Chapter 7
Alexandria
My thoughts feel fuzzy as I look down at the beer bottle in my hand. Apparently, I just chugged the whole thing.
I finish the last bite of bear-hunted meat and sit back. The fire pops softly in the hearth and the room finally feels warm. My stomach is full and the beer has given me a buzz.
Suddenly, the three beast-men sitting around me don’t seem so unnerving. I lift my gaze and look at them more boldly than before.
Orson has six empty beer bottles lined up in front of him like a barricade.
He keeps adjusting them, nudging one into line with the others like he’s building a little wall between himself and the rest of us.
His beard is thick and uneven, his dark hair pulled back in a rough knot.
He shifts constantly, like the chair is just something he’s putting up with.
Then he tips it back onto two legs, bracing one boot against the edge of the table.
Gunnar kicks the chair down immediately. The legs slam back onto the floor with a crack, and Orson’s head snaps toward him, a snarl ripping from his throat.
He doesn’t argue though.
Instead, he glances at me and drags a hand through his beard.
“Well,” he mutters in a tone that sounds a lot like Gunnar’s, “let’s have some manners now we’ve got humans here.”
Torin huffs a laugh.
I ignore them both and look at Gunnar. “So, you’re in charge,” I say.
Torin’s mouth curves into that lazy grin of his.
“Big old bossy bear?” he says. “What gives you that idea?”
“Gunnar loooves being the boss,” Orson grunts.
He knocks back the last mouthful of his beer and shoves to his feet, stalking to the back of the room.
The door creaks open.
A moment later he’s back with another bottle.
A low sound spills from Gunnar’s throat.
Orson freezes for half a second, then deliberately slams the bottle down on the table harder than necessary.
When he wrenches the cap off with his teeth, the foam sprays across the table and splatters onto Torin’s shirt.
Torin looks down at it.
Slowly.
Then back up.
“Do that again,” he says mildly, “and I’ll take your head off your shoulders.”
Orson bares his teeth.
Torin just wipes the foam off with the back of his hand and takes another drink of his own beer.
“I’m the oldest,” he gestures toward himself. Then he hooks his thumb toward Gunnar.
“But he’s the Alpha.”
“Alpha,” I repeat. The word settles strangely inside me, and the back of my neck prickles.
Without meaning to, I look at Gunnar.
His eyes are already on me.
Those irises again—gold, almost glowing in the firelight.
For a moment the rest of the room seems to fade away.
Of course he is, something inside me whispers.
“Orson’s the youngest,” Torin continues. “And the dumbest.”
Orson slams his fist on the table.
“Stop saying that!”
The bottles rattle.
Torin just grins wider.
“See?”
“Both of you—”
Gunnar’s voice lands like a dropped stone.
“Enough.”
To my astonishment, both of them straighten in their chairs immediately.
Just like that.
The argument dies.
I look at him.
Gunnar isn’t just in charge.
He’s the reason the other two don’t tear the place apart.
The room falls quiet. An uncomfortable silence, I would call it. Not that the others seem to register it.
I look around the room, turning over the combination of rotted old lodge and feral grizzly bears. “How long have you lived here?”
Torin glances up from running the edge of his knife under his nails.
“Long enough.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Coupla years.”
“Closer to three,” Orson mutters.
I glance between them. “Why here?”
Torin shrugs. “Less people.”
“None,” Orson corrects.
His chair legs scrape back across the floor as he leans forward, planting both hands on the table.
“You notice something about this place yet?”
I blink at him.
“What?”
“No neighbors,” he says. “No road traffic. No lights at night. Nothing.”
His gaze flicks toward the dark windows, then back to me.
“That’s the point.”
Something about the way he says it makes the back of my neck prickle.
Torin tilts his head, watching me like this is all mildly entertaining.
Orson doesn’t look amused at all.
“For three years,” he goes on, his voice dropping, “nobody’s come up that road who didn’t belong here.”
The implication arrives before he says it:
Until tonight.
Gunnar edges forward and Orson glances at him before he speaks again.
“We kept this place quiet for years. Now we’ve got cops firing rifles in the clearing.”
His lip curls.
“First gunfire we’ve heard up here in years.”
Torin shifts in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Orson—”
“No.”
Orson’s gaze moves back to me.
“And the reason for it is sitting right here.”
Heat creeps up my throat. “I didn’t ask to come here.”
“No,” Orson says.
His gaze stays locked on mine. His eyes are pale green with dark rings around the irises. A predator’s eyes. I swallow.
“But here you are.” He gets up, shoving his chair away and storms across the room.
A growl escapes Gunnar’s lips.
Orson freezes.
It isn’t loud.
But the hairs on the back of my neck lift.
“Sit.”
The word drops into the room like a stone.
Orson’s jaw tightens.
For a moment I think he might keep going.
Then he turns a one-eighty, drags his chair back and drops into it.
Torin exhales through his nose, like he’s been waiting for exactly that outcome.
Gunnar hasn’t even looked at him.
His eyes are still on me.
I look at Orson. “Trust me,” I say. “This wasn’t my vacation plan either.”
Torin lets out a quiet laugh.
Gunnar’s expression stays serious. He’s watching me with a strange intensity, his pupils dilated; his chest rising and falling.
Abruptly, he tears his attention away and his gaze moves from Orson to Torin and back again.
“Alexandria is under our roof.”
The words land heavy.
“Which means she’s under our protection.”
He gives Orson a hard look.
“Remember that.”
Torin nods immediately.
Orson mutters something but doesn’t argue.
Gunnar turns back to me. “You should get some sleep.” His tone is softer now.
I get up right away. “I’ll just clear the plates first—”
“No.” His hand closes lightly around my wrist.
“Leave them.”
My skin tingles where he’s touching me.
I want him to let go.
I want him to keep holding on.
“You’re a guest here,” he adds.
“Oh…” I blink. I have no idea of safehouse-guest protocol. And honestly, I’m about to sleep on my feet.
He releases my wrist.
Then his brow furrows. “The bed,” he mutters. “I’ll help you put the sheets on.”
“I can do it,” I say automatically.
He shakes his head. “That bed’s big. You’ll need two people to get them on straight.”
He pushes his chair back and stands.
“Come on.”
For a second I think about protesting again. But my limbs feel heavy and the idea of wrestling with a pile of sheets seems overwhelming.
“Fine,” I mutter.
Torin lifts his beer in a silent toast as we leave the room.
Orson doesn’t look up.
The hallway is completely dark now. Gunnar walks ahead of me, his broad figure barely visible.
The lamp is still burning, illuminating the gigantic bed.
The vacuum-sealed bundle of sheets lies split open on the mattress.
Gunnar stops in the doorway, like he’s not sure if he should follow me in.
I step past, go to the bed and pull the top sheet free.
It’s heavier than I expect. Cold from the bag.
“I’ll take that side,” he says after a moment.
We shake it out between us. The fabric snaps, then settles, drifting down over the mattress.
For a second, we both reach for the same corner.
Our hands touch.
I pull mine back too quickly.
He stills, just for a beat.
Then we both pretend it didn’t happen.
We move around the bed without speaking, keeping distance this time.
The mattress dips when he leans across it. The frame creaks.
I glance up.
He’s closer than I expect.
Not touching—but close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and something shifts in his expression—tight, then easing.
Like he’s caught between stepping in and pulling back.
I don’t move.
For a second, I think he might.
Close the distance. Do something.
Instead, his grip shifts on the sheet. He pulls it tight, smooths it down with a slow, deliberate pass of his hand.
The moment breaks.
I let out a shaky breath and turn away, tucking the corner under the mattress harder than I need to.
He circles to the foot of the bed while I take the other side, each of us careful now—no overlap, no accidental contact.
The silence stretches.
I rack my brain for something to say, but all that comes up is the fact that there’s a massive grizzly bear man in my room, and he smells like waterfalls and leather and spice and cold mountain air.
“Okay, think that’s good enough,” he says, and suddenly, he’s by the door. “Sleep well, Alexandria.”
Before I can reply, he’s gone.
I stare at the closed door for a long moment, aware my heart is still beating too fast.