Chapter 3 #2
His soothing was sweet, but she was annoyed at herself.
Bear moved back in and it was all over. He easily sank his remaining balls, then the eight ball.
D-Day and Buck slid into their place at the table, cues in hand, and the noise around them surged again.
Bailee stepped back, pulse still thundering from the match.
She grabbed Bear’s shot glass on impulse and threw it back in one swallow, the tequila searing down her throat.
He fell into step beside her as they crossed to the bar, his shoulder brushing hers, steady and deliberate.
Bear lifted two fingers at the bartender. “Two more shots.”
The man nodded, poured quickly, and set down fresh glasses, the clear liquid gleaming under the amber lights. The air smelled of lime, beer, and sweat, the steady thump of bass from the jukebox vibrating under her feet.
Bailee tossed hers back fast, the burn going molten in her belly. She swayed a little, caught the bar rail for balance.
Bear downed his in one clean gulp, then leaned forward, bracing thick forearms on the wood. His hair slipped forward over his shoulders like a curtain of black ink, catching the glow. His voice was low, steady. “You get home often?”
The words punched through her. She closed her eyes, throat working, freezing at the weight of them.
“No,” she rasped, then cleared her throat, forcing steel back into her voice.
“You?” It was safer to turn it on him, safer than opening herself to anything about her tribe, her grandmother, the silence she carried like a wound.
“Yeah. Every chance I get.” He stayed quiet for a beat, gaze fixed on the bottles lined behind the bar, his jaw tight in profile.
Then his mouth eased, the faintest curve softening his face.
“My little brother, Nathaniel, is graduating from high school. He’s a pistol.
” His head turned, eyes catching hers. “You have any siblings?”
Her stomach clenched. The word stuck in her throat. “No.”
He nodded once, lips pressed flat. “I had three. Than’s all that’s left.”
Her chest tightened. “Oh, what? I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.” His tone was even, but his knuckles whitened where they rested on the bar. “Thatcher was a Marine.”
Her voice softened. “Iraq?”
A short nod. “Yeah.”
“You cut your hair for him, didn’t you?”
His eyes flicked up, dark and burning. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. Grief lived there, raw and unhidden, a wound that had never closed. His voice came rough, gravel catching in his throat. “I did. I was going into the Navy. It seemed fitting to honor my brother by cutting it before I served.”
She swallowed, the weight of that simple truth sinking into her.
Among the Lakota, hair was sacred, a living record of spirit and memory.
It was never wasted. Strands were gathered and kept, returned to the earth with care, not tossed aside.
No one touched it without permission, because it carried power.
That was why she had asked him in the hospital, voice careful, when she’d braided his hair.
She could still remember the texture sliding through her fingers, strong and silken, her hand flexing now at the memory, fingertips tingling.
Her chest tightened. His connection to the Great Spirit, to the land, to the weight of their heritage, was woven through every part of him.
Bear carried it in his silence, in his presence, in his hair.
It was a connection she had never felt for herself, and the recognition hollowed and ached in equal measure.
She couldn’t help herself. Her hand lifted, settling against the hard muscle of his forearm. Heat jolted up her arm, muddling her heart and her head. “It was honorable,” she whispered. Her eyes searched his, needing more. “And who else did you lose?”
The muscle in his jaw ticked. His breath left rough. “My sister, Ayla. She was taken. We never found her.”
Anger exploded through Bailee, white-hot. Her nails pressed into his skin. “How old was she?”
His throat worked. “Twelve.”
“Oh, damn, Dakota.”
His lashes dropped for a moment, then he blinked hard, his voice dropping to a growl. “It was devastating.”
His words were a blade to her chest, and before she could stop it, anger flared hot and wild. Her fists curled tight on the bar rail, nails biting into her palms.
“It’s criminal,” she bit out, her voice sharp enough to cut.
“An epidemic. I lost my cousin, Taryn. She was only fifteen.” The words shook loose, rough and jagged, scraping her throat.
“And it wasn’t just the monsters who took her.
It was the lack of resources, the lack of training, the lack of care that let it happen.
That’s the truth, Bear. Our women go missing, and the world looks the other way. ”
Her chest heaved, fury pulsing through her until it felt like her skin might split. The tequila burned in her stomach, but the fire in her blood was hotter, older.
Bear didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to soothe.
His silence wrapped around her, steady as bedrock, a place for her fire to burn without being smothered.
His hand shifted on the bar, rough knuckles brushing hers, not claiming, not crowding, just there.
His eyes stayed on hers, dark and unwavering, grief and recognition mirrored back at her.
No words. None needed. His presence said everything: I see you. I believe you. You’re not alone in this.
He nodded slowly, eyes darkening, pain carved deep in the lines of his face. “It broke my grandfather, and my mom has never been the same. Ayla was like oxygen. I—I—fuck.” His voice cracked, guttural. “I miss her.”
Her hand stayed on his arm. He hadn’t pulled away. Instead his palm came down, covering hers, warm and grounding. She squeezed, their silence thick and heavy, anger and grief braided together.
For a long moment, she let the outrage burn through her veins before banking it down. “Our women go missing, and the world looks away.”
“Not all the world.” He covered her hand. “Not me.”
She nodded. Someday, she promised herself, I’ll make a difference. But God, there’s so much red tape, so much silence to fight through.
Her voice came quiet, almost unsteady. “So, what’s the reward? You get to call it.”
His eyes caught hers, steady, lethal, devastating. “How about I leave that up to you, Bailee.” His voice rasped her name like it was more than a word. “You know what I want.”
Her heart stumbled. Her body ached. The heat of his hand, the gravity of his presence called to her shame, daring her to break free of the fear still chaining her.
How much longer could she bear it before she broke?
Bear could break her in ways that would feel so devastatingly good she might never recover.
But fear wound cold through her, insidious, sharp. Could she trust him, this man who embodied everything she should have been, but more? Bear was just more. If she unlocked him, would she unlock herself? Could she bear to lay her deepest shame in his hands, the truth she had never been called?
Her breath shuddered out. She lifted her chin, eyes steady on his. “We’re going to need music.”
Bailee walked away before she lost her nerve, weaving through the crowd toward the glowing jukebox in the corner.
The bar’s noise wrapped around her, bursts of laughter, the clink of bottles, the hum of voices colliding with the steady bass from the speakers.
She fed in a few bills, fingers flying over the buttons.
A slow song, something with weight and ache.
The first notes spilled into the air, silencing nothing but sliding under everything, a current she could ride if she let herself.
Before she could turn, she felt him. Heat at her back. The brush of his chest an inch from her shoulder blades. Then his hand, large and unhurried, slid around her waist. He pulled her gently, decisively, until her spine pressed against him and her breath caught.
“Dance with me,” Bear murmured, voice a low rumble against her ear.
She didn’t answer, couldn’t. She simply let him turn her. His arms folded around her like they’d always belonged there.
Her hands found his neck without thought, fingers brushing the fall of his hair where it spilled across his shoulders. Silken strands slid over her skin, warm and alive, and her breath shuddered out. God, the feel of it against her forearms, intimate in a way no one else could ever understand.
He backwalked her out to the open space they were calling a dance floor, his palm firm at the small of her back. The way he moved was its own kind of rhythm, muscles flexing under his shirt with every shift, shoulders loose and steady, hips aligning against hers with quiet precision.
It wasn’t his combat glide, the one he used on mission to move like a shadow through chaos, but it was close.
That same efficiency, that same intent, translated now into something slower, more intimate.
His steps anchored her, his body heat wrapping around her, until all she could do was let him lead.
Each brush of his thigh against hers sparked, every subtle roll of his hips against hers sent fire streaking through her veins.
He was too controlled to grind, too steady to show off, but damn, she felt the power coiled in him with every sway.
He was carrying her the way he carried everything else, certain, unshakable, devastating.
They swayed, bodies pressed close, moving slowly to the rhythm. Every inch of him touched her. The firm heat of his chest against hers, the steel of his thighs brushing hers, his breath ghosting her temple.
Her heart tumbled. This was what she wanted, too, this steady, grounding, silent intimacy, and it was devastating.