Chapter 6 - Rhett
This is the stupidest thing I've ever agreed to.
And I've agreed to some monumentally stupid things in my life. Joining black ops. Thinking I could control the bear in combat. Living alone on a mountain with nothing but moonshine and guilt for company.
But this? Sharing a bed with her?
This might top the list.
I lie rigid on top of the blankets, staring at the ceiling, every muscle in my body tense. She's six inches away from me. Six inches. I can hear every breath she takes, smell the lingering scent of rain in her hair mixing with that wildflower sweetness that seems to cling to her skin.
The bear is purring. Actually purring, like a contented house cat instead of an apex predator.
*Mate,* it rumbles. *Close. Safe. Ours.*
"Shut up," I mouth silently.
She shifts slightly, and the movement sends a wave of her scent over me. I dig my fingers into the blanket beneath me to keep from doing something insane.
I can still see her. Not now, in the darkness, but earlier, when I stripped off her wet clothes with hands that shook despite my best efforts to stay clinical.
I tried not to look. I really did.
But she was right there, soft curves and freckled skin, and I'm not made of stone even if I've pretended to be for five years. Her thighs were thick and strong. Her stomach was soft, curving gently. Her breasts—
I force the thought away, but it's too late. My body is reacting, and there's nothing I can do about it except stay absolutely still and pray she doesn't notice.
She thought I'd be disgusted. The idea is so absurd it would be funny if it didn't make me want to punch something.
Disgusted? By her?
She's perfect. She looks like comfort and home and everything I've told myself I don't deserve. And that's exactly why I lied. Why I told her I didn't look, didn't notice, didn't care.
Because if she knew the truth, that I noticed every freckle, every curve, every inch of her skin, she'd see it for what it is. Proof that I'm exactly the monster I know I am. A predator who sees a vulnerable woman and thinks things he has no right to think.
She deserves better than that. Better than me.
But the mate bond doesn't care about what she deserves. It just keeps pulling tighter, insisting that she's mine, that I'm hers, that this is inevitable.
I've spent the last few hours trying to convince myself it's not real. That the bond is just my imagination, the bear's wishful thinking, a side effect of five years of isolation making me latch onto the first person who's shown me kindness.
Except I can feel it. A tangible thread connecting us, thrumming with her heartbeat, her emotions, her presence. When she was dying in that shed, I felt her slipping away like it was my own life bleeding out.
And when I found her, when I held her, when I brought her back here, every instinct in my body screamed *mine, protect, keep safe*.
That's not imagination. That's not loneliness. That's the mate bond. Real and undeniable and absolutely fucking terrifying.
Her breathing is slowing, evening out. She's falling asleep.
Good. At least one of us will get some rest.
I close my eyes and try to think about anything except the woman in my bed. The knife I was making. The firewood that needs splitting. The leak in the roof I noticed last week.
Anything.
An hour later…
I'm still awake.
The fire has burned down to embers, casting the cabin in a soft orange glow. Outside, the storm has finally passed, leaving only the sound of water dripping from the eaves.
She's definitely asleep now. Her breathing is deep and steady, and she's rolled onto her side facing me, one hand tucked under her cheek.
She looks younger like this. Peaceful. The worry lines between her eyebrows smoothed away, her mouth soft. I should not be watching her sleep. That's creepy behavior, the kind of thing that would rightfully terrify her if she knew.
But I can't seem to look away.
The blankets have slipped down slightly, revealing the curve of her shoulder. There are freckles there too, scattered like constellations. I could trace patterns in them if I let myself.
I don't let myself.
Instead, I catalog the injuries I'll need to treat in the morning. The scrapes on her palms are superficial but need cleaning. The bruise on her knee is already turning purple. She must have hit it hard. The cut on her cheek should be fine, but I'll check it for debris.
Taking care of her feels natural. Right. Like this is what I'm supposed to be doing.
The bear rumbles approval, and for once, I don't fight it.
Maybe it's not the worst thing in the world, this bond. Maybe it doesn't have to mean disaster. People have fated mates all the time, or they did, back when I was part of shifter society. Most of them seemed happy about it.
Of course, most of them weren't also responsible for the deaths of their entire unit.
The memory surfaces before I can stop it. The ambush. The firefight. The moment when everything went wrong and the bear took over, consumed by rage and bloodlust and the single-minded need to destroy the threat.
I can still smell the blood. Still hear the screaming. Still see their faces when the rage cleared and I realized what I'd done.
My hands are shaking. I clench them into fists, breathing through the panic.
This is why I can't have a mate. This is why I live alone, why I drink myself stupid most nights, why I've buried the bear so deep it's a wonder it can still breathe.
I'm dangerous. Broken. A loaded weapon with a faulty safety.
She deserves someone whole. Someone good. Someone who won't wake up one day covered in her blood because the beast got loose.
"Rhett?"
Her voice makes me jolt. I thought she was asleep.
"Yeah?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Are you okay?"
"Fine. Go back to sleep."
"You're breathing really hard. And your hands… You're going to hurt yourself."
I look down. She's right. My fists are clenched so tight that my nails are digging into my palms.
I force my hands open.
"Nightmare," I lie. "Sorry if I woke you."
She's quiet for a moment, and I think maybe she'll accept the explanation and drift back off.
Instead, she asks: "Do you get them a lot?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It matters if you're not sleeping."
"I sleep fine."
"Liar." There's no accusation in it, just gentle certainty.
I don't respond. What am I supposed to say?
"I get them too," she offers. "Not as often anymore, but I used to.
After my dad left, or, no, he didn't leave leave, he's still in town, but after my parents divorced when I was sixteen.
I'd dream about it, about the fighting before, about watching him pack his things.
Stupid things to have nightmares about, probably, but—"
"They're not stupid." The words come out before I can stop them. "Trauma is trauma. Doesn't matter if someone else thinks it's valid."
"Is that what yours are? Trauma?"
Fuck. Walked right into that one.
"Yeah," I admit. "Old trauma. Nothing you need to worry about."
"I'm not worried. Just... curious. About you."
"Why?"
She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow.
In the dim light, her eyes are more gold than green.
"Because you're interesting. Because you live alone on a mountain and make knives and saved my life.
Because you're clearly running from something, and I recognize that look.
The one that says 'if I stop moving, the past will catch up. '"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" She's not confrontational about it, just matter-of-fact. "I see it in how you live. Nothing personal in this cabin except what's necessary. No photos, no mementos, no connection to anything or anyone. That's not choosing solitude. That's hiding."
"You should go back to sleep," I say.
"Are you sleeping?"
"No."
"Then why should I?" She settles back down but doesn't close her eyes. "Tell me something. Anything. I'm not tired anymore."
"That's not how this works. I don't do... sharing."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't."
"That's not a reason."
"It's the only reason you're getting."
She's quiet again, but I can practically hear her thinking. Then: "Were you military?"
My whole body goes rigid. "What makes you think that?"
"The way you move. The scars. How you talk sometimes, like you're giving orders you don't even realize you're giving. And you said you've treated hypothermia before. That's not normal civilian knowledge."
She's too observant. Too smart. This is dangerous. But the mate bond is pulling at me, urging truth, demanding I share with her like mates are supposed to share.
"Yeah," I finally say. "I was military. Long time ago."
"What branch?"
"Army. Special operations."
"That's impressive."
"It was a long time ago," I repeat.
"Why did you leave?"
This is where I should shut down. Refuse to answer. Tell her to drop it.
Instead, I hear myself say: "Something went wrong. People died. My fault."
"I don't believe that," she says softly.
"You weren't there."
"No, but I know you. A little, anyway. And the man who risked his life to save an idiot hiker in a storm isn't the kind of man who gets people killed through carelessness."
"You don't know me," I say roughly. "You don't know what I'm capable of."
"Then tell me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because—" I take a breath, forcing the words out. "Because it's too gruesome. Too violent. The kind of thing that gives you nightmares worse than whatever your brain can imagine. And I won't do that to you. I won't put those images in your head."
She's quiet for a long moment. I can feel her watching me in the darkness.
"It wasn't your fault," she finally says.
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do. Because you're clearly punishing yourself for it, have been for years.
And people who are actually at fault? They don't punish themselves.
They make excuses. They blame others. They move on.
" She shifts slightly closer. "You're a good man, Rhett.
Whatever happened, I'm sure you did everything you could. "
My throat is tight. I can't remember the last time someone said something like that to me. Can't remember the last time someone looked at my scars and saw anything except a monster.
"You're wrong about me," I manage.
"I don't think I am."
The mate bond thrums between us, warm and insistent. The bear has gone quiet, content just to be near her.
"You should sleep," I say, but there's no force behind it anymore.
"So should you."
"I told you, I don't sleep well."
"Maybe you would if you talked about it more. Instead of keeping it all locked up inside."
"Talking doesn't help."
"How do you know? Have you tried?"
"No."
"Then how can you be sure?" She reaches out, and I feel her hand land on my arm over the blankets. Just resting there, a point of contact. "I'm a good listener. If you ever want to try."
I should pull away. Should maintain the distance. Should remember that she's leaving in the morning and this, whatever this is, can't continue.
But I don't move. I let her hand stay where it is, let the warmth of it seep through the fabric.
"I'll think about it," I lie.
"Okay." She yawns, finally sounding tired again. "Thanks for talking to me. For letting me get to know you a little."
"Didn't really have a choice. You're persistent."
"I prefer determined." Her hand squeezes my arm gently, then withdraws. "Goodnight, Rhett."
"Goodnight."