Bearly Christmas

by Becca Fanning

  “I know I look like a mess-” she began, but he put a hand over her fingers, which were now trying to comb through the thick mass of hair.

  “Hush, darling. I like your hair au naturale.” His eyes twinkled mischievously as he pulled her hand away, lacing his fingers through hers. “But I know the headband matters to you. It’s like, your armor or something.”

  She met his eyes, and they stared at each other for a long moment, one of those looks where you see and understand the depths of each other. She hadn’t given Finn enough credit, she realized. He was smarter and more intuitive than she’d thought.

  “So anyway, I made you a new one,” he said shyly.

  She looked down at the loop of yarn, realizing that it was indeed head-sized. “You made this for me?” she asked, awe coloring her tone.

  He nodded, smiling softly. “I figured purple would look nice, on account of your green eyes. Purple and green are complementary colors,” he said, sounding rather pleased with himself. He let go of her hand, raising the band to her head. “I made it with stretchy yarn, so it’ll fit better, and it’s lightweight, so it’ll be okay year-round. I can make a thicker one for the winter, though.” He looked uncertain as he watched her, no doubt taking in her shocked expression. “If you want, I mean.”

  She took it from him, running her fingers over the soft wool. “You made me a headband,” she whispered. It was a deep shade of plum, with a diamond pattern stitched into the weave. She’d never seen such a pretty headband. And he’d made it with his own two hands, just for her.

  “Do you like it?” he asked, sounding shy again.

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  “Well here, let’s try it on,” he said, hitching himself closer. He gently pulled the wool from her hand, fitting it over her head.

  “How does it look?” she asked.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful, Irinka.”

  His eyes were huge and dark as he leaned in. God, he was going to kiss her. And she was going to let him.

  His lips were gentle, but firm, as he took her mouth in a kiss that made her dizzy and breathless and all those things she’d read about in romance novels, but never experienced for herself. She realized now that she’d never truly been kissed. Not before Finn. They spent endless minutes, maybe hours, exploring each other’s mouths. Kissing really was underrated, she thought, as their lips molded together over and over again.

  She could have spent forever here on this porch, learning the contours of his lips, tasting the flavors of him.

  But a voice ripped through the quiet, tearing into the precious intimacy of the moment.

  “You fucking whore!”

  Seven

  Irina tore herself away from Finn, jumping to her feet. Her heart beat wildly, threatening to escape her ribs, as she watched Charles emerge from the trees.

  Finn stood, too, positioning himself between Irina and her ex-husband. “Get in the house,” he growled, pushing her toward the door.

  She took a shaky step back, her eyes riveted on Charles. She watched in horror as he raised his right arm to reveal an ancient shotgun tucked into the crook of his elbow. She recognized it immediately, from all the times he’d threatened her with it. It was his great-grandfather’s shotgun.

  He came to a stop about ten feet from the porch. “Don’t you dare move, bitch.” She froze, watching him warily.

  Charles looked terrible. He’d lost at least twenty pounds off his already thin frame, and his hair and face seemed leeched of color. His eyes looked wild, too bright in the waning light. Irina realized it must be almost midnight. Surely one of the others would be coming home soon. But would they have the good sense to stay out of harm’s way and call for the police? She could only pray that someone in a position of authority would believe her now that there was a witness to his violence.

  “Charles, you don’t want to do this.”

  He cocked the shotgun. Or maybe he does, she thought. “Do not try to placate me, Irina.” He stepped closer, and she heard Finn let out a growl. “I will not let you whore yourself out to some low-life fisherman.”

  She took a shallow breath, feeling light-headed. “Please, leave him out of this.”

  Charles raised the shotgun to his sights. “This is all your fault, Irina. It’s always your fault, don’t you remember?” His dark eyes were lifeless and cold as he put his finger to the trigger. “I told you the last time. If you won’t live with me, then you won’t live at all.”

  She saw the instant that Charles’ finger pulled the trigger, as though everything was happening in slow motion. Then time seemed to speed up, and several things happened all at once.

  Irina was knocked sideways, falling with a painful bump of her hip into the pine boards. The bullet whizzed over her head, missing her by mere inches as it embedded itself in the front door. She lifted her head just in time to see Finn take a running leap off the porch, vaulting himself into midair.

  And then Irina gaped in amazement at the sight in front of her.

  Finn seemed to shimmer at the edges, his shape blurring and stretching. Then the shredded scraps of his clothing were flying around him, obscuring her view of him.

  She heard a deafening roar, and then she saw it. No, not it. Him. Finn had turned into an enormous black bear, right before her eyes.

  Her mind barely had time to process the idea that Finn was a shapeshifter before she heard the report of a second shot. Apparently Charles was not frozen in shock like she was. Finn staggered as the second bullet hit him in the shoulder. She screamed, watching in horror as he fell. Then she was running toward him.

  He turned his massive head and growled at her, clearly warning her off. She hesitated. She wanted to help him, but she also wanted to go after Charles. And in her moment of hesitation, Charles acted.

  He reloaded the shotgun faster than she would have thought possible, and seconds later he was pointing at her again.

  But before he could get off a third shot, Finn the bear rose to his full height. Standing more than six feet tall, and weighing probably close to three hundred pounds, he was without a doubt the biggest black bear she’d ever seen. And he was pissed.

  He charged at Charles, swatting him down like a gnat. Charles struggled for a moment on the ground, as though he wanted to get up and fight back. But Finn put a paw on his chest, holding him down. His claws tore through Charles’s chest like he was made of cheesecloth. And then Charles stopped moving.

  Finn groaned, a wounded, feral sound, and collapsed. She rushed to him, dropping to her knees and leaning over him. She buried her hands in his fur, putting pressure on his shoulder to try to stop the bleeding. She never even stopped to think that this was a bear, a wild, dangerous animal. He was Finn. And he’d been shot, had taken a bullet, to save her. She felt tears prick her eyes as she held her hands to his furry shoulder.

  And for once in her life, she let them out.

  Eight

  Irina clenched a nail between her front teeth, holding the level above the new window in her kitchen.

  So much had happened in the last two months, after the Day of the Bear, as she’d taken to calling it. And yet so much more had gone undone. It was the things she’d been avoiding that occupied her thoughts as she worked on checking another item off her to-do list. Well, more like her willing-to-do list.

  The hours and days after the shooting had been a whirlwind of lies, subterfuge, and silence from the one person who mattered most.

  Charles came down to Sitka to visit me. He wanted to go hunting, that’s why he brought that old shotgun. Gosh, it was the strangest thing. Seems the bear didn't want to be hunted. He mauled Charles before any of us could blink, and the gun went off in the struggle. Finn was shot by accident.

  No, of course I’m not in love with Finn.

  It seemed Irina had learned a thing or two from Charles about manipulating the facts to fit a narrative.

  Her erstwhile husband had left her with more than the buildi
ng blocks for a sociopathic personality, though. It turned out that Charles had never changed his will after the divorce. Irina had still been listed as the sole beneficiary of both his estate and life insurance policy at the time of his death. A week later, she found herself possessed of more wealth than she knew what to do with.

  After a lot of thought, she decided it would be fitting to donate the money to a foundation that helped victims of domestic violence escape their abusers. She felt a bone-deep satisfaction the day she’d mailed the check. In a weird way, she felt like she’d beaten Charles at his own game.

  She kept enough money for herself to get set up in Sitka for good. She’d made a deal to purchase the house she’d been renting, though the previous owner made her pay extra for the damages Charles had caused. She'd done some things here and there to spruce it up, too - new paint, new furniture, new rugs.

  New curtains, she thought, as she marked where the rods would attach to the wall.

  She was proud of the changes she was making to her home, and by extension, to her life. She finally felt like she'd attained a measure of peace, for possibly the first time ever. Charles had been a specter over her life for ten long years, haunting her every step, even when she'd finally gotten away from him. But now, she could sleep through the night without her anxiety waking her in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and fear.

  But now that she was well and truly alone, she felt… well, lonely.

  Five days. That's how long she'd known Finn. That's how long it had taken for him to worm his way under her skin, into her bones. Into her heart.

  And now she'd lost him.

  She hadn't seen him since the shooting. She knew the gunshot wound had been a through-and-through, missing all the important stuff and exiting cleanly through his back. He'd been released from the hospital the same day, and aside from a bit of scarring, he'd be good as new. But she couldn't bring herself to head to The Cave and see him. She couldn't think of what she'd say, anyway.

  Because what exactly do you say when someone turns himself into a bear, takes a bullet for you, and kills the man you used to be married to, all within the span of five minutes?

  Yeah, she wasn't sure, either.

  She sighed as she pulled the nail out of her mouth, picking up the hammer from the counter nearby. She lined up the nail with the mark she'd made and raised the hammer.

  “You know, you'd get more stability with anchors and screws,” said a familiar voice from behind her.

  She dropped the hammer, and of course it landed right on her big toe. And of course she wasn't wearing shoes.

  She let out a string of ripe curses in both Russian and English as she turned to face Finn, hopping awkwardly on one foot.

  He was standing on her back porch, leaning against the door frame and wearing a grim smile, like he couldn’t decide whether he was concerned, or if she’d gotten what she deserved. After a beat or two, he sighed. “You okay?”

  She stared at him for a long minute, ignoring the throbbing in her foot. “What are you doing here?” she finally blurted out.

  He frowned. “You want me to go?” He turned as if to leave.

  She closed her eyes briefly, letting out a frustrated breath. In five days, they’d managed to overcome their antipathy toward each other and build a friendship - and maybe more. And then two months of silence had seemingly undone it all. “No. Please. We need to talk.” The understatement of the year.

  He nodded, still frowning, and she gestured for him to come into the house. She got them each a glass of iced tea and cut two pieces of the medovik cake she’d made that morning, setting everything down on the table. And then they sat.

  She stared at him, remembering the familiar planes of his face, the thick lines of his dark brows, that gorgeous white-blond hair. But she saw the differences, too. His hair was shorter, spiky and uneven, like he’d cut it himself. He looked older, more careworn. The blue-black shadows under his eyes stood out against his tan. The frown seemed to be a constant now, the angry expression replacing his usual quick smile. And his eyes, those beautiful honey-gold eyes, looked haunted.

  She blinked back tears, something that was now all too common, after the Day of the Bear. She’d done this to him. She’d made him sad and angry and wounded. She’d put those dark circles under his eyes, given him those sleepless nights.

  She’d made him kill a man.

  He watched her, stone-faced, as she wiped her eyes, blinking rapidly. “So she does have feelings.”

  She nodded. “I deserve that,” she whispered. She deserved whatever he had to say.

  He stood, towering over her. “Two months, Irina. Two months and not a word. You know where I live, where I work. You know how to find me.”

  She looked down at her cake, picking the frosting out from between the cake layers. “I didn’t know what to say.”

  “Didn’t know-” he released a breath. “How about telling me to my face that you have a problem with the bear thing? Don’t I at least deserve that, after everything that happened?”

  She stared at him, her mouth open, her thoughts a mixture of confusion and terror and relief. He didn’t hate her. He thought she was - what? Scared?

  “I don’t have a problem with the bear thing-”

  “Damn it, Irina! Don’t you dare lie to me!” He leaned down, his hand on the arms of her chair, and she flinched.

  He drew back like she’d slapped him. “Oh, God,” he breathed. He backed up, until his ass hit the kitchen counter. He clenched the stone surface, his knuckles white, as he stared at her in horror. “I would never, ever hurt you. Not like-” He cut himself off with a strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a shout. He shook his head, unable to finish.

  She stood, walking over to him slowly. It was as though he was a wild beast - well, now she wouldn’t be able to think of him like that without remembering Finn the bear. She might have laughed, if the moment weren’t so serious.

  “I don’t have a problem with the bear thing,” she repeated. “It’s just another part of you, like being tall, or having weird toes.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “I do not have weird toes.”

  “You have hands down the strangest looking toes I’ve ever seen. It’s very unattractive.”

  He smiled, but it was a distracted smile. “You know I’d never hurt you, Irinka, don’t you?”

  Hearing the nickname filled her with so much hope, so much lightness, that she smiled for the first time in months. “I know. I feel safe with you. I always have. The flinch wasn’t about you. Charles...” she paused, trying to think of a way to describe it.

  He looked pained. “He hit you.”

  She nodded, letting out a breath. “And then some.” He made a growling noise in the back of his throat. “But it was more the constant state of fear that wore me down. I was always waiting for the next horror, whatever new way he’d find to hurt me. Even after I left him, the fear still haunted me, dogged my steps. It felt like I was always looking over my shoulder. I jumped at the slightest thing. He made me afraid of my own shadow.”

  “I’m so sorry you went through that.” She nodded, and he closed his eyes. “So you’re not afraid of me?”

  She shook her head. “No, I promise you.” And she really wasn’t. She’d never once felt unsafe with Finn. Just the opposite, really. It was like she’d always known he’d do anything to protect her, even before he’d proven it.

  “Then why did you stay away?” The look he gave her was so full of hurt, of betrayal, that the tears threatened again. She bit her lip hard, fighting them again.