2. Archer
ARCHER
The moment she pulls into town, I know.
I’m under a truck, halfway through replacing a transmission, when it hits me. Not a thought. Not a realization. A punch.
My tiger surges up inside me, awake and alert in a way that’s immediate and absolute. My muscles lock, breath catching as something primal snaps into place.
Mine.
The word isn’t mine—not consciously—but it echoes through me anyway, instinctive and undeniable. I slide out from under the truck, wiping my hands on a rag as I scan the street. And then I see her.
The moving truck. The woman climbing out of it. Dark hair pulled back, jeans, worn boots. Nothing outwardly remarkable—and yet everything in me sharpens, focuses, narrows to her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters.
My tiger prowls against my skin, restless.
Mate.
The realization lands hard enough to make my pulse spike.
“No,” I mutter.
Not here. Not now. Not human. Because she is. I can scent it even from here—no trace of animal beneath her skin. Just human.
My jaw tightens. Of all the possibilities, of all the ways this could have gone—
A human mate walks into Redwood Crossing. Perfect. She looks toward the garage, toward me, and for a split second our eyes meet. That’s all it takes. The pull intensifies, sharp and insistent. My instincts surge, urging me forward, toward her, to close the distance, to claim—
I turn away. Immediately. Before I do something I can’t take back.
I shove the rag down onto the workbench and head for the back exit of the garage, my movements clipped and controlled.
“Archer?” one of the guys calls after me. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I throw over my shoulder.
Lie.
I don’t stop walking until I hit the tree line at the edge of town. Then I run.
The shift hits me mid-stride, bones reshaping, muscle stretching, skin rippling as my tiger takes over. It’s fast—clean—but the force of it is driven by something stronger than usual.
Need.
I land on four paws and keep moving, pushing deeper into the forest. The scents of pine and earth flood my senses, grounding, but it’s not enough.
She’s still there. I can still feel her. The connection hums beneath my skin, a constant pull that doesn’t weaken with distance the way it should.
Damn it.
I run harder, faster, until my muscles burn and my lungs strain. I don’t stop until the instinct quiets enough that I can think again.
When I finally shift back, I’m deep in the forest, alone, my chest heaving.
A human mate. This complicates everything.
I drag a hand through my hair, staring out through the trees toward the direction of town.
Toward her. I can’t stay away. That much is already clear.
By the time I make it back to the garage, hours have passed. The sun has shifted, the light softer now, stretching long shadows across the street.
I try to focus on work. Try. It doesn’t last.
Every few minutes, my attention drifts. My senses reach, tracking her movements next door without conscious effort. The faint sounds of shifting boxes. The creak of the old building. Her footsteps. Too close. Too unprotected.
When the crash happens, I’m moving before I even register the sound.
I cross the distance in seconds, shoving through the bookstore door just as the shelving starts to come down. She’s right under it.
My body reacts on instinct. I hit the unit from the side, bracing it with everything I’ve got, forcing it upright before it can crush her. Too close. Way too close.
She scrambles back, eyes wide, and I steady the shelf, locking it into place.
The urge to check her—to make sure she’s not hurt—hits hard. I shove it down. She’s human. Fragile.
Mine.
I step back before that thought can take root any deeper.
“Thanks,” she says, her voice unsteady.
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I do, I might not stop. Instead, I assess the building. The damage. The risks. Anything to focus on that isn’t her.
“This place isn’t safe,” I say.
It comes out harsher than I intend. She pushes back—of course she does. There’s steel under that uncertainty, something stubborn that my tiger immediately notices. Good. Strong.
Mine.
I shut that down hard. She doesn’t understand what she’s dealing with. The building. The town. Me.
When she says she bought it, something in my chest hurts. That means she’s staying.
That means—
No. I cut the thought off before it can spiral.
“I’ll get someone to look at it,” I say instead.
It’s the safest thing I can offer. The most distance I can maintain. She asks my name. I hesitate. Because giving it feels like giving something else, too.
“…Archer.”
Then I leave. I have to. Because every second I stay in that building, every breath I take near her, makes it harder to remember why I shouldn’t.
I don’t go back right away. I tell myself I will.
That I’ll give it an hour, maybe two, let the edge of the instinct wear off before I put myself anywhere near her again.
It’s a lie I recognize even as I think it.
Because no matter how far I run, no matter how long I stay away, the pull doesn’t fade.
It shifts. It settles into something constant, low and insistent, like a second heartbeat under my skin. She’s there.
Mine.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face as I step into the garage again.
“Everything good?” Mike asks, glancing up from the engine he’s working on.
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
Another lie.
I grab a wrench and force myself back under the truck I’d been working on earlier. The familiar rhythm should help—tighten, adjust, check—but my focus is shot. Every sound from next door cuts through everything else. A box being set down. Footsteps. The faint scrape of wood against the floor.
She’s moving around inside that building like it’s not one wrong step away from collapsing. My jaw tightens. Human. Fragile. Unaware. I tighten the bolt harder than necessary, the metal creaking under the pressure.
“Easy,” Mike mutters. “You trying to break it?”
I release the tension immediately, forcing my grip to loosen.
“Just distracted,” I say.
That’s one way to put it. I slide back out from under the truck, wiping my hands again, though they’re not particularly dirty. I don’t need to check the bookstore. I know exactly where she is.
My tiger tracks her without effort, mapping her movements in a way that’s instinctive and precise. Too precise. It shouldn’t be this strong already. It shouldn’t feel like this. I straighten, my gaze drifting—against my will—toward the open garage door. Toward her.
I catch a glimpse of her through the bookstore window, moving between shelves, carrying a stack of books.
She looks smaller inside that space, dwarfed by the leaning structures around her.
Vulnerable. The word hits hard. My instincts surge again, sharp and immediate.
Go. Fix it. Keep her safe. I grit my teeth.
Not my job. Not my place. Not yet. If ever.
I force myself to turn away. This is exactly why human mates are a problem. They don’t know the rules. They don’t understand the risks. And if the wrong people find out—
My thoughts cut off sharply. Rogues. The scent had been faint this morning, barely there. I’d dismissed it at first, thinking it might be a passing stray. Now I’m not so sure. I glance toward the street again, my focus shifting. Protecting her isn’t just instinct. It might be necessity.
That realization settles into something heavier. More dangerous. I wipe my hands again, then toss the rag onto the workbench.
“I’m stepping out,” I tell Mike.
He raises a brow. “Again?”
“Won’t be long.”
I don’t wait for a response.
I cross the street in a few strides, pushing open the bookstore door just as the crash echoes through the space. Too late. Or almost. She’s right there. This time, she’s caught in the path of a fixture falling out of the moldy wallpaper and straight for her head.
She just stands there, her eyes wide, her body frozen for half a second too long.
My body moves before the thought fully forms. I catch the heavy brass lamp an inch before it cracks her skull.
Plaster rains down from the gaping wound in the plaster above her head.
I hold the antique monstrosity in the air, unwilling to move lest the ceiling cave in over her at any second.
Finally, I step away. Then I look at her.
Up close, the connection is so much harder to resist. Her scent—clean, warm, uniquely hers—fills my senses. My tiger presses forward, restless, insistent.
Mine.
I shut it down. Again. Hard.
She thanks me. Again. Her voice is steadying, but I can still hear the edge of adrenaline in it.
I don’t respond. Because if I let myself engage—really engage—I won’t keep the distance I need to. Instead, I assess the damage. The building is worse than I thought from the outside. The structural issues are obvious now. Dangerous.
She doesn’t belong in here.
“I told you this place isn’t safe,” I say, letting the heavy brass lamp clank down on the front counter.
It comes out sharper than intended, but I don’t soften it. She needs to understand. She continues to push back, though. Not backing down, even now. Good.
My tiger approves immediately. I don’t.