Saving Soren (Shrew & Company Book 7)

by Holley Trent

  “You’re my mate. I still would have found you eventually,” he said from the doorway. He pressed the unlock button on the key fob, and the SUV’s lights flashed in her eyes.

  The sandwich box was on the floor in the back, as was her forgotten water bottle. She grabbed both and shut the door.

  Soren let her back into the room, fortunately without making her squeeze past his big body. She thrust the sandwich at him and shooed him away. He’d be done in thirty seconds, probably, but that would be thirty seconds that she could use to think.

  First item: Could you please check Georgia plate CRR-2938? It’s attached to a Buick Roadmaster driven by a woman named Pamela Monroe.

  “Stuffy in here,” Soren murmured. “Old motel rooms seem to all have that in common.”

  Marcella rolled her eyes, but leaned over to turn the air conditioner’s fan up to the next level.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said absently, typing some more.

  Second item: Could you please check for biographical information about a child of Pamela named Kim? Surname unknown. (I don’t know specifically what I’m looking for. Asking a witch to explain bad feelings is like asking a philosopher explain existence.)

  Not wanting Drea to think she was completely mental, she deleted the sentence in the parentheses.

  “This is good. What kind of sauce is this?” Soren asked.

  “I don’t know. Something with mayonnaise, I’m sure.”

  “You should order the same tomorrow.”

  “Why, so you can eat it for me? I’ll pass. Once was enough for me.”

  “You can’t live on salad. I tell Maria that every time I see her.”

  “I eat plenty of meat. Not the entire animal all at once, however.”

  She typed:

  See what you can pull up on her, and I’ll send follow-up questions once I know what I’m looking for.

  Last: I have two addresses for you to research. I will fill Dana in on the background in a separate message and CC you. To suffice, for now, they were on a research study form signed by a local made-Bear.

  She painstakingly copied the addresses into the message and checked them against the paper twice to make sure the information was all accounted for. She was still trying to internalize U.S. address conventions.

  “I don’t think you’ve had enough calories today,” Soren said.

  “Have you been counting for me?” she murmured. “That’s sweet of you.”

  “Not counting. Observing. Eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.” And besides, he’d likely swallowed whole the thing she would have been eating, anyway. “I’ll be fine until breakfast.”

  “Is tomorrow’s breakfast going to be the same as what you had for today’s breakfast?”

  “My breakfast this morning was perfectly adequate.”

  “Adequate for people who eat breakfast twice, perhaps.”

  “Stop talking.”

  “Stop starving.”

  “If I had a knife, I’d throw it at you.”

  “It’d never get close. My reflexes are too fast. However, if you’ve got witchy stuff to toss at me, I may not have defenses against those.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him.

  He shrugged. “Depends on what they are. I’m not convinced any non-physical thing you do to me will affect me, but you can try. What can you do?”

  “I—”

  She hissed and pounded her thighs with frustration. The words had been about to tumble out as if he were some chatty girlfriend she was used to telling all her secrets without a second thought. It was as though the lever that controlled her verbal filter had gotten stuck in the open position for a moment.

  Giving her head a clearing shake, she turned back to her computer and finished the message to Drea.

  As badly as she wanted to tell someone—anyone—what kind of oddity she was, the person couldn’t be him.

  Her mother had never told her father the whole truth, either, and that was probably for the best. Women like them couldn’t keep lovers. How could they, when their men couldn’t keep their arms around them long enough to comfort them when they needed to be?

  ___

  “What are you doing?” Soren was leaning over the back of Marcella’s chair again, but other than sighing loudly, she hadn’t complained. He considered that to be progress.

  “I’m sending Dana an email recapping what we learned about the Bears here.”

  “Normally, I call when I need to do a mid-job debriefing. I talk faster than I type.” He splayed a hand in front of her eyes. “Big fingers. Makes for clumsy typing. Good for other things, though.” He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  She sighed. “Behave yourself. And calling would mean waiting for morning. This is efficient, and I can communicate more clearly.”

  “She’s going to end up calling you for clarification, anyway.”

  “Fine. And when Dana does…” Marcella’s words trailed off as her fingers sped even faster over the keys. She hit the return button a few times and then, at the bottom of the message, listed all of her phone numbers.

  Soren fumbled at getting his phone out of his pocket to take a picture of the digits. She hit send before he could get the camera app open.

  Damn it.

  “And when she does…” Marcella turned and, obviously noting he was closer than she’d realized, leaned her torso back toward the table edge. “She’ll have a good starting point to refer to.”

  He shrugged. “We’ll try your way, then.”

  “Of course we’re going to do this my way. This is my investigation, or had you forgotten already?”

  He hadn’t forgotten. He simply thought Marcella trying to exclude him was silly. Knowing what he knew about the decision-makers at Shrew & Company, he had full confidence that as long as the situation was somehow resolved, Marcella would get the job. Dana wouldn’t give a shit that Soren had interfered, nor would Sarah.

  His stare slipped down to her loose neckline, and he let out a breath, trying to keep the bear in him from becoming distracted by the smooth brown flesh there. He closed his eyes, but cutting off one sense made others work harder. His nose was picking up the notes of fragrance in her hair, or…

  Instinctively, he leaned downward, letting his skin steer him toward the warmth of her, stopping when he could feel the tickle of her breathing on the side of his neck.

  Some sort of perfume.

  She’d dabbed something onto her skin, and the fragrance was so subtle that what he was catching had probably been applied days before. Flowers of some sort. Powdery, but light and fresh.

  “Soren,” she warned.

  “What is that scent?”

  “What scent?”

  He opened his eyes so he would see where to point. He did more than pointing, though. He slid his fingertip along her collarbone, breath speeding, and heart racing as he did.

  Touching her was a taboo pleasure, and he fully expected that at any moment, she’d smack his hand away, or swear at him, or something.

  She did none of those things, though. She angled her chin downward, peering at his finger. “I’m not sure what you’re smelling.”

  “Flowers and…powder, I think.”

  Perhaps the scent was detergent, something in her clothes. Soren fisted a square of her shirt and brought his nose down to it.

  “Soren.” She tried to swat his hand away.

  “Mmm?” Not the shirt. The scent was on her flesh.

  “You’re an odd duck. Stop sniffing me.”

  “I’m going to go nuts if I can’t figure out what that is.”

  “For goodness’ sake, here.” Sighing, she gripped the back of his head and pulled him forward, crushing his nose against the bend of her neck. “Get your fill.”

  And he wanted to, but was struck dumb by the disconnect between her commanding tone and the tension in her body. She was stiff against him, hardly breathing. Barely tolerating him, really, but at the sa
me time, her hormones were painting a different picture. They suggested excitement in addition to the apprehension—a tempered curiosity, perhaps.

  Letting his fingers curl around the chair arms, he drew in a deep inhalation, ignoring the notes of the perfume she’d applied and concentrating more on the fragrance that was natural.

  Warm blood and a sweetness he didn’t understand.

  “What is that?” he whispered, pulling his nose up her neck, brazenly skimming his lips behind them. “What are you carrying in you?”

  Being so near her, her swallow was bombastic and startling to his ear, but he didn’t shrink back for long.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “You’re not wearing anything, are you? That’s your scent.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it. I don’t smell the same things as you. And are you quite done?” She tried so hard to sound impatient, but her body betrayed her. Her muscles were relaxing, her posture becoming less rigid. Her heart was still beating in frantic staccatos, though.

  “Tell me about you,” he said. “Tell me what sort of creature you are.”

  “Go away, Soren.”

  “Tell me your secrets.”

  “You assume I have any to share.” Her fingertips worked over his scalp in a pattern that, at first, startled him into wondering if she were applying some sort of hex to him. Then he realized she wasn’t making a pattern at all, but rhythmic circles. Massaging without realizing she was.

  He descended slowly onto his knees lest she pull her hand away. He didn’t want her to stop touching him so tenderly, and he wanted to know why she smelled the way she did. Having spent his adult life tracking supernatural oddities, he’d thought he’d discovered everything there was out there to find. She wasn’t just a witch. He knew witches. There was something else going on with her.

  His breath staggered out as he put his head on her lap and slid his hands up her thighs in search of something to grip.

  She stopped rubbing.

  He turned his head toward her belly and peered up at her through the corner of his eye.

  Her brow was still wrinkled with confusion, but her expression had, overall, softened. “Are…all shapeshifters so intrusive?”

  “Depends. Put your hands in my hair again.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “Put your hands in my hair,” he repeated with urgency. “Touch me.”

  “Even if I’d wanted to, I wouldn’t. You can do what you like, but I’m on the job right now.”

  “What you do in your downtime is your business. You don’t have to include this in your official report to the Shrews.”

  “What is the this you’re referencing?”

  Her hands weren’t on him. They’d retreated to the arms of his chair, and the beast in him was frustrated that he’d have to beg for the smallest amount of petting. He reached up and relocated her hands from the arms to his head, and then settled the side of his face atop the seam between her legs once more.

  “Soren… What is this?”

  “This is you driving me wild. It’s a Bear being a Bear who’s been told not to act like one. Rub me.”

  She rubbed, but he heard the catch of a snicker in her chest.

  “This isn’t professional,” she said. “You’re a distraction.”

  “I would have been less of one if you’d been kinder back in North Carolina. We wouldn’t have gotten to this point if you’d soothed me then.”

  “So, you interfering in a job that’s very important to me is my fault? You’re barely giving me an inch of space to work.”

  “You can’t stop me from interfering unless you chain me up and lock me away. You don’t get to run away from me.”

  “You sound exactly like a menace.” Her fingertips toyed with the top of his ear, making tender swipes along the shell.

  “I admit I’m a menace.”

  “And you think I should be tolerant of that? That I should embrace bad behavior?”

  He caught the hem of her shirt with his thumb and fidgeted with the fabric. “The behavior is simply part of the package. Like with any other commodity, if you don’t like the way a product behaves, fix it.”

  “You make that sound easy.” Her strokes of his scalp became long, leisurely swipes. Her fingertips meandered along his hairline and across his eyebrows. “Every woman knows to stay away from the men who need fixing. My mother could tell you why.” Her fingers stopped. “And Maria’s, too, if she were alive.”

  He didn’t know what to say in response to that. On the one hand, she shouldn’t have borne the responsibility of making him tolerable to be around. But on the other, there wasn’t any other woman he would let in to do the work. He’d had his fun—had played the field the way men his age were prone to do.

  He didn’t know what he’d needed, much less what he’d wanted, but none of those women had been right.

  Marcella was right for him, but if he couldn’t explain why or how, would she believe he wasn’t merely talking more shit?

  He sighed.

  Doubt it.

  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-you
r-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.”