Chapter 12
Gunnar
Forty minutes.
My beast is ticking them off as I finish up with the generator. The small light on the panel is steady, and the low, reassuring rumble fills the shed.
I let out a long breath.
It’s ancient, but in good working order; it just needed servicing.
Forty minutes until Alexandria comes back and I get to see those cherry-colored panties again.
I tighten the last bolt and straighten up, wiping my hands on a rag.
Now there’ll be power for the lights, the fridge, whatever else Alexandria needs. After that I’ll see about getting the power lines reconnected again. Get the place running like it should.
I put away my tools, then head toward the house to see if the lights are working.
I push through the back door into the utility room.
And stop dead.
Because the air reeks of fresh blood.
Entrails. An opened carcass.
And there’s only one possible reason for that.
I charge into the kitchen, smashing the door back.
A deer carcass lies sprawled across the middle of the kitchen table, ribs cracked open, dark meat exposed. Blood has pooled on the wood and is spilling all over the floor.
Orson stands beside it. There’s a cleaver in his hand.
“What the hell are you doing?” I roar.
Orson turns like he has all the time in the world, a grin spreading across his face.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m just showing your mate what living with bears is really like.”
My jaw tightens.
“You motherfucker.”
“We do not live like this,” I say, already moving toward him. “When has it ever been okay to butcher animals on the kitchen table?”
Orson shrugs. “Good a place as any.”
“No, it isn’t.”
I close the distance between us. “We are not animals.”
My fists clench. My beast pushes forward, teeth aching as my fangs press against my gums.
Orson’s grin slips. He lifts his hands. “Hey. Easy. Guess I got a little carried away—”
“Like hell you did.” I step in close. “You’re trying to scare her off.”
I draw my fist back—
The doorknob behind me turns.
My head snaps around.
“Don’t come in—”
Too late.
I just have time to drop my fist, before the kitchen door opens and Alexandria steps inside.
She stops just past the doorway. Her eyes take in the whole room.
The deer carcass spread across the table.
The dripping blood.
Orson standing beside it with a gigantic knife in his hand.
Me standing there ready to break my brother’s jaw.
“Hey,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry about this.”
She doesn’t answer. Just stands there, looking.
The seconds stretch out.
Then she gives a small nod, like she’s filing it away.
“Okay,” she says calmly.
Her gaze shifts to me.
“I’m just going to get a glass of water.”
She walks past us toward the sink, skirting the edge of the table.
The water runs.
“Alexandria,” I say, forcing my voice back under control, “This does not happen here. Orson was just testing my boundaries, and he’s going to regret it.” I throw him a furious look, but he’s staring at the floor.
She shuts off the faucet and turns, glass in hand.
She looks between the two of us.
Then she shrugs.
“It’s fine,” she says. “I know what you guys are. Life is different out here.”
She lifts the glass and drinks the whole thing in one long swallow.
Rinses it.
Sets it on the drainer.
“I’ll be back in ten,” she says. “For the washing.”
Then she turns and walks out of the kitchen.
Just like that.
I stare after her.
She didn’t panic.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t even look particularly surprised.
When I turn back to Orson, his expression has changed.
He looks… disappointed. Almost hurt.
“You really thought that was going to scare my mate off?” I growl.
He shrugs. “Thought she should see what she’s signed up for.”
“Shame on you for trying.” I draw my lips back. “Clean it up.”
Orson doesn’t move.
“If you ever pull something like that again,” I say, quieter now, “you’re out.”
His head jerks up. “You don’t mean that.”
I step closer.
“Don’t test me, Orson.” My voice stays calm. “Alexandria is mine.”
The word sits between us like a stone.
“And if you can’t respect that,” I add, “you don’t belong in this clan.”
The color drains from his face.
For a second I think he might argue.
Instead, he looks down at the deer.
“Yeah,” he mutters.
“Thought so,” I say. “Now get this shit off the table.”
I stomp out the back door, forcing myself to keep control.
My beast is pacing under my skin, teeth bared, hackles up. It’s furious at what Orson just did. Doesn’t tolerate anyone testing the mate bond.
I drag a hand down my face and force myself to breathe. The anger drains slowly, like water out of a cracked bucket.
She handled that well.
Better than well.
I thought she’d lose it.
Instead, she looked at a half-butchered deer like she was mentally filing it under “Bear House Problems” and moved on with her day.
A grin pulls at my mouth.
Tough girl.
I head back to the utility room to check the lights.
I flip the switch.
Nothing.
“Of course,” I mutter.
I unscrew the bulb and give it a shake.
The filament rattles loose inside.
I dig through the boxes stacked against the wall. Most of them haven’t been touched in years.
After a minute I find a dusty pack of bulbs.
That’ll do.
I screw one in. It flickers, then glows steadily in my hand.
Relief.
I need to go to town and buy more. But for now, this will have to do.
I’ll be able to put a bulb in the bathroom, Alexandria’s room, and the kitchen. That should make her a little more comfortable.
I step outside again—
She’s already there. In the shed, rooting through some boxes.
The sight of her bent over like that stops me cold.
She has the peachiest ass I’ve ever seen in my life, perfectly displayed in those tight stretchy pants.
For a moment I just stand and stare.
Then I remember my manners.
Remember that I’m not just a feral beast.
“Help you with something?” I call, keeping my voice soft so I don’t startle her.
She looks around.
A strand of hair has escaped her ponytail and is stuck to her cheek. Her face is slightly flushed from the cold air.
“I was wondering if you had a washing line.”
“A what?”
She blinks at me.
“A washing line.”
I stare at her blankly.
“You know,” she says patiently, “something to hang clothes on? So they dry?”
“Oh.” I scratch the back of my neck. “We usually just… hang stuff over chairs.”
She stares at me. “You dry clothes… on chairs?”
“Works fine.”
For bears.
She presses her lips together, like she’s trying not to laugh.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Well. I thought maybe we could rig something up.”
She gestures around the shed. “Maybe with some rope? Nails? Something like that?”
“Good idea,” I say quickly.
I drop down beside her and start digging through the boxes.
Our arms brush. The contact sends a jolt straight through me. Heat spreads across my skin.
Her body stiffens too.
I glance sideways.
She’s suddenly very focused on the contents of the box.
“Oh!” she says quickly, pulling out a dusty ball of twine.
“This could work.”
“That’ll work,” I agree.
I grab my toolbox from the corner and pull out a hammer and a handful of nails.
“Here, I can hold those,” she says.
She cups her hands and I deposit them into her palm.
“Thanks,” I say gruffly.
I take a nail and hammer it into the far corner.
Every time I need another nail, she offers them to me in her cupped hands.
I don’t rush it. I could stay here all afternoon, standing beside her, breathing in her intoxicating scent while my fingers brush against hers again and again.
When I’m done, I string the twine between the nails and step back.
“This what you had in mind?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Perfect.”
My chest warms.
I love doing things for this girl. I know I’d do anything in the world to make life easier for her.
“Time to test it.”
I flip the lid of the washer. It sticks, then gives with a pop. I reach into the drum for the wet clothes—
“Stop!” She grabs my hands. “I’ll take it from here.”
I go still, desire charging through me at the touch of her soft little fingers on mine.
Then I get it.
And maybe there’s a matching bra in there too.
“Right,” I say.
I step back from the washer. “I’ll… give you a minute.”
She nods quickly. She can’t meet my eyes, but her cheeks are flushed prettily.
I step out into the cold air.
She doesn’t want me to see her panties.
Fair enough.
Won’t be long before I’m pulling them off her myself.