Chapter 6 Imani
IMANI
The bathroom door opens, and I keep my back to him, focusing on the canned goods like they’re the most interesting things I’ve ever seen.
I can’t believe I just said all that.
I came here with one plan: keep my head down, do my job, survive the weekend. And within the first twenty minutes, I’m lecturing the grumpy bear shifter about manners in his own kitchen.
So much for not engaging.
His footsteps are heavy on the hardwood floor. I hear him grab keys from somewhere, the jingle of metal sharp in the quiet cabin. Then he’s standing in the kitchen doorway, and I can feel his eyes on my back.
“I’ll be gone a few hours,” he says. “The clan’s shed is about thirty minutes from here, but the roads are bad and getting worse.”
I turn to face him, keeping my expression neutral. “Okay.”
“Don’t go in my bedroom. Don’t touch anything in my office. The guest room is at the end of the hall on the left. That’s where you’ll sleep.”
“Got it.”
He hesitates, like he wants to say something else. I notice the scar on his cheek. Up close, I can see how deep the marks are. Three jagged lines, healed but permanent. Someone did that to him. Or something.
“The storm is going to get bad,” he finally says. “Stay inside. Don’t try to leave.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
Another pause. Then he turns and walks out without another word, the front door slamming shut behind him.
I stand perfectly still, listening to the sound of his truck starting. The engine rumbles, headlights sweeping across the windows as he backs out. Then he’s gone, the noise fading into the howl of the wind, and I’m alone.
I exhale slowly, my shoulders dropping.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
I press my palms flat against the counter and close my eyes, replaying the last twenty minutes in my head. The way he snapped at me for being late. The way he corrected his name like I’d insulted his ancestors. The way he looked at me when I took off my coat.
That last part sticks.
I’m not imagining it. When I turned around and caught him staring, the hunger was right there on his face. It vanished the second I noticed, replaced by that cold, hard mask, but it was there.
Not that it matters. Men look. It doesn’t mean anything. And even if it did, I’m not interested. Especially not in a man who treats people like inconveniences to be managed.
I push off from the counter and survey the kitchen. The groceries are half unpacked, bags still scattered across the counter and floor. The pantry is partially stocked. There’s work to do.
But first, the floors.
He tracked snow and mud all through the cabin, stomping in and out like a man who’s never heard of a doormat. The entryway is the worst, puddles of melted snow mixed with dirt from his boots. The living room has footprints leading to the fireplace. Even the kitchen floor is gritty under my socks.
I find a mop and bucket in the small utility closet off the kitchen. The cleaning supplies I brought are still in my bag, but his basics will do for now. I fill the bucket with hot water and a splash of floor cleaner, then get to work.
The rhythm of mopping is soothing. Back and forth, back and forth, watching the grime lift from the wood. My mind wanders as I work.
He’s even worse in person. Not just grumpy, but mean. Sharp-edged in a way that feels intentional, like he’s trying to drive people away. And based on what Derrick said, he’s been successful. Every employee runs. Every single one.
But I didn’t run.
I don’t know if that makes me brave or stupid. Probably stupid. I need the money too much to walk away from double pay, even if the client is a seven-foot wall of hostility with a chip on his shoulder the size of this mountain.
I finish the entryway and move to the living room, careful to skirt around his precious chair.
The cabin is deceptively large. From the outside, it looked modest, a simple A-frame tucked into the mountainside.
But inside, it opens up. High ceilings with exposed beams. A stone fireplace that takes up most of one wall.
Large windows that probably offer stunning views when they’re not covered in swirling snow.
It could be beautiful, this place. Cozy and warm, the kind of cabin you see in magazines. But it’s neglected. Dust on the mantle. Cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. A layer of grime on the counters and windowsills.
He lives here alone. That much is obvious. No woman’s touch, no family photos on the walls, no signs that anyone else has ever made this place home.
Just him. And his chair. And his rules.
I finish mopping and dump the dirty water down the kitchen sink, watching it swirl away. Then I return to the groceries, putting away the rest of the canned goods, the dry pasta, the bags of rice and flour.
The pantry is large, with deep shelves that could hold enough food for months. Which makes sense, I suppose. Bear shifters hibernate. A month of vulnerability while the bear rests.
That’s why he’s so desperate to get this place stocked. That’s why he’s paying double. He’s about to be helpless, and he knows it.
The thought softens something in me, just a little. Not enough to forgive the way he’s treated me, but enough to understand the pressure he’s under.
I find a jar of brown sugar on the counter, one of the items from his list. The pantry already has a spot for it, a specific place on the top shelf where another jar sits half-empty. I grab the old one to check the date and notice something.
There’s brown sugar everywhere.
Not literally, but as I look around the pantry, I see it repeated. Brown sugar oatmeal. Brown sugar ham glaze. A bag of brown sugar candies tucked behind the cereal. Even the coffee creamer on the counter is brown sugar flavored.
Huh.
It’s a small thing. A silly thing. But it makes him seem almost human. The grumpy bear shifter who yells at everyone and drives away every worker has a sweet tooth. He likes brown sugar.
I file that away and finish stocking the pantry.
The kitchen is done. The floors are clean. Time to find my room.
The hallway is narrow, with three doors leading off it. The first is open, revealing a small bathroom with a clawfoot tub and pedestal sink. Clean enough, though the mirror has water spots and the towels look like they haven’t been changed in a week.
I add it to my mental list of things to tackle tomorrow.
The second door is closed. His bedroom, I assume. I don’t touch the handle, don’t even slow down as I pass. Whatever’s behind that door is none of my business.
The third door is at the end of the hall, slightly ajar.
I push it open and step inside.
The guest room is small but functional. A double bed with a plain quilt, a wooden dresser with an oval mirror, a window seat built into the wall beneath a frost-covered window. The walls are bare, the surfaces empty. No one has stayed here in a long time.
But it’s clean. Cleaner than the rest of the cabin, like someone made an effort specifically for this room.
Maybe Derrick called ahead. Or maybe Tolin isn’t completely heartless, despite his best efforts to prove otherwise.
I set my bag on the bed and start unpacking. A few changes of clothes. Toiletries. The book I brought in case I had downtime, which seems laughable now. My phone charger, which I plug into the outlet by the dresser.
My phone buzzes as it connects. A text from Derrick.
Made it up okay? Storm’s getting bad down here.
I hesitate, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. What do I say? That his friend is exactly as terrible as everyone warned me? That I already talked back to him and probably made everything worse?
Made it, I type instead. Roads were rough but I’m here. Starting on the pantry now.
His reply comes quickly. Good. Remember what I said. Call me if you need anything. I mean it.
I will.
I set the phone down and move to the window seat, brushing frost from the glass with my sleeve.
The view stops me cold.
Even through the swirling snow, I can see the mountains stretching out below. Trees heavy with white, the land rolling away in waves of forest and shadow. The sky is gray and thick with clouds, the last light of day fading fast. It’s wild out there. Beautiful and dangerous and utterly isolated.
I’m really stuck here.
The thought settles over me, heavy and strange. For the next few days, maybe longer if the storm is as bad as everyone says, I’m trapped on this mountain with a man who clearly doesn’t want me here. No escape route. No backup plan. Just me and him and whatever this is.
I should be scared. Or at least nervous.
But mostly, I’m just tired.
I lean my forehead against the cold glass and watch the snow fall. Somewhere out there, Tolin is driving through this mess to deliver firewood to his clan. Risking the roads, the weather, his own safety, because that’s his responsibility.
He’s an asshole. I know that. I’ve experienced it firsthand.
But he’s also a man who makes sure his clan has enough wood to stay warm through the winter. A man who keeps brown sugar in every form in his pantry. A man with a scar on his face and old wounds he won’t talk about.
I don’t want to be curious about him. Curiosity leads to caring, and caring leads to hurt. I learned that lesson a long time ago.
But as the wind rattles the window and the darkness closes in around the cabin, I can’t stop wondering.
What happened to him?
Why is he like this?
And why, underneath all that hostility, did he look at me like that?
I shake my head and push away from the window. Enough wondering. Time to be practical.
The bathroom is small but has good water pressure. I wash my hands, scrubbing away the grime from unpacking and mopping, watching the soap suds swirl down the drain. My reflection in the spotted mirror looks tired. Hair escaping its bun, shadows under my eyes from the long drive up the mountain.
I look like someone who’s had a day.
My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since the granola bar I scarfed down somewhere around noon. That was hours ago. And Tolin has been out in the cold even longer, making deliveries in a snowstorm.
He’ll be hungry when he gets back.
The thought surprises me. Why do I care if he’s hungry? He’s been nothing but rude since I arrived. Derrick’s advice was to eat in my room, stay out of his way, avoid interaction.
But something nags at me. Maybe it’s the way he looked when he left, shoulders rigid against the cold, heading out into a storm because his clan needed him. Maybe it’s the brown sugar in the pantry, that small hint of sweetness in an otherwise bitter man.
Or maybe I’m just not built to hide in my room when there’s a kitchen full of groceries and a man coming home to an empty table.
I head back to the kitchen and open the refrigerator.
I pull out the steaks I bought earlier. Good cuts, thick and well-marbled. I grabbed them specifically because I know what bear shifters like. Rare meat, minimal seasoning. They want to taste the blood, the iron, the animal. It’s instinct more than preference.
I’ve cleaned enough shifter cabins to pick up a few things.
I set two steaks on the counter. One for him, one for me. His will be rare, barely kissed by heat. Mine will be medium-well, the way I’ve always liked it.
The potatoes I leave plain. No butter, no salt, no herbs. Just scrubbed clean and roasted until the skin is crisp and the inside is fluffy. Simple. Unadorned. The way his kind prefers.
As I work, I tell myself this is practical. He needs to eat. I need to eat. Cooking two meals separately is a waste of time and resources.
But there’s another reason, one I don’t want to examine too closely.
I want to understand him.
Not in a romantic way. Not in any way that matters. I just want to know what’s underneath all that hostility. Is there a person in there worth knowing? Or is he exactly what he appears to be: a bitter, angry man who pushes everyone away because he likes being alone?
Dinner might tell me. Sharing a meal has a way of lowering defenses, creating space for conversation. Maybe if I show him I’m not afraid, that I’m not going to run just because he growls, he’ll ease up a little.
Or maybe he’ll hate the gesture and use it as another reason to be cruel.
Either way, I’ll have a good steak.
I heat the cast iron skillet I found in the cabinet, letting it get smoking hot before I lay his steak down. The sizzle is satisfying, the smell of searing meat filling the kitchen. I give it ninety seconds per side, just enough to develop a crust while leaving the center cool and red.
The way a bear would want it.
My steak takes longer. I let it cook until the juices run clear, until the pink is mostly gone and the meat is tender all the way through. Not everyone’s preference, but it’s mine, and I’ve stopped apologizing for it.
The potatoes come out of the oven golden and perfect. I plate everything simply, his portion on one side of the table, mine on the other. Two glasses of water, because I doubt he has wine and I didn’t think to bring any.
It looks like a peace offering.
Maybe that’s exactly what it is.
I hear the rumble of his truck before I see the headlights. He’s back. The engine cuts off, a door slams, and heavy footsteps crunch through the snow toward the cabin.
My heart beats a little faster, and I hate that it does.
I’m not scared of him. I’m just... alert. Aware. Ready for whatever version of him walks through that door.
The handle turns.
Here we go.