CHAPTER ELEVEN

Soren snaked his hand out from under the covers and patted the nightstand in search of the phone that wouldn’t stop ringing. Finding the vibrating thing, he pulled it beneath the pillow where his head was, fumbled for the Talk button, and snapped, “What?” into the mic.

“Open the door,” Marcella said calmly. “I’m outside.”

“What?” Marcella?

He’d never heard her voice over the phone before. Apparently, his brain didn’t immediately know how to process that sound.

“I’m outside,” she said with a note of impatience. “I’ve got coffee and bagels, and Dana is about to call.”

“Shit. Hold on.” He threw back the covers and padded to the door while rubbing his eyes. How he managed not to stub his toes on the way, he’d never know.

Marcella sidled past him before his vision could finish clearing, and the scent of coffee and bagels—onion, his nose said—wafted after her.

Her brow was raised when she looked over her shoulder at him, standing in the open doorway in nothing but crew socks and boxer shorts.

Clearing his throat, he shut the door. “What was that about Dana? And how long have you been up?”

“I wake at five to run and meditate.” She set her bag on the chair by the mirror, the coffee and bagels on top of the dresser, and tossed her phone onto the bed. “Dana must have been up late fielding messages.”

“Ah. On call.” He dragged a hand down the scruff on his chin and cleared his throat again. “They take turns in case something urgent comes in. Most things they ignore until morning, but whenever something about a child or woman in peril comes down the pike…”

“Of course. I imagine I’d have to be added to the on-call rotation as well. I’d like to do my part.” She gestured to the bagel bag with one hand while prying the lid off her coffee cup with the other. “Help yourself.”

He was tempted. His belly was grumbling and mouth watering, but his body bore a particular kind of sleep-funk. “I might jump in the shower. When’s Dana calling?” He didn’t even know the time. A glance down at his phone quashed his curiosity quickly enough. Six-fifteen.

For fuck’s sake.

“Six-thirty,” Marcella said. “I suppose that’s enough time for you to clean up.”

“Fifteen minutes?” He watched her rip three open sugar packets and dump them into her coffee. Steam wafted over the rim. Still hot enough to scald, probably. If he was quick, his might still be warm by the time he got out.

Without thought, he worked his socks off with his toes, dropped his shorts, and made for the bathroom.

“Shameless,” Marcella muttered.

“Hmm?” The damned shower knob was stuck. A well-placed tap with the meat of his fist loosened it, but as soon as the water beat down, he saw why it’d been over-tightened. Apparently, the showerhead had only two pressure levels: off and flail-your-skin-off. He grabbed a washcloth from the rack over the toilet and got in all the same.

“I said shameless,” Marcella called out.

“Who?”

“You.”

Naturally, the soap wouldn’t lather. Nothing ever worked the way he wanted when he was in a hurry. He wanted to get back to the coffee, eat most if not all of the bagels in that heavy-looking bag, and then query his mate on why she looked so fresh before the sun had even come up.

“Running and meditation,” he muttered, rubbing the soap through the hair on his chest. “At five o’clock in the damn morning.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

He stopped scrubbing. Marcella’s voice was near, and apparently, he really was shameless, because he pulled the shower curtain back to confirm that she was in the doorway.

She slapped a hand over her eyes. “Soren.”

“What?”

“You could…cover yourself.”

“I wanted to see if you were there.”

“Well, as you can see, here I am.”

“You may look. Feel free.”

“No.”

“Why not?” He cleaned under his arms as expeditiously as possible. He was starting to lose sensation in the skin on his back.

“Because that would be inappropriate.”

“Here we go again with that shit, hmm?” He closed the curtain. He didn’t want to—he wanted her to look at him—but if the sight of his cock and balls was going to trigger her to paroxysm, he’d hide behind that dingy sheet of plastic. “I thought we bonded last night. We had a bit of a moment. You even hummed for me.”

He’d almost fallen asleep with his head on her lap. In fact, he’d been so disoriented when she jostled him that she was actually able to push him out of the room before he realized what she was doing.

“Witchcraft,” he muttered.

“I’m sure you’re quite the showoff when your body is in question, but I believe there’s a time and a place for everything.”

“I’m a shapeshifter.” After counting to three to brace himself, he ducked his head under the water and got his hair wet. The shampoo was cheap and watery, but at least he could work up some lather. “The usual rules of civility don’t apply to me.”

“Is that your policy? Scandalizing everyone who crosses your path?”

“It’s not so much a policy as a lifestyle choice. You should try it. I guarantee you that it’ll be freeing.”

“I’ll pass.”

“You probably shower with your clothes on.”

“Don’t be silly.” Her voice got farther away. “I don’t shower at all.”

“Ha ha.” Soren rinsed, cranked the water off, and stepped out, grabbing a towel from the rack as he went. “You’re a tough nut to crack, but you’ve got an evil sense of humor just waiting to bubble up to the surface.” He was charmed by her brand of wit, and perhaps unreasonably proud of the intelligence she needed to spin it. Any Bear could find a pretty mate, but when beauty packaged with intelligence and personality was a lot harder to come by.

He could already picture himself strutting like a rooster in front of the rest of the assholes in the Bear group the next time he went home to Romania. They’d probably try to kick his ass for bragging, but that was a price he was willing to pay.

Marcella was sitting on the edge of his bed with her coffee to her lips, tapping her phone’s screen with her thumb.

“You put a lot of sugar in that coffee for someone with such an aversion to sweetened tea,” he said.

“I only crave sugar in the mornings. That’s when I need the pick-me-up the most.”

“Still hot?”

“Scalding.”

“Excellent.” He scrubbed the towel against his back and quickly dried his legs and arms before wrapping the terrycloth around his wet hair. Whistling, he swatted in front of his open duffel bag and rooted in search of clean underwear.

“Soren,” she warned.

“What?” He grabbed the grizzly bear boxer shorts. Tamara had bought them for Peter as a joke, and they still had the store tags.

“You’re nude.”

“And in my room. You don’t have to look.”

Hmm, white undershirt or black?

He smiled at her over his shoulder. “But you should look. A glimpse will make your day better.”

“Do you ever give up?”

“Hmm.” He picked the white shirt. The black one had suspicious-looking stains. Peter might not have washed it after all. “I know when to retreat, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“And you’re not getting that sense now?”

“Why would I?” He pulled the shorts up his thighs and the shirt over his head before turning toward her. “I only retreat when the risks are either incalculable or obviously too dangerous. That’s not the case here.”

“You don’t think I’m dangerous?”

“I’m sure you can be. Are you dangerous to me?” He grunted and stepped into a cleanish pair of jeans. “That wouldn’t make sense. I tread carefully, but I know that in the end, you’re not going to damage the merchandise. That would be self-defeating.”

Her eyes narrowed in a way indicative of befuddlement or even giving up. She sipped her coffee, still staring.

He grinned at her and scrubbed more water out of his hair. “Are those onion bagels?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.” He made for the bag.

“Your pants are unbuttoned.”

“Do you care?”

“You know what?” She threw up her hands and groaned. “I won’t talk to you anymore. That’ll spare me some angst.”

“You behave as though talking to me exhausts you.”

“That’s exactly right.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t talk. People either get me or they don’t. Conversation isn’t generally required. This…” She made a dismissive flick of her hand. “Banter is wearying.”

“You’d deprive me of hearing your voice?” He took two bagels from the bag and dug in the bottom to pinch up the plastic knife that had accompanied the tub of cream cheese.

“You’re remaking the focus about you. I tell you that something makes me uncomfortable, and you pivot and make a claim that you’re the one being inconvenienced.”

“I’m only trying to remind you that there are two partners in this tango and that actions have consequences.”

“Do you ever think about the consequences of your actions where I’m concerned?” Her phone pealed the chime of an incoming text message. She peered at the screen and grunted softly.

He smeared cream cheese onto the bread and carried both bagels and his cup of hot coffee to the unmade bed. “Of course I consider consequences. Most of the time, anyway.” He put everything on the nightstand and his back against the headboard. “Occasionally, the part of me that’s animal overrides my human sensibilities and causes me to act more on instinct than logic. Most of the time, he doesn’t get me into trouble.”

“And who’s doing the steering right now? You or the bear?”

Hell if he knew, so he didn’t bother answering. He actually did know when keeping his mouth shut was in his best interest.

“Dana needs an extra five minutes. She needs to get in front of her computer, and she’s waiting for Peter to get Drea to the office. She wants to videoconference.”

“Good thing I prettied up, then,” Soren said through a mouth full of food.

“Your verbal filter needs tightening.”

“If you’d like to brainstorm some creative ways to shut me up, I’ll be happy to test the ideas with you.”

“I can think of a few,” she said in an undertone. Her back was to Soren, but he could see that she was already on the job, studying a map on her phone. “None that I’ll share with you, though. The last thing you need is more ideas.”

He still wanted to hear them, especially if the aforementioned ideas involved rough stuff. He’d happily relinquish his dual citizenship, give up his beloved motorcycle, or tell Peter where his secret hideout was if she’d take off the kid gloves and let her emotions guide her where he was concerned. She may have presented a prim and uptight image, but he suspected that if he nudged her, she’d be precisely the kind of bitch he liked. Women like her knew how to zip up the bolder parts of their temperaments when they needed to. But she didn’t need to hide them from him. He was meant for her, and that meant all of her.

He cleared his throat.

“You’re pushing your luck,” she said.

“I hope so. Good things rarely come of being complacent.”

“I should have never agreed to let you come.”

“I would have shown up anyway, even if you didn’t know I was here. Isn’t this nicer? You sitting three feet away and able to watch me?”

She didn’t respond. She worked her thumb over the phone screen some more.

He didn’t want to be ignored. After all, he’d been sleeping so nicely until Marcella had called his phone, and he was in an admirably tolerant mood given the circumstances. Had any other fully dressed woman roused him unnecessarily before dawn, he would have had some choice words for her—even if that woman were his mother.

Fuck.

He slapped his forehead. He’d forgotten about his mother.

While Marcella got her laptop booted up, he dug his phone out of the mess on his nightstand and opened his emails.

Three new ones from his mother.

Do not disappoint me, the subject line of the most recent one said.

“Well, you’re out of luck there,” he mumbled, opening the message merely for shits and giggles.

“Who are you talking to?” Marcella asked, turning. Her perturbed expression shifted ever so slightly toward neutral when her gaze fell to the little device in his hand.

“My mother is on the warpath.” He typed in response to his mother’s message, If you want it done a certain way and so quickly, do it yourself. XOXO, and then hit send.

“Is the task so urgent? Can she not wait?” Marcella asked.

“Not sure, but I think if it were so urgent, my father would have already chimed in and given his opinion on the matter. My mother likes the items on her checklist completed sooner rather than later. Doesn’t matter how much that inconveniences the people who have to do the jobs.”

“Sounds a bit like my grandmother used to be.”

“Yeah? How so?”

She nudged her computer away from the edge of the bed and turned more toward him. He could actually see the front of her face—a circumstance which made his face automatically contort into what was probably a stupid-looking grin.

So pretty.

He really was a lucky Bear. He couldn’t wait to update his Facebook relationship status and to incessantly tag her in pictures in the RomBear group album. Peter did that shit all the time with Drea, and everyone thought it was so cute.

They hadn’t seen cute yet. Soren would show them sickening cuteness.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Marcella asked. “You’re looking a lot like Jack Nicholson as The Joker.”

Soren cleared his throat and wiped the grin off his face. “No reason.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, then. Anyhow, my grandmother likes to think she trained me to do the work I do, but really, I do my job based on instinct and my unique skills. She may have taught me the basics of our kind of witchcraft, but she didn’t teach me how to think or how to translate what my gut tells me into usable information. I did that all on my own. There were many times I cautioned that we use a different tactic for solving problems. She overrode me, which was her prerogative since they were her customers, but her ways don’t always work for me. They take longer and aren’t instinctive.”

“So, what’d you do?”

“I put up with her until I could strike out on my own, and when I did, I made sure I was operating as far from her circle of influence as I could get. I didn’t want her to ever accuse me of poaching her clients.”

“Understandable.”

“Once I was able to support myself, and I had proved that my way works fine for me, I had to sit her down and tell her that her criticism wasn’t helpful. Of course that hurt. I love my grandmother dearly, but the baby bird has to fly from the nest eventually. Yes, she was cool toward me for a while. Salty, even.” She chuckled. “But she got over the perceived snub for the most part. She still teases me, but she doesn’t try to interfere anymore.”

“Huh.” Some strong, scary Bear he was. He let a blonde with a fondness for pearl earrings and pink lipstick steamroll him. He didn’t feel any better knowing that his brother did, too. Perhaps they’d become codependent in letting their mother walk all over them. Tamara was completely unaffected by her. But then again, Tamara had been out of the loop on the Bear business as recently as two years ago. She hadn’t known she was a Bear until Bryan had picked her as his mate.

“I could talk to her for you.” Marcella’s lips quirked at the corner. “If you’d like, I could tell her that you’ll no longer be accepting her edicts.”

“You’re trying to get me killed. Is that your scheme? You’ll keep your hands clean by letting my mother do the dirty work?”

Still smirking, Marcella shrugged. “I was only trying to help.”

“Thank you, but if you’re seeking ways to preoccupy yourself, I can think of better ones.”

“I’m certain at least one involves you showing me your cock.”

“Oh, most definitely.”

“Ugh, I don’t know what to do with you,” she muttered. Sighing, she stood and leaned toward the dresser, grabbing the wad of napkins from near the bag. She carried them around the bed, set the bulk of them on the nightstand, and then dabbed Soren’s cheek with all the concentration of a contractor power-washing a walkway. “Cream cheese.”

“Ah.”

“How did you get food all the way over there?”

“I’m a messy eater.”

“I noticed that last night.”

“Some women like messy eaters.”

Her scrubbing slowed, and then stopped altogether and her dark gaze tracked up to his. She must have caught the joke.

“Do you like it?” he whispered. “Messy? Or do you prefer tidy little licks and nibbles? Careful darts of the tongue on the same spot again and again?”

Her hand fell away from her face, and her lips parted. She pulled in a breath, and Soren waited for the rebuke, but the words didn’t arrive.

No insult.

Huh.

“I think that sometimes…the people who’d perform those tidy little licks and nibbles lack empathy,” she said slowly, quietly. “They don’t understand that pleasure sometimes requires spontaneity and unpredictability. They don’t know that guessing what’s next makes the exhilaration more intense and the urgency stronger.” Swallowing, she wadded the napkin and tossed it toward the waste bin in the corner. “With some things, I suppose I prefer messy.”

“That’s me in a nutshell. Messy.”

Am I what you want?

He didn’t ask out loud, but all the same, the air in the room seemed charged with electricity as she silently thumbed the collar of her shirt and stared at the floor.

Her nod came slowly, and she moved back to her computer. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”