Chapter 5 - Cole
I move around the kitchen with a false calm to mask the turmoil beneath my skin. She saw me. Not me as the man, but me as the bear. The recognition in her eyes when she mentioned it sent ice through my veins.
"Pasta okay?" I ask, focusing on the mundane to anchor myself. My bear is still too close to the surface after the unplanned shift—a desperate measure when the pressure became too much.
"Perfect." Ruby sits at the island, her laptop open beside her. "I've sorted about sixty percent of your records now. We might actually pull this off."
I nod, grateful for the change in subject. "Never doubted it."
That's a lie. I've doubted everything since she arrived. My control, my judgment, my ability to keep my secret. Two years ago, a tourist spotted me in bear form and the resulting hunt forced me to disappear for weeks. I can't risk exposure again, especially not with the IRS breathing down my neck.
But today, the need to shift overwhelmed me. Two days before the full moon, with my mate in my territory… My bear couldn't be contained. I'd barely made it to the tree line behind the construction site before the change took me, my bones cracking and reshaping while I bit back howls of pain.
And then, like a moth to flame, I'd been drawn back to the cabin. To her.
"You're quiet," Ruby observes, her eyes tracking my movements. "Hard day?"
I place a pot of water on the stove, turn to face her. "Just thinking about the audit."
"We're in good shape, Cole. Truly." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, "Your business is solid. We just need to make the paperwork reflect that."
"Thank you." I pause, weighing my next words. "For everything. For coming here, for staying."
Her cheeks color slightly. "Just doing my job."
"Above and beyond," I counter, turning back to the stove as the water begins to boil. "Not everyone would spend their weekend holed up in a cabin with a stranger."
"You're not exactly a stranger anymore," she says softly.
The words send a surge of hope through me that my bear responds to immediately. I grip the counter, willing him back. Not now.
"What does that mean?" I ask, not turning around.
"Just that... I don't know. We've spent almost twenty-four hours in each other's company. I know how you take your coffee, that you build furniture in your spare time, that you stress-bake cookies at midnight."
"Cookie-making was strategic," I say, trying to lighten the moment. "Figured you'd work harder with proper fuel."
Her laugh is warm, genuine. "It worked. I'm easily bribed with baked goods."
I add pasta to the boiling water, then start chopping vegetables for the sauce. "What else have you deduced about me, Ruby Oliver?"
"That you're private. Protective. Proud of what you've built." She pauses. "And hiding something."
The knife stills in my hand. "What makes you say that?"
"Accountant's intuition. The same instinct that tells me when numbers don't add up." Her voice remains casual, but I can hear her heart rate accelerate slightly. "There are gaps in your explanations. Inconsistencies."
I resume chopping, keeping my movements measured. "Such as?"
"Such as how you sometimes seem to hear things before I do. How you knew I was standing in the doorway this morning without looking. How you appear so... restless today, like you're containing something."
Perceptive. Dangerously so. I slide the vegetables into a pan with hot oil, the sizzle filling the silence.
"And that bear," she continues. "You didn't seem surprised that it was here. Almost like you expected it."
I turn to face her, leaning back against the counter. "I told you, bears are common in these mountains. I've lived with them my whole life."
"It had green eyes," she says, watching me closely. "I've never seen a bear with green eyes before."
My pulse jumps. "The light plays tricks at dusk."
"Maybe." She doesn't look convinced. "Or maybe there's something special about the wildlife here."
If only she knew how close to the truth she's circling. I stir the sauce, buying time to steady myself. "These mountains have their secrets."
"And their secret-keepers?" Her tone is light, but her eyes are too perceptive.
I meet her gaze directly. "Everyone has secrets, Ruby."
"Even emergency bookkeepers?"
"Especially them." I offer a small smile. "All those confidential financial records."
She accepts the deflection with grace, closing her laptop. "Fair point. Your secret tax deductions are safe with me."
Crisis averted, for now. But Ruby is too observant, too intelligent to keep in the dark for long. Especially if she stays another night, with the full moon drawing closer and my control growing thinner.
I serve the pasta, setting a plate before her. We eat in silence for a few minutes, the tension easing. This feels so natural. Sharing a meal, sharing space. If circumstances were different, if I were just a man and she just a woman...
"Tell me about Atlanta," I say, genuinely curious about her life beyond the crisis that brought her here.
She twirls pasta around her fork. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. Your home, your work. What you do when you're not saving businesses from the IRS."
Ruby considers this, head tilted slightly. "My apartment overlooks Piedmont Park. It's small but has great light for my plants, which are the only living things I can reliably keep alive."
"You have trouble with pets?" I ask, amused.
"My last goldfish committed suicide. Jumped right out of the bowl when I was at work." She grins. "I'm better with numbers than nurturing."
"I doubt that." The words come out more intensely than intended.
Her eyes flick to mine, something vulnerable crossing her features before she continues. "Work keeps me busy. Crisis accounting means I'm always on call, always traveling to the next emergency. It's exciting but not exactly conducive to putting down roots."
"No family nearby?"
"Parents in Phoenix. Younger brother in grad school in Boston." She takes a sip of water. "You?"
"No one since Dad passed." I rarely discuss my family, but with Ruby, the words come easier. "Mom died when I was twelve. Cancer. Dad raised me alone after that."
"That must have been hard," she says, compassion softening her features. "For both of you."
I nod, remembering those dark years—a grieving father trying to teach his young shifter son how to control his abilities without a mother's gentler guidance. "He did his best."
"He taught you well," Ruby observes. "You built this beautiful home, run a successful business."
"He taught me responsibility. Discipline." Control, I add silently. Above all, control.
"Important lessons." She finishes her pasta, setting her fork down. "Thank you for dinner. It was delicious."
"Least I could do." I stand, collecting our plates. "More work tonight?"
She stretches, and I try not to stare at the way her sweater rises slightly, revealing a sliver of skin. "A couple more hours, I think. Then I'll need sleep if we're going to finish tomorrow."
Tomorrow. The day before the full moon, when my bear will be nearly impossible to contain. When every instinct will scream at me to claim my mate.
"I'll clean up here," I say. "You get back to the numbers."
Ruby stands, and for a moment she's close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, smell the subtle vanilla scent of her skin. My bear rises, urging me to reach out, to touch her, to pull her close.
I step back, putting safe distance between us. "If you need anything—"
"I know where to find you." She smiles, and something inside me both settles and ignites at once. "Thanks again for dinner."
I watch her walk back to the office, her movements slow and confident. When she's out of sight, I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white, and draw a shaky breath.
One more day. One more night. Then the audit, and she'll leave, returning to her life in Atlanta. The thought makes my bear howl in protest, but what choice do I have? To tell her the truth would be to risk everything.
My secret, my business, any chance of her seeing me as something other than a monster.
I wash the dishes, listening to the sound of her typing in the other room, the occasional rustle of papers. Domestic sounds that make this cabin feel more like a home than it has in years.
Outside, the moon is waxing, nearly full. Its pull tugs at my blood, at the beast within. I dry my hands and step onto the porch, letting the cool night air wash over me. The forest calls, dark and inviting, offering space to run, to roam, to be what I truly am.
But I can't leave her. Not tonight. Not with her questions and suspicions already aroused.
I settle for pacing the porch, keeping watch over the cabin, over her. Sentinel and prisoner both, caught between man and beast, between truth and secrecy, between longing and fear.
Ruby's typing eventually stops, and I hear her soft footsteps moving from the office to the guest room. Water running in the bathroom. The quiet sounds of her preparing for bed.
When silence finally falls, I return inside, locking the doors, checking the windows. Not that anything in these woods threatens me, but old habits die hard. Protecting territory, protecting what's mine. What could be mine, if fate were kinder.
I stretch out on the couch again, staring at the ceiling, listening to Ruby's breathing as it deepens into sleep. My bear settles slightly, comforted by her presence, by knowing she's safe under our roof.
Tomorrow will bring its own challenges. The audit looms, but more pressing is the moon's pull, the thinning of my control, the growing need to shift.
And Ruby's questions. Her perceptive eyes that see too much.
Sleep eludes me for hours, my mind churning with possibilities, with fears, with hopes I barely dare acknowledge. When I finally drift off, it's to dreams of running through moonlit forests, a smaller form keeping pace beside me, unafraid of the beast I become.