Chapter 2-Rosalind
I don’t know Hope Orson.
Okay—that’s not entirely true.
I know her in the way you know someone who’s handed you a coffee and smiled while your car was getting an oil change.
I took my purple Wrangler into Lance’s Auto last month, and she was my mechanic. There was a line, then a little hiccup while they were waiting on a part, hence the coffee.
First impression? She was sweet. Polite. Pretty in that freshly awakened, still-finding-her-balance kind of way.
For a newly shifted Bear, she was doing more than alright.
But we weren’t friends.
And Shifters hate lies.
Pretending to be Hope’s “friend” sat wrong in my chest—tight and itchy—like a sweater that almost fit but rubbed you raw if you wore it too long.
My Bear didn’t like it either.
She paced, restless and unhappy, because jobs that involved deception always came with a cost.
Still, it was part of the assignment.
So here I was, standing in Hope’s kitchen, playing the role, nodding along and smiling like this was all perfectly normal.
What I didn’t expect?
What I absolutely, categorically did not prepare for?
Was for my Bear to lose her damn mind the second the front door opened.
He walked in like he owned the place.
Which, fine.
Technically, I suppose he does.
Or he had.
Once upon a time.
Childhood home and all that.
But the confidence in his stride—the heavy, unhurried way he moved—sent a shock straight through my spine.
Big. Gruff. Built like a man who worked with his body and trusted it to do exactly what he told it to.
Dark brown hair damp with sweat.
Shoulders dusted in sawdust.
Heat clinging to him like a second skin.
My Bear went apeshit.
She reared up inside me with a low, feral, “Mine,” that stole the breath right out of my lungs.
Mate.
The word slammed through me, instinctive and absolute.
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.
I stiffened, fingers curling at my sides as if that might anchor me to my human half.
No. Absolutely not.
He’s human. Off-limits.
I tried my best to remain unaffected throughout our encounter, but Honor D’Amato is a complication I so do not need.
But hunger bloomed anyway.
Slow. Dangerous.
The kind that didn’t ask permission.
He froze the second he saw me.
Good. At least I wasn’t alone in this.
His gaze hit me like a physical thing—wide, stunned, a little too intense—and I had the ridiculous, mortifying thought that I should apologize for existing in my own body.
I know what I am. The tall girl. Big boned. Pleasantly plump.
Or whatever fake thing people tried to say to play off my size when we were with company.
Hope introduced us, and he repeated my name like it tasted strange in his mouth.
I snapped back with a quip—I’m a big girl—because sarcasm was safer than admitting my Bear wanted to shove him against the nearest wall and inhale him like oxygen.
Professional.
I could do professional.
Barely.
While Hope teased him and sent him to shower before working the grill, I focused on breathing.
On keeping my expression neutral.
On ignoring the way my Bear leaned toward him, hungry and aching, like she’d been waiting her entire life for this exact moment.
I’m here to protect him.
To keep him in the dark.
To do my job.
Not to jump him like my Bear has apparently forgotten every rule we’ve ever lived by.
But as Honor disappears up the stairs—heat trailing behind him like a promise my body is far too aware of—my Bear does the craziest damn thing.
She purrs.
Slow.
Low.
Satisfied.
The sound curls through my chest like she’s already won something.
I swallow hard.
Because beneath the rules and the lies and the careful distance I’m supposed to maintain, I know one terrifying truth with absolute certainty.
This assignment is going to ruin me.
And my Bear?
She’s already planning how.
“So,” Hope says, dragging my attention back to the kitchen.
“Um. Yeah?” I manage, a beat too slow.
She’s watching me now—head tilted, eyes curious.
Not suspicious.
Not yet.
Just observant in that way newly awakened Bears tend to be when their instincts are learning how to listen.
“That’s my brother,” she says again.
For no reason whatsoever.
“Yep,” I reply brilliantly.
She doesn’t smile.
Instead, she lowers her voice, leaning in just enough that it feels conspiratorial. Dangerous.
“Did your Bear…” Hope hesitates, then whispers, “…say anything when he came in?”
My heart tries to beat its way out of my chest.
Every instinct I have screams to lie. Deflect. Laugh it off.
Shifters don’t like lies—but sometimes they’re necessary.
I force a shrug, schooling my expression into something neutral.
Casual. Harmless.
“She noticed him,” I say carefully. “Big human males tend to register.”
Hope studies me for a long second.
Then she nods, satisfied. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
I exhale silently.
But my Bear doesn’t.
She shifts inside me, restless now—alert, focused, and far too interested in the man upstairs who smells like heat and sawdust and trouble.
And as Hope turns back to the counter, humming softly, I realize something else too.
This isn’t just about keeping Honor safe anymore.
It’s about keeping myself under control.
Because if my Bear has her way Honor D’Amato won’t stay in the dark for long.
And neither will I.