Torin's Grizzly Mate

Chapter 1

Hannah

Not called a “wedding”, apparently.

Because you don’t marry a man who’s half animal. You mate with him.

I laugh dryly at my reflection in the mirror. She stares back at me with hollow eyes.

There’s a stupid crown of flowers on my head.

Under it I’ve got the most ridiculous blowout of my life, courtesy of my groom’s little sister, Tasha.

My usually wavy ginger hair has been dyed brown—because shifters aren’t ginger, she told me, curling her over-glossed lip in horror—and transformed into big, lacquered ringlets.

I’m wearing a long white sheath, and nothing underneath it. The groom’s request. Wanted to make sure he could smell my virgin scent.

I’m supposed to be barefoot, too. But not happening. My favorite ancient boots are hidden under the dress, and unless somebody gets down on their hands and knees to check, they’re staying.

There’s a knock at the bedroom door.

“You ready?” a coarse voice hollers.

“No.”

The handle turns anyway. Tasha strides in, six feet of shifter princess poured into a silver dress the size of a handkerchief. She’s carrying a bottle of champagne, which she dumps on the dresser.

Her gaze travels over me slowly. “Hair’s better at least,” she concedes.

“Phew.” I lay a hand on my chest. “Wouldn’t want my natural coloring to disgrace the family.”

Her eyes narrow, but she lets it go.

Music pulses through the floorboards below. Outside, an engine rumbles up the drive, followed by slamming doors and a burst of laughter. The whole compound is awake tonight.

All for me.

Tasha reaches out to adjust my crown. Her nails scrape my scalp.

“You should smile more,” she says. “You look like you’re headed to your execution.”

“Maybe I am.”

Gold flickers through her eyes.

I stop smiling.

“You know,” she says lightly, “most girls around here would kill to be in your position.”

I think about the bruised girl whose body was pulled out of Blackwater Creek last month. Nineteen years old, with her throat torn open. Official cause of death: animal attack.

“Lucky me.”

She plants her hands on her hips. “Your dad’s asking for you downstairs,” she says. “And Cade’s getting impatient.”

My stomach twists at the sound of their names.

She sighs impatiently. “You need some Dutch courage or something?”

I do.

Just not for the reason she thinks. I think about the dark mountain roads outside. My truck hidden behind the workshop with the copied files taped inside the spare tire compartment.

Then I look back at the girl in the mirror with her flower crown and dead eyes.

“Yeah,” I say. “Definitely.”

A timer alarm goes off. Tasha yanks her phone out of her cleavage and checks it. “Okay. Show time.” She shoves my half-finished champagne at me. “Down it.”

I do as she tells me, then she marches me out of the bedroom.

The music hits me the moment we step into the hallway, bass pounding up through the floorboards.

Men shout over one another downstairs. A glass smashes, followed by a roar of approval.

Smoke and gasoline drift up from the clubhouse, mixed tonight with booze, sweat and too much cologne.

Tasha starts down the stairs, keeping hold of my wrist as if she thinks I might bolt. I gather up my dress and follow. The boots feel solid under my feet—that’s one thing at least.

Downstairs, the clubhouse is a sea of leather cuts and tattoos. Long tables are crowded with bottles and half-finished plates of food. Strings of white lights crisscross the ceiling beams, intended to make the place look festive instead of deeply ominous.

Conversations falter, heads turn. And suddenly I understand.

This is why Cade wanted the dress thin. Why he wanted nothing underneath it.

Not just for him. For this.

For every man in the room to know exactly how naked I am.

My face gets hot.

Tasha, naturally, is delighted.

“She cleans up good, right?” she announces to nobody in particular.

A few men laugh. Someone whistles.

I spot my father near the bar. His sheriff’s badge is clipped to his belt, cowboy boots polished to a high shine. He’s wearing the easy smile that’s appeared on campaign posters, local news segments and a thousand photographs of him shaking hands with people who think they know him.

For one stupid second, I’m relieved to see him. It’s pure reflex. Some leftover piece of being a kid and believing your father was the safest person in the world.

Then his eyes run over the dress, my hair, my face. Checking. And the feeling disappears.

“There she is.” He makes it sound affectionate, like I’m late to a family dinner instead of being delivered into a transaction.

He comes over and takes my arm. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Thanks.”

I can smell whiskey on his breath.

His fingers tighten around my upper arm. “You gonna behave yourself tonight?” he asks quietly.

Anybody watching us would think he’d pulled his daughter close for a tender word on her wedding day.

I look down at the sheriff’s badge on his belt, then back at his smiling face.

“I’ll do my best.”

His fingers dig harder.

“See that you do.”

He releases me as footsteps sound behind us.

The room goes quiet.

I don’t need to look to know who just walked in.

I close my eyes for a beat.

“Hannah,” my father hisses.

I turn as Cade crosses the room.

People move automatically as he passes. Somebody reaches out to clap him on the shoulder, then thinks better of it halfway through.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck.

His eyes land on me immediately. Slowly, he smiles. “Look at you.”

I hold his gaze. Looking away would feel worse.

When he reaches me, he nods appreciatively. “Tasha did a decent job after all.”

“She’ll be thrilled to hear it.”

A couple of people nearby laugh.

Then his gaze drops to my dress. Lingers. “Turn around.”

I stare at him. “What?”

“So everybody can see the dress.”

His smile is fixed.

Beside me, my father says, “Honey.”

I turn, slowly, the fabric winding around my legs. When I face Cade again, his hand rests at the base of my spine.

He looks pleased.

Then he bends until his mouth is beside my ear. “You smell scared.” A pause. “I like it.”

I freeze, a cold prickle running down my back.

Then he steers me toward the far end of the room.

A fire burns in the enormous stone hearth, and the crowd gathers into a semicircle around it.

An older man waits in front of the flames. He must be seventy, but he looks strong enough to drag a truck uphill. Gray hair hangs down his back in a thick braid. Silver rings cover his fingers, and his forearms are corded with muscle.

He watches as Cade brings me forward.

My father takes his place behind us. That almost makes me laugh. Dad spent my entire life telling me to stay away from men like Cade. Now he’s standing behind me while one of them claims me in front of half a biker gang.

The old man raises one broad hand, and the room falls silent.

“Tonight,” he says, “Cade Walker claims his mate before his entire clan.”

He turns to me and takes me by the wrist. “This woman comes untouched into her mate’s keeping.”

A murmur of approval runs through the room.

I stare into the fire.

“You’ll feed him before yourself. Warm his side of the bed before your own. Carry his scent, his cubs and his name.” His gaze settles on me. “Your body belongs to your mate. Your loyalty belongs to his house.”

One of the women near the fire smiles into her drink.

Across the room, Tasha catches my eye and raises her champagne glass.

Then the old man takes Cade by the wrist. “Do you claim her fully?”

“I do.” Cade says it easily, like he’s signing for a package.

The man joins our hands together. “The ceremony is complete. You are officially mated.”

My father raises his glass. “About damn time.”

The room surges around us. Men slap Cade on the shoulders and shove beers into his hands. Someone whistles. Someone else shouts, “Sheriff finally coughed up the goods, huh?”

Cade keeps one arm around my waist while everyone congratulates him.

Like he’s won something. Maybe he has.

“Wait till he claims her tonight,” somebody calls.

Laughter rolls through the room.

Cade bends toward me, his beard grazing my temple.

“You hear that?” he murmurs. “Whole room’s jealous of me tonight.”

Glasses rise around us.

A woman calls from beside the fire, “Try not to break her, Cade.”

More laughter.

“I’ll be gentle,” Cade says.

That gets the biggest laugh yet.

Then three men descend on Cade at once, demanding a toast.

And finally, his arm leaves my waist.

I stare at the flames.

Until now, tonight has been a point in the future. Something I could keep pushing away simply by getting through the present moment.

But not anymore.

Soon he’ll take me to that cabin. Pull off the dress he chose. Put his hands wherever he wants.

No.

All I need is one chance.

I step back.

Cade is laughing, completely at ease, accepting congratulations as if there has never been the slightest possibility that tonight might go differently from the way he planned.

I look at the drinks table. Then at him.

My heart beats faster.

I pick up a bottle and raise it.

“Wait,” I call. “Aren’t we supposed to toast the groom?”

A roar of approval goes up.

Cade turns toward me, grinning.

“To Cade,” I say, raising the bottle higher. “My wonderful husband.”

“That’s our fucking alpha!”

“Cade always gets what he wants!”

People close around him immediately. Someone demands a speech. Someone else starts chanting his name.

I grab a bunch of beers and pass them into the crowd. “Here.”

Hands snatch at them without anyone even looking at me.

Within seconds Cade has disappeared into a morass of leather vests and raised bottles.

My father has turned away too. He’s busy talking to two older club members by the fire.

Tasha is busy pouring some pink liquor into her girlfriends’ mouths.

Nobody is watching me.

Adrenaline burns through me.

I take a slow step backward, then another, keeping my expression loose. The kitchen doors are twenty feet away.

The doors swing closed behind me and the noise drops sharply.

I take in stainless-steel counters, fluorescent lights, a sink overflowing with dishes.

A young shifter in an apron looks up from the grill, eyes widening.

“Cade sent me for another bottle,” I say quickly.

“Oh. Uh—yeah. Storage room’s through there.”

“Thanks.” I keep going.

Beyond the kitchen, there’s a dark hallway with a glowing EXIT sign at the end.

Ten steps.

Five.

I push it open. Cold mountain air hits my face.

The workshop is a dark shape at the far end of the yard.

I start walking toward it, the dress catching around my legs with every step.

The smell of motor oil and cold metal hits my nostrils.

Please still be there.

I round the side of the building and crouch beside the cracked concrete planter. Dead flowers spill over the edge in brittle clumps.

I plunge my fingers into cold dirt, feeling leaves, wet soil, beer caps, then, metal.

Relief rushes through me.

I close my hand around the keys and pull them out.

At first, I can’t see the truck among the trees. Then its outline emerges from the darkness.

I hurry over. The door unlocks on the first try. I climb inside and pull it shut behind me.

It smells of coffee, leather and the stupid old pine air freshener dangling from the mirror.

Home.

For a moment, I just sit there gripping the steering wheel, taking some deep breaths.

Then I shove the keys into the ignition.

The engine turns once, twice.

Come on.

It catches with a low growl.

I freeze, staring through the windshield toward the clubhouse. Music and laughter spill from the building. Somebody revs a motorcycle somewhere near the front lot.

Nobody’s coming for me.

Yet.

I ease the truck into reverse, wincing at every crunch of gravel under the tires. I roll out from behind the workshop, then headlights sweep across the yard.

Shit.

I duck instinctively as the beams slide over the workshop wall.

A pickup crawls along, country music blasting through its open windows.

It keeps going.

I wait until its taillights disappear.

Then I straighten, put the truck in drive and turn toward the access road—a pale strip of dirt winding into the mountains.

I press down on the gas.