5. Graham
Five
Graham
I spend the entire night outside her apartment.
Not in a creepy serial killer way.
Okay.
Maybe it’s a little bit like a creepy serial killer way.
But in my defense, I'm a Bear.
And Bears are notoriously bad at personal boundaries where their mates are concerned.
Mine certainly is.
Pace.
Sniff.
Sit.
Stand.
Pace some more.
Every few minutes my Bear insists we check the stairs leading up to her apartment over the detached garage.
She's still inside.
Sleeping.
Safe.
That’s good.
But I’m out here.
Alone.
Without her.
And that sucks ass.
My Bear wants to circle the yard again.
Because obviously the rabid fox has assembled an army and plans to launch a coordinated assault before dawn.
I’m a fucking idiot.
Protect mate.
“I know.”
Protect mate.
“I fucking know. I was there too.”
Protect—
“Shut the fuck up, already. I get it!”
Okay, this is bad. I’m having actual conversations—okay fine, I’m having actual fucking arguments—with myself.
Shit.
The old Golden Retriever across the street barks at me around two in the morning.
I deserve it.
By sunrise, I've worn a path through the backyard—Mrs. Henderson's I believe.
If she notices the suspiciously Bear-shaped trail in her grass later, I suppose I'll owe her an apology.
Or flowers.
Definitely flowers.
Can you apologize to humans for messing up their landscaping because of overactive mating instincts?
I guess I'll find out.
As the first rays of sunlight creep over Barvale, I duck deeper into the woods and shift.
Being naked in the forest at six in the morning isn't exactly how I pictured my Tuesday starting.
I pull on the emergency clothes I stashed days ago, hidden inside a waterproof bag beneath a fallen log in these same woods.
It's one of my favorite places to Shift and just... exist.
No expectations.
No fans.
No cameras.
Just me and my Bear.
Every Shifter in the Barvale Clan learns this trick before adulthood.
Always keep a change of clothes where you Shift.
Unless you enjoy walking home naked.
I don't.
Jeans.
T-shirt.
Sneakers.
The familiar routine settles my nerves—a little bit, anyway.
Once I'm dressed, I rake both hands through my unruly red hair, trying to tame it into something resembling civilized.
Nope.
Still looks like I lost a fight with a tornado.
“Christ.”
I close my eyes and groan.
I bit her.
My mate.
The prettiest woman I've ever laid eyes on.
And she's never even met me.
Hell, she doesn't even know my name.
As far as Elsie Stevens is concerned, she was rescued from a rabid fox by a giant Black Bear who then immediately decided to chomp on her hand.
Real smooth, Graham.
My Bear huffs indignantly.
Claimed mate.
“Yeah, I know why you did it.”
Doesn't mean it wasn't completely insane.
How exactly am I supposed to explain this?
Hi. I'm Graham MacKenzie.
Sorry I accidentally marked you as my fated mate because my inner Bear has the impulse control of a Labrador puppy.
Can I buy you dinner?
I scrub a hand down my face.
She's going to think I'm a lunatic.
Or worse...
She's going to be afraid of me.
That thought lands like a punch to the gut.
What if she sees me and all she remembers is six plus hundred pounds of teeth and claws standing over her?
What if every time she looks at me, she relives the most terrifying night of her life?
The idea twists something deep inside my chest.
I don't want my mate to fear me.
I want her to smile when she sees me.
I want to be the reason she feels safe.
Instead...
I bit her.
Fantastic.
I glance down at my reflection in the dark screen of my phone.
The same face stares back.
Red hair that refuses to stay flat no matter how much product I use.
A face absolutely covered in freckles.
Green eyes.
A crooked nose from one too many tackle football games as a cub.
Broad shoulders.
A beard that's getting a little longer than usual.
Normal.
Just...
Me.
But redheads aren't everybody's type.
Believe me.
I learned that the hard way.
Stephanie Collins once announced in the middle of the cafeteria that kissing a redhead probably tasted like pennies.
The entire lunchroom laughed.
I was sixteen.
It stuck with me—fuck, did it ever.
That horrible feeling of being the butt of everyone’s joke—yeah, that.
I remember it all too well.
Then there was Cindy telling me freckles looked like somebody had sneezed dirt across my face.
Or Sharon asking if my hair glowed in the dark.
Kids are cruel.
And the funny thing is...
Even after winning a reality singing competition.
Even after touring all the big cities.
Even after millions of downloads.
A little piece of that awkward teenage kid still lives inside me.
The one who always wondered why every girl picked somebody else.
Shit.
My hair is always going to be red.
I can't change it.
And my freckles aren't going anywhere either.
They never do.
Is it idiotic for a thirty-five-year-old man to still feel insecure about how he looks?
Probably.
Do I care?
Not really.
Because this isn't just any woman.
This is my mate.
The one woman in the world my heart, my soul, and my stubborn damn Bear have been waiting for our entire lives.
And the truth?
I don't care if strangers think I'm handsome.
I don't care if fans scream my name at concerts.
I don't care if magazines call me the rugged country rocker with the sexy freckles.
None of that matters.
I only care what one woman thinks.
This woman.
I want her to smile when she sees me.
I want her eyes to light up.
I want her to think...
There he is.
My person.
Yeah, I’m Bear enough to admit it.
I want Elsie to like what she sees when she sees me.
Hell.
I want her to like me. All of me.
My Bear nudges softly against my thoughts.
She will.
“I hope you're right, pal. If she doesn’t? We are well and truly fucked.”
Because if there's one thing I've learned over the years...
You can survive being laughed at.
You can survive rejection.
You can survive having your heart broken.
But the thought of my fated mate looking at me with fear or disgust...
The thought of her rejecting me?
Fuck.
That might be the one thing I can't survive.
I glance toward Elsie's apartment one last time.
The curtains are still drawn.
She's still asleep.
Safe.
Mine.
“I'll figure this out,” I whisper to the quiet morning.
“Somehow.”