by Helena Novak
Bound to the Bears
Helena Novak
Contents
1. Azlin
2. Orsa
3. Azlin
4. Orsa
5. Orsa
6. Azlin
7. Azlin
About the Author
Bound to the Bears © 2021 Helena Novak
All rights reserved as permitted under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the Author, with the exception brief quotations may be used for review purposes. Criminal Copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is publishable by up to five (5) years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons living or dead is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work.
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Azlin
“Lady Azlin, are you sure she’s the one?”
Giving birth is one of those particular female events that everyone feels they must have a hand in. Regardless of their role in the mother’s life—or the father’s, in most cases—once a person discovers someone they know is expecting a child, they simply have no choice but to be overtly present from that moment on.
This is proven to me once again as Orsa Jelani, Master of the Order, is rushed into the delivery room at Saint Victoria’s. For the last nine months, no members of her family or pack have made the effort to help her, guide her, support her through this process. They kept back, as is expected, and let Orsa’s mother and her doting husband keep sole watch of her.
But the moment word got out the birth was happening, oh, everyone dropped what they were doing and rushed to congregate in the waiting room. The mass is so large it spills into the parking lot and down the streets. Flurries of the brutish, muscular furry creatures circle the area menacingly, some human, some shifted, warding off any potential threats to their precious Master.
Bear shifters are nothing if not dramatic.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I grumble back to my younger sister. “She’s different. And there’s no need to call me lady.”
“Would you prefer Your Highness?” she snipes. “Or My Queen, perhaps?”
“Drop the attitude, Caliphe,” I snarl back.
“Why this one?” she asks. “Look at them, scuttling about. There are dozens you could pick from, all of which would work just the same. Plenty no one would miss. Why take the important one?”
Theatrical as all of this seems, the Order is smart to keep watch of Orsa. While bear shifters of all sorts pepper every last corner of this miserable little planet, the Jelani family is a special bloodline.
They were, of course, the first.
No one really knows how bear shifters came to be. The tale they most typically worship is that of Artemis, Greek goddess of the moon, beloved the creatures so dearly she blessed them with the ability to switch forms, live as human and monster, and even walk amongst nightmare and reveries alike.
Bullshit. If a goddess were truly so bored she decided to swing by little Earth and make herself some pets, there is no likely explanation for why she would abandon them so carelessly. And why would Artemis, the unmarried goddess, bestow her gifts upon women and men? Wasn’t that her whole story?
Who could blame her for disliking the male sex, honestly… they ruin quite literally everything.
Not the point.
The truth of The Order is far more sinister.
But the truth is also very long and riddled with drab details.
In short, someone wrongfully in the possession of grand and unspeakable powers was the one who became bored. She had all the parts lying around, scattered remains of tortured souls and picked apart corpses left behind from wars she and her fleet had caused. Her charge was busy, paying her no attention. She’d always liked watching bears walk, how they grunted at each other.
They could have been fluffy, harmless little things. As harmless as a bear, at least. No more impressive than werewolves. Just a human with the ability to shift between beings. But why would someone with an ego so large, someone who had gotten away with cheating death, stop there?
Why stop there when she had more gifts to bestow?
The gifts of walking through dreams, and twisting souls.
Her only fault was an inexperience with death. It’s a fickle power, one born of bloodlines and family tradition. It passes down in a line, from the woman who cursed the first Jelani bear, straight down to the most recent of queens. Should the Master be eliminated, so is the bear’s gift of death.
Tends to make the Jelani family a familiar target for those in the business of death. Reapers, wraiths, ghosts and the like, not really a fan of other people putting their paws on what they deem to be their meager jobs.
Orsa Jelani was the most recent woman in her family line, until the birth of her first daughter, Ursula, barely three years ago. I can only imagine what a shit show that must’ve been. The first born child of the Master of the Order, and blessedly, it’s a girl. All the responsibility and power and liability transferred onto an infant in the very first cry.
It had to be freeing, in a way. Orsa was free of her burdens, no longer the most wanted, the endangered. It was her duty to deliver a daughter, maintain the life-force of their power, and she had done it. On the first try, at that. Killing her would be a moot point, unless one was looking to start a war, so what worries could she possibly have?
“She’s special,” I say to my sister, who rolls her eyes at my non-answer.
“Everyone is special,” she mumbles.
“Yes,” I say, “no one more so than Vex.”
“This isn’t about him.” Caliphe pierces me with a vicious glare, which only darkens when I giggle.
“Isn’t it?”
“This is serious, Azlin, we don’t have time for games.”
“It’s been centuries of your games,” I say. “Allow me a turn. I desire the Master. She’s strong-willed, but weak minded. Given a little time—“
“It’s a girl!” the nurse between Orsa’s magnificent thighs proclaims, before I can finish my thought. She stands and wipes the shrieking, bloody thing clean and passes it to the new mother, resting the babe on her chest.
Orsa doesn’t look any calmer, her face ashen and glistening with sweat, her tired eyes bulging. This would be it—a worry she has.
In normal circumstances, a second daughter means nothing. Good to have as a spare, should something happen to your firstborn, but in reality, unnecessary. From what I’ve seen of their bloodline, the Jelani family stops after one daughter, for fear of creating a Cain and Able fate for one of their children. But it’s not frowned upon, so that’s not what has Orsa’s heart in her throat.
No, the concern here becomes parentage.
Beren, the doting husband I mentioned, has tears in his dark eyes, a watery smile on his handsome face. He lets go of Orsa’s shaking hands to brush his thick fingers over his new daughter’s silky head, trying in vain to soothe her newborn panic.
Beren is what I would consider a perfect man. All his strength is reserved for his children. He keeps his mouth shut and his eyes down, leaves Orsa to her own dealings. They were an arranged marriage, one neither of them wanted, and he understands his position. He is meant for protection, for pleasure,
and to provide.
That is all.
He is not meant to think, or fight, or challenge, or rule. He may need the occasional reminder from Orsa, but for the most part, he keeps his pretty mouth shut. He stays home while she works and caters to Ursula’s every need. He reads to her at night, teaches her how to bake and defend herself, how to clean and how to live.
He is a good father. And he’s spent the last nine months eagerly awaiting another child to look after, another ray of sunshine in his pathetic existence.
This second daughter is his second reason for living.
It’s adorable, really.
Too bad the baby isn’t his.
“Hurry along, Lady Azlin,” Caliphe says, dripping with sarcasm. “The war approaches. No time left for distractions.”
Then she leaves me to my own mind, the comforting cold she provides leaving with her.
Beren may be the perfect man, by my standards, but Orsa doesn’t wish for a boring partner. She doesn’t seem to want any partner for anything longer than a night or two. She’s unhappy—painfully so, but well behaved. She has done what is asked of her, religiously, for her entire life.
Except one night. Summer time. Leaving some rundown dive bar and sneaking behind The Magpie with a man carved from rocky mountains and storm clouds, bowing to his commanding touch as he pinned her to the side of the haunted theater. He pushed her purple leopard print dress up over her hips and tore her panties to shreds. He buried his cock deep inside her with his hand wrapped tight around her throat, strangling her keening moans down while he fucked her until her knees shook.
She was so pretty, her eyes rolled back and her soft cheeks flushed in the moonlight. Her dress wrinkled, wet from their combined seed, makeup smeared all over her face and knees wobbling like a newborn foal as she stumbled down the street and passed out in the back seat of her own car.
She didn’t see me then, same as she doesn’t see me now. She’s far too tangled up in her own head to care about the girl in lilac scrubs lingering in the doorway, same as she didn’t notice me following her from the bar to the theater, didn’t scent me when I touched myself to the vision of their tryst, didn’t awaken when I sat on the hood of her car and watched over her until sunrise.
“You should go get Ursula from my mom,” she says now, trying to dismiss her husband now that the nurses had cleared out and taken her newborn to the nursery. “Then you may go keep watch of the little one.”
“I don’t mind waiting with you,” he says. “We never agreed on a name.”
“She has a name,” Orsa bites. She digs the heels of her palms into her eyes, tipping her head back into the pillows and stretching her chest, trying to pull in a steady breath. “She’ll take my mother’s name.”
Beren’s face falls, if only for a moment, before he manages to pull himself back together. “You said you’d consider naming her after my mother.”
“I did consider it,” she says dismissively. “Go get Ursula for me, Beren.”
“We already named Ursula after the stars, like you wished,” he protests. Orsa’s anger tickles my energy, but the poor fool doesn’t notice. “Maybe we could compromise and—”
“And what, Beren?” she barks. “Your mother’s name isn’t special. Dropping dead doesn’t change that fact. I considered your request, and the answer is no. Now go get my daughter and leave me to my thoughts.”
“But—“
“But?!” Orsa yells, snapping upright in the bed. Pain tightens the corners of her black eyes, but she holds strong, her snarl more animal than woman now. “But what?”
“Nothing.” Beren shrinks, lowering her eyes in a show of respect. “Nothing, I’m sorry.”
“Go. Get. My. Daughter,” Orsa growls, struggling to maintain her human form through her anger.
“Yes, Master,” he says, his voice trembling.
“And?” she growls, angrier still she has to prompt him further.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles, bowing his head as if waiting for a blow. When none comes, he carefully rises from his seat and bolts from the room without another word.
No wonder she thinks she’s so important.
“Big temper for such a little thing,” I giggle.
Orsa’s eyes snap to me, finally, her lips parting in surprise and embarrassment. Not so tough in front of a stranger, it seems. “How long have you been here?”
I ignore her question, just to spite her. “Is there anything I can get for you? To make you more comfortable.”
She swallows, the cloud of black in her eyes softening back to their natural brown hues, red splotches crawling up her neck. “No,” she says. “Thank you. I just want to be alone for a minute.”
“With your eldest,” I add.
She blinks at me. Curious. Cautionary. “Do I know you?”
“Soon, yes,” I say. “Congratulations on your baby.”
And then I leave, before Beren can bring her happy little girl to her. I wander the long hallway to the nursery, peering in at all the younglings in their plastic cribs. Most of them are awake and restless, reaching into the sky and grasping at lights and colors they can’t quite fathom yet. But Orsa’s new little one—Keyona—is silent and still, heavy like a rock.
Just like her father.
Oh, what fun he will be when he finds out. Try as Orsa might, it is a matter of when.
I need it to happen. So, I’ll make sure of it.
Orsa plays a crucial role in my plans, both the long and short term. As my sister rudely pointed out, I could take any bear with a penchant for gliding through the dreamworld. Orsa is not nearly as important as she thinks she is in the big picture.
But there’s just something about her that calls to me, something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s been nearly a year of searching, and I can’t get her out of my mind.
It was all in the way she danced that night that settled it for me.
She will know me. Better than the back of her hand. Better than she even knows herself.
She’ll be mine before she even sees me coming.
Orsa
Only I could be so fucking stupid to sleep with a complete stranger, get knocked up, go through with having his baby in the hopes of it being a little boy—and therefore useless, by the reaper’s gift’s standards—and then let my mother throw a celebratory party for the little booger anyway.
The entirety of my family bustles around my home, making a mess of every last inch. I can practically feel my husband’s discomfort as his pristine abode is turned inside out and upside down, disrupted by this careless, albeit excited group of friends and allies.
I hadn’t anticipated much turnout, and he clearly expected none. Some dragons are wandering around, mostly for the free meal and to keep up appearances. A handful of beta wolves came to offer congratulations on our second child, as well, though I suspect they’re really here to see underling soldiers from either family.
Forbidden relationships are far sweeter than any other.
I would know.
This is nowhere near the chaos that ensued upon my daughter’s welcome party, almost three years ago to the day. As next in line to inherit The Order, everyone descended quickly to kiss her cheeks and secure their place as an ally to the family.
The girl who would grow into a merciless, irrefutable opponent to the rest of the kings and bosses and family leaders in the northern United States? The heir to the largest alliance of bear shifters in all of North America--the second most powerful alliance of shifters?
My mother dreamed I would potentially overtake the dragon clans of the north, that I could be the one to dominate the western part of this country.
As I do on most fronts, I let her down. She makes sure I know that every single day.
Ursula, my firstborn daughter, yanks from her best friend’s small toddler hands the pool toy they’re sharing. Dov gasps and withdraws from her, but she barks at him about holding it wrong, and proceeds to
shove the neon ball under the water until she spins around it.
Dov looks concerned, eyeing his father at the edge of the water. Harvey’s panic is thinly veiled, but he gives his baby boy a thumbs up to let Ursula call the shots and show him how to play.
Harvey hopes I’ll cave and allow my husband, Beren, to make the arrangements for Ursula and Dov’s betrothal. He knows well enough that one tear from my daughter would sink that coffin.
It’s a pipe dream anyhow. The children get on just fine, and should Ursula want the motherless bastard as her own, then so be it. But I will not paint my baby into the same corners I was placed in for the sake of peace in The Order.
Perhaps she will take over the world and fulfill my mother’s dreams of bear supremacy.
“She’s quite the little monster, isn’t she?”
I straighten my shoulders and turn to face the stranger. This woman has managed to creep far too deep into my personal bubble without detection, piquing my irritation. Her aura is cold, a darkness that lulls all those around her into a false sense of security. Loose waves of dark hair frame her face from under her soft fur cap, lips painted a wintery shade of plum. Her all-white dress suit clings deliciously to the faint curves of her lithe body, tufts of fur accentuating her figure.
I stare into her eyes a moment too long, and my apprehension begins to fade away, no matter how hard I struggle to maintain it.
“You’re dressed quite elaborately for a simple baby birthday party,” I say with a forced scowl.
She looks familiar, but not. It’s almost hard to look at her dead on. My eyes want to veer past her, to the wall above her head, or the floor between her dainty feet. She fits in with the rest of the little business families and supernatural collaborations, trying to ally up and make friends with us bears. Overly dolled up for what should be a close-knit family get together, balancing a gold rimmed wine glass filled with my husband’s prized merlot.