by Zoe Chant
Silent laughter shook her body. “That would definitely cap the weirdness of this week.”
“Weirdness? What weirdness?”
He must have sounded concerned, because she rushed to reassure him. “Oh, it wasn’t that bad. I’ve just never lived out in the country. You know what I saw the other night?”
Bruce stiffened. “What?”
“A bear.” But oddly, she was beaming. “An honest-to-God bear. Talk about wildlife.”
“You weren’t scared?” he asked cautiously.
“No. Well, not really.” She frowned. “I guess that’s weird, isn’t it? But I felt totally safe.”
That’s because you were, thought Bruce, but he couldn’t say that.
After their passionate kiss on the porch the night before, Bruce had recalled Wanda’s words from earlier. She was, understandably, worried for her friend; their “acting” during dinner had been a little too good. A little too real. So she cornered him about it after dessert under the pretense of talking about work. He had confessed that Violet really was his mate.
Instead of calming Wanda down, that had only stoked her ire.
“And you haven’t told her about—you know?” his assistant had hissed, arms akimbo. In this state, even his bear didn’t want to mess with her. “This is my friend, you said you would.”
“I’m waiting for the right time,” he’d replied testily.
“There’s no right time to tell anyone you can turn into a grizzly! I’m not keeping this secret from her for you. You tell her, or I will.”
She had a point, he had to admit. But with his bear clan coming over to celebrate and her nervousness about meeting his family, it seemed like extra-terrible timing at the moment. Just a few days, he’d assured her.
The guilt of keeping a secret from her had made him pull away from Violet on the porch, even though he had ached to sweep her up in his arms and head straight for the master bedroom. It had left him irritable and poor company, so he’d headed outdoors and shifted to his bear form to let off some steam.
Being a bear was sometimes easier than being human. Even though he was still himself, a bear’s mind was more clear, its emotions less complicated. Bears didn’t know how to untangle difficult situations; they didn’t care about anything but their next meal and protecting what was theirs.
That had lasted until he’d seen her standing by the window, cupping something in her hands. She was wearing a nightgown, something flimsy, and the sight of her had stopped him in his tracks. He wanted to fill his eyes with her sumptuous curves and lovely smile.
He knew then that he would do anything for her. It was more than just the bear’s recognition of its mate. It was love, the real love of knowing someone.
Bruce blinked, putting those thoughts aside for the moment.
“Don’t get too friendly with the grizzlies,” he joked uneasily. After all, there were other bears in the forest—not all of them shifters, and none but himself dedicated to protecting her.
“You’ll protect me.”
Sweet words; he couldn’t help but lean down and press his lips to hers. It was the kiss of a moment, spontaneous and genuine. She responded without hesitation, leaning in to him with soft lips.
His hand slid up her back, feeling her warm skin underneath the fabric. A memory rustled awake: her body stretched out underneath his, her beautiful curves to touch and hold, hot kisses and breathy moans. As he deepened the kiss, she made a tantalizing sound in the back of her throat.
“Uncle Bruce?” asked a young, tremulous voice from behind him. “Is that you?”
Violet froze, and a startled giggle emerged from her. “Um, I think we have company. Someone wants to see you,” she whispered against his lips.
Bruce half-thought of ignoring it in favor of whisking Violet into his arms right there, but then he realized who the voice belonged to. It was his nephew Jackson, who hadn’t yet met Violet.
“Why don’t you hug him and find out?” he challenged, turning around.
The boy squealed in delight before taking off like a tiny torpedo in Bruce’s direction. Bruce held out his arms, scooped up his nephew, and tossed him in the air in one smooth moment before catching him. Jackson’s wild curls blew everywhere and he shrieked with joy.
Jackson abruptly went quiet when he spotted Violet, reverting back to his shy nature.
“Jackson, meet Violet. She’s my wife. Violet, this is my nephew Jackson.”
Jackson’s eyes were wide. “You’re pretty,” the toddler blurted out, then buried his face in Bruce’s shirt.
Violet visibly stifled a giggle. “Thank you, Jackson. How old are you?”
With a look of intense concentration on his face, Jackson held up three sticky fingers.
“Don’t lie,” Bruce scolded softly. “Your birthday isn’t until next month.”
“’M almost three,” said Jackson mutinously.
“Nice to meet you, Jackson,” said Violet, affection shining in her eyes. She reached out to shake Jackson’s little hand, making the toddler beam. Bruce’s heart tightened at the sight. He hadn’t ever asked her about kids—if she wanted them, if she even liked them.
But now he could imagine her with them, with his kids. Playing with them, fixing up their scratches and bruises, putting them to bed at night . . . She would be a loving, patient mother—the perfect mate and mother.
“You kissed Uncle Bruce,” said Jackson.
Violet hesitated. “Yep, I did.”
“Are you gonna have cubs?” he said, as if reading Bruce’s mind. Bruce held his breath, waiting in suspense for her answer.
Violet’s forehead wrinkled at what must have seemed to her an odd word choice. “I . . . don’t know,” she said with a quick glance at Bruce. “I guess we’ll find out in the future, huh?”
“Okay.” That answer seemed to content Jackson, who rubbed his eyes.
Bruce sent the little boy back to his parents. “Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly. “He’s a little over-curious.”
Violet tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow comfortably. “That’s okay. I like kids.” Then, lower, sotto voce, “Your family is probably wondering where we are and what we’re doing. Maybe we should rejoin them before they get too suspicious.”
He gave a mock-sigh. “You’re probably right.”
The reception was more of a party, in true boisterous Davis fashion, and it kept both of them busy. It went on for several hours, guests coming and going as they pleased long after the caterers had been gone. Finally, well after dark, they saw the last of Bruce’s relatives off—on the receiving end of a few whistles and catcalls, of course.
“Thank goodness we don’t have to clean much up,” said Violet, surveying the mild damage back inside the house.
Bruce was half-listening, walking past their bedroom—his bedroom, he reminded himself—when he realized the door was ajar. Had someone come in here? With a frown, he pushed it open further to investigate and flipped on the light.
There was something on his bed. Drawing closer, he realized that a bunch of papers and photographs were spread out on top of his bedspread. A feeling of foreboding rose up inside of him. He hadn’t left any of the wedding photos out, he knew; he’d shown them to family and then put them away safely.
There were several large photographs strewn across the bed—photographs of him. He didn’t recognize any of them. But there they were, glossy and taunting: him in his suit, shaking someone’s hand; him at home, taken from outside the house. They looked like they were from a distance, like they were shot by someone following him.
A chill went through him when he spotted Violet among the pictures. And not just with him: the photographer had zeroed in on her, too. In one of the pictures, he recognized the dress she had been wearing at their very first meeting.
Someone had been following him.
He began to gather up all the photos and rifle through them with growing horror. In some of the pictures Violet was alone and in outf
its he didn’t recognize—the stalker must have been following her when Bruce wasn’t there. She had been exposed, vulnerable, and Bruce hadn’t been there to protect her—
Was there some kind of message? He flipped through the pictures again, but found nothing. His frustration mounted.
“Bruce, is everything okay? I was asking where you wanted to put the—“
Violet’s voice came from the doorway. He had been so focused on the pictures he hadn’t even heard her approach.
Too late he tried to hide the photos from her, but she wouldn’t be deterred.
“What are those?”
“Photos.” He tried to look nonchalant, but she saw right through that charade.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she observed, drawing nearer.
Reluctantly he showed them to her. “I found these when I came in.”
Chewing on her lip, she glanced through them. Concern darkened her brow. “Someone at the party left them, maybe?”
But there was studied doubt in her voice, like she knew the truth lay somewhere else, somewhere more sinister, but she didn’t want to admit it.
“I don’t know who took them. But I’m going to find out.”
“Are these supposed to scare us?” Her voice, though defiant in tone, trembled on the last word. Bruce’s heart swelled. His brave, beautiful mate.
“There’s no note,” he said. “At least not that I’ve found.”
“Whatever these are, we won’t be intimidated.” Violet set the stack of photos face-down on the bed—and then they both saw it.
In permanent marker there were words scrawled across the back of the photo.
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Bruce slowly, and it began to dawn on him. He spread out the photographs face-down; each had words written on the back. Individually they didn’t make any sense, but he and Violet rearranged them until they spelled out a coherent message:
You think you can just move on with your pretty little wife? Buddy, have I got news for you. You're going to pay for what you’ve done.
“Oh my God,” she said faintly. “How did they get in the house to leave these? Is it—could it be someone from your family?”
“It’s not my family,” he said grimly. The words stared back at him: Buddy, have I got news for you. “I know who it is.”
“This sounds like a story I need to be sitting down for,” she joked weakly, and he smiled briefly.
“In college, I was friends with a guy named Jim. We’ve—we’d—been friends for fifteen years. I’m an inventor at heart, not a businessman; that was Jim's job. Or at least it was Jim's job.”
Violet squeezed his hand encouragingly.
“When I came up with an idea for an improved food processor, Jim had jumped on it, insisting we go into business together. As a team we worked well for years—me as the behind-the-scenes brain, and Jim with the business sense and practical expertise to make it happen. Together we built a multi-billion-dollar enterprise.”
“He was your partner,” Violet said.
Bruce nodded. “Two years ago I started some designs for a better car seat—safer, more reliable. Jim saw it through the pipeline. At this point I was hanging back from the business part of the job completely. Almost too late I found out he had gone in and made some alterations to my design. The changes would have made production cheaper, but at a cost—a cost too high for me. The whole point of the new design was to make it safer, and he’d undone all of that.
“At that time I still thought there could be some explanation. That it was all just a misunderstanding and we could figure it out. The safety studies had already been done, so I went down to talk to them.”
Violet was watching him with rapt attention. “What did they say?”
He shrugged grimly. “It turned out some of the data had maybe been fudged. Hard to say, and only one worker was willing to talk about it—and swore they wouldn’t testify about it. I didn’t have enough hard evidence to get him convicted in a court of law, but there was enough to get him thrown out of the company. Messily.
“He has a grudge,” he finished with a sigh. Telling someone the whole story like that—not just the facts, but the hurt and betrayal of it all, their lost friendship—had taken something out of him.
With a worried look Violet glanced behind them at the photos. “But we can go to the police, right?”
“I don’t think I could prove it’s him. I don’t have any evidence, the way the message was worded—I just know.”
“Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“It’s hard to imagine he would do anything serious—he’s a friendly guy. Was friendly,” he corrected. Even though Jim’s actions had made him question their friendship, it was still hard to shake old habits. Bruce had a bear’s loyalty, and that was hard to lose. “Maybe this is all. Maybe he just wants to scare me a little. Maybe he feels betrayed by me, like I let him down. I can’t help but feel sometimes like it was me who ruined our friendship.”
But what stalker ever stopped at a few photos?
Violet still looked worried—but for him, not herself. “You did the right thing,” she said confidently, brushing her fingers soothingly through the hair at his temple. “He was in the wrong. You called him on it, and he faced the consequences. It sounds like he’s bitter and wants to bring you down with him.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he swore, his protective instincts flaring. “He never should have brought you into this. He won’t lay a finger on you.”
“I believe you,” she whispered, and something shone in her eyes.
Caught up in the moment, he kissed her. It felt like forever since he’d tasted her lips—he had kissed her a few hours before, but it already felt like forever ago.
He drank in her returning kiss like she was an oasis in a desert, like a parched traveler seeking water.
She kissed him back eagerly, her mouth soft and pliant under his. Even in her kiss he could feel the blood thrumming under her skin, a hummingbird’s beat of anxiety and dread, and he vowed to make it disappear . . . even if it took all night.
Hungrily he probed her mouth with his tongue, and felt her moan in response. She shifted, the pleasant weight of her body pressing against him as she opened her mouth and returned his kiss passionately.
He cupped her face in one hand gently. He was acutely aware of how fragile she seemed, how much she needed protection. Jim wanted to hurt her, or at least frighten her badly—and through her, he wanted to get to Bruce.
Brushing his thumb over her cheekbone, Bruce resolved that he would never let that happen. Her hands rose to brush through his hair, making his skin tingle. He breathed in her scent, fresh and lemony and uniquely Violet. When he kissed her neck she sighed, and he knew she wanted him too.
He wanted to touch her everywhere; he needed to. His hands roamed over her body, over the flimsy fabric that covered her and over her dark skin. Her dress was in the way; as his lips explored her throat, he pushed down the straps of her dress to reveal more of her beautiful, warm skin. He pushed aside the bra confining her.
Her generous breasts were bare and enticing. He cupped them, reveling in how they filled his palms. As he rolled her nipples between his fingers and pinched them lightly, she gasped. The sound filled his ears until it was all he could think about. He was already hard; he could take her right now.
But not yet.
She guided his head down until his mouth traveled to one nipple, taking it between his lips and sucking. Her fingers tightened in his hair and she moaned.
He paid the same careful attention to her other breast, until she was squirming on the bed next to him and panting with arousal. One of his hands roamed her back, searching for skin to touch and stroke.
Her dress was in the way again. Standing up, she wiggled out of it, her curvy body moving enticingly, until the dress puddled at her feet. Clad only in panties, she looked suddenly shy as she gazed down at him.
“You’re the most
beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he told her honestly, and she smiled in surprise. He held her hips and pressed a kiss to her gently round belly.
She slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of her panties—there was lacy edging; had she wanted him to see them? The thought was intoxicating—and tugged them down until they fell to the floor too.
He slipped his hand between her legs, making her moan again. She was hot and slippery, ready for him. With a finger he parted her slick folds and explored her. He traced the edges of her skin lightly, swirled a fingertip around her tight entrance, and sought out her nub of pleasure. He wanted to draw this out; he wanted to make her scream for him.
Violet steadied herself by gripping his shoulders hard. With every touch he slowly drew her closer to the edge. Her eyes half-closed in pleasure and her lips parted.
Her hips swayed, and she unbalanced. Bruce caught her gently. “I don’t think I can keep standing,” she said breathlessly with a giggle.
“Then don’t.”
They traded places—her on the bed, him in front of her. Her thighs parted, as if in tentative invitation. Bruce kneeled between them and took in the sight: her pussy slickened with her juices. He could feel how much she wanted him.
He dipped his head, tracing her folds with his tongue, and took the same path that his fingers had. The salty-sweet taste of her was entrancing. He explored her entrance, pushing his tongue just inside until she gasped. Then he sucked her nub into his mouth and played with it, stroking and rubbing and licking. He found out what she liked and worked her over until the muscles in her body began to tighten tellingly.
She was close to the edge. He lightened his touch, and she moaned in protest, tugging at his hair. His cock ached; he rubbed his palm over the hard line in his jeans. But it wasn’t enough; he needed to be inside her.
Violet felt the same. When he rose and unzipped his pants, his hard length sprang out, and she reached for him.
Her hand clasped around his cock and stroked gently. Her touch threw gasoline on the blaze of the fire within him. Gently she guided him between her legs and pressed the tip of him against her entrance.