rumble of approval from deep in his chest.
“Stay with me tonight?” she whispered against his mouth. “Not in the guest room.”
His response was to lift her into his arms, carrying her toward the stairs. Her laughter turned to a gasp as he nuzzled her neck.
“Your wish,” he murmured, “is my command.”
The fire burned low behind them, forgotten as they discovered new ways to keep warm.