by Lily Cahill
“I’d say, ask me and find out.”
Chase dropped to his knee and pulled out a small box. He flipped open the lid to reveal a beautifully simple solitaire diamond. Emily couldn’t find her words, could barely think. She could only stare at this wonderful, surprising man as he looked up at her with a face full of love.
“Emily St. Clair, I was a shit human being before you came into my life. But you somehow saw past that to the man I wanted to be. I love you fiercely, so fiercely it can knock my feet out from under me. All I want for the rest of my life is to make you smile and laugh and get angry with me and then have the best make-up sex. I want you, all of you, for the rest of my days.”
Emily didn’t wait for Chase to stand back up. She dropped to her knees and covered Chase’s face in kisses, her hands on his cheeks, her fingers in his beard.
“Is that a yes?” Chase managed in between her fervent kisses.
“Yes,” Emily said breathlessly.
Chase pulled back only enough to tug the ring out of the box and slip it onto Emily’s finger, then he flung the box over his shoulder and dragged Emily’s lips back to his. His touch, his kiss set her body alive with fire. She was consumed with it, with love for this man.
Their kiss was urgent, as fierce as the love Chase had proclaimed for her. It was only after several long minutes that Chase pressed his forehead to Emily’s, his shoulders heaving with ragged breath.
“So,” he whispered. “Tell me more about that lacy black lingerie you’re wearing, future Mrs. Hart.”
Emily giggled against Chase’s lips and shimmied a bit in his arms. “Why don’t you take me back downstairs and see it for yourself.”
Chase growled in agreement and scooped Emily up into his arms. She laughed wildly and clung to Chase as he strode across the rooftop and kicked open the door.
“Chase Hart,” Emily laughed. “I think you’re letting your wild bear man side out right now.”
Chase roared a laugh and nipped playfully at her ear, only pausing to nudge his apartment door open with his hip. “Darlin, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Chapter One
Nina
NINA MARTEN TAPPED A PEN against her small notebook. Each second that passed, the tapping pen grew more insistent, more agitated.
They were late.
Nina hated tardiness. Nearly fifteen years covering musicians in LA, and she still hadn’t grown used to rock stars flaking on a story.
At the front of the Beverly Wilshire’s lounge, a door swished open. Nina glanced up over her black-framed glasses, ready to stand and meet the guys. But then she scowled and slunk back into the leather club chair. It was just a gaggle of women in bright blouses and brighter teeth, all of them too blond and too thin. But in LA, you could never been too blond or too thin. With her curves and ebony skin, Nina had learned that lesson long ago.
Nina watched the women move as a pack toward the bar as more than a few eyes followed them. Nina snorted a laugh—these women may get some free drinks, but Nina got where she was through some damned hard work.
And she’d like get to work, if her interview subjects would bother to turn up. Where the hell were these guys? Nina checked her phone again, but there was no word from their publicist. They were now seventeen minutes late.
Three more, and Nina was going to leave.
She wanted to leave. She really did. This interview was giving her more trouble than it was probably worth. But her editor at Rolling Stone was excited about the pitch, and the guys had already done a photo shoot in Brooklyn a month ago. Nina leafed through some of the photo options—it helped her get a feel for her interview subject. That, and meticulous research.
It was the research that’d been the problem. No, not just a problem. A giant, glaring neon sign that pulsed in anger: Do Not Approach. Bad Idea, Nina.
Without thinking, Nina’s long fingers brushed back the collar of her well-worn leather moto jacket and clutched at the necklace settled against the hollow of her throat. It was her touchstone, her talisman. The necklace was gold and delicate—always a bit dichotomous with the sharp-edged jewelry she tended to favor; today her hoop earrings were studded with tiny spikes. But Nina never removed the necklace, not since she first got it all those years ago.
The gold was cool under her fingers, the lines of the infinity symbol—like a sideways number eight—worn smooth with time and her touch. No matter her feelings, her fears, her doubts, this necklace symbolized to Nina that she would endure. She would go on, even in the face of challenges. She was a survivor, above all else.
If she’d listened to her fear, she’d never have left Pennsylvania, she’d never have left … them. Instead, she’d gotten on a one-way bus to LA with only three hundred bucks in her pocket and a small backpack half full of books. And now she was one of the most successful music journalists working today.
Nina dropped her necklace back to her throat and took a deep breath. For all her success, the one thing Nina had never faced was her dark past. But it was about to walk in that door. Four men who represented everything Nina had fled, everything that had tormented her as a teen.
She’d figured it out the second she started really researching the Hart brothers—unfortunately after she’d brought the pitch to her editor. To someone with her background, it was all too clear what she was dealing with. And now, there was no turning back.
Hands shaking, Nina jerked forward and grabbed her tumbler of whiskey. It was only two in the afternoon, but to hell with it. She lifted a hand for the distracted bartender to order another, then whistled to get his attention when he didn’t look away from the Blond Horde. Nina rolled her eyes and tipped the whiskey back in one shot to settle her fraying nerves. Yet the liquor just burned in the pit of her stomach.
The door behind her swished again, and new patrons filtered into the low-lit lounge of the Beverly Wilshire. Male voices this time. Powerful voices that, though quiet, seethed with something strong and dominant. Something that made Nina grind her teeth together and fight the urge to run away or vomit back up the whiskey or perhaps both.
It was the sound of bear shifters, and Nina hated it.
Nina pinched the necklace between her fingers, grasping for any strength it could give her. But she was seventeen all over again. Shunned for what she wasn’t, exploited for what she was, terrified and angry and chock full of the sort of doubt that keeps a person frozen in one spot, even if that spot is a nightmare.
The Hart brothers weren’t them, she tried to remind her quaking heart. They might be shifters, but that didn’t make them evil.
And Nina had a job to do. She had to stop seeing the bear in each man and look instead for the musician. That’s what they were all here for, after all. Nina slugged back the second tumbler of whiskey and stood.
Jax lifted a hand in a wave, Chase grinned and elbowed Bret, who scowled. But Drew stumbled backward. Nina frowned, regarding him. She knew he was the eldest Hart brother, and he’d actually been the most interesting to her when doing research. Drew was more of a mystery than the other guys. Nina watched as Drew gripped the dark wood doorframe, swaying slightly on his feet. Maybe he’d been drinking like her, though her research indicated he wasn’t a big drinker.
Nina brushed off the curiosity—there was plenty of time to dig into Drew’s personality—and motioned for the guys to sit. Nerves fizzled and snapped around the table, the guys sharing looks. It actually settled Nina, to see this very human emotion nipping at the Hart brothers’ heels.
And it was more than nerves. It was anticipation too. That buoyed Nina and let her confidence peek back around the curtain in her heart, where it’d hidden. Even with her clout and the luxury of being choosy with her subjects, Nina had interviewed enough pompous, pointedly-bored asshole musicians to find the Hart brothers refreshing. They wanted this. They needed this.
Nina pushed down the red button on her recorder and slid it into the middle of the table, then she turned to the first man on her left. She a
sked each brother to spell his name for her, an old habit from before having an internet connection at home and interviewing mostly unheard-of indie bands.
But these guys were anything but unheard of. She recognized Jax from his photos, the tall, lean pretty boy with the killer smile. Next to him, Chase was bigger and broader, with a shaved head and the sort of playful light in his eyes that made Nina certain he’d give her the best pull quotes. Beside him, Bret stared at Nina, his bright blue eyes sharp and his mouth hard. Bret was attractive, but there was something sharp-edged about him, something nearly predatory. Finally, she turned to Drew, who kept his head down and mumbled his name.
Drew was tall—even how he was sitting in the chair, Nina could tell he was the tallest of the brothers. There was something quietly powerful in the way he sat, with his elbows cocked and his hands steepled under his chin. He looked like a ruler, a king out of old fairy tales.
And yet, he was thoroughly modern. His dark hair was long and pulled back into a bun at the back of his head, and his lived-in clothing was cut slim, the material of his pants and shirt skimming over thick thighs, a broad chest, and hulking arms.
Nina raised as eyebrow at Drew after he mumbled his name, but he didn’t look up. Apparently his gossip blog nickname, Dreary Drew, had a nugget of truth in it. But Nina had a sneaking suspicion Drew was anything but dreary. Reticent, yes, and more measured than the other brothers. But Nina was one who chose her words carefully, and “dreary” was about the furthest description she’d use for Drew Hart.
Of all of them, the bear was easiest to detect in Drew. Part of Nina curled away from that, the primal part of the man, but a larger part was curious. These four men were the first shifters Nina had been around since she’d fled her home fifteen years ago. In her mind, shifters had become feral—nearly monsters—but these brothers were … human. And humans she could deal with.
“So,” Nina began, sitting back with her notebook on her lap to take back-up notes and observations. “You guys are late, but we still should have plenty of time to talk.”
Chase eyed Bret. “This one was … uh … indisposed this morning.”
Nina quirked an eyebrow. The meaning was obvious, and she slid a pointed look Bret’s way to see if he cared to elaborate. He shrugged and picked at a loose string on his frayed jeans.
“We’re here now,” he said.
“And we’re seriously so pumped to talk to you about the new album,” Jax interjected.
Nina nodded. “Yeah, the new album. I’ve heard a couple tracks, and they’ve definitely gone in a different direction. Where did the inspiration come from?”
Chase and Jax shared a look and a quiet smile, then they started talking. The two of them dominated the conversation and gave Nina some great material to work with. Like she suspected, Chase had some brilliant one-liners that she knew would make her editor, Jake, and the layout team thrilled. With some direct questions, she even got Bret involved.
Only Drew remained silent, his eyes down and two fingers working at a faded blue string tied around his left wrist. Nina had interviewed difficult people before—the sort that gave one-word answers and had to be prodded for anything deeper. Yet Drew still didn’t strike her as difficult.
Nina glanced at her phone—they’d already been talking for forty-five minutes. Nina had planned to also go to Wild Hart’s album release party for follow-up quotes, but she needed to get something from the silent Hart. She cleared her throat and looked over her notes and observations.
“And Drew,” she started. He kept his eyes on the floor. “Your brothers have talked about how they see their role in the band and what’s changed for them over the past year to come to this deeper, more mature sound. What about you? What’s your role in Wild Harts?”
“Drew’s the big brother in every sense,” Jax said.
Chase nodded. “The bedrock. The tree that doesn’t shake in the wind, you know what I mean?”
“What do you think, Drew?” Nina asked, trying to draw him out. She couldn’t write a piece with one-fourth of the band silent. Unless that could be her angle. A new idea washed over Nina, of positioning the article around Drew and his silence.
But then a riptide grabbed Nina by the ankle and dragged her under. Drew finally looked up, his vivid green eyes piercing straight to Nina’s soul. Nina pressed back into her chair and gasped.
It couldn’t be.
Nina tore her gaze from Drew, even as she felt her body demand that she keep looking, get closer, as close as she could.
She was his fated mate. It was as clear as day in every line and angle of his face. It poured from him, shone through his eyes. They were soulmates.
Nina jammed her finger over the recorder to press stop and shoved that and her notebook into her bag.
“I …,” she stammered, jerking upright. Her knees felt watery, like she might be about to faint. “I’ve got to go. Uh, I’m sorry. I’ll be in touch about the story.”
Then, with fingers clamped around her necklace, Nina fled.
Chapter Two
Drew
EVERY TIME DREW HART CLOSED his eyes, he saw Nina.
Drew paced back and forth in front of the giant window in the brothers’ shared penthouse rented for them by their label. Far below, neon blinked and headlights blurred the twilight.
Nina was gorgeous, with lustrous, brown skin and a riot of caramel-colored curls. There was something hard-edged about her—obvious in the tough clothing and the way she sat. She was a commanding presence. But in the fleeting glance he’d shared with Nina, Drew saw softness behind those black-framed glasses.
The lines of her face were delicate, and her lips wide and luscious. Her dark eyes had been warm and curious … for a second. Then she’d hardened her gaze and fled.
Drew collapsed with a big sigh into one of the deep couches and tried listening to music. It’d always calmed him, centered him, but now it agitated against his ears and poked at his mind.
With an exasperated growl, Drew vaulted back to his feet and continued pacing. His mate. Nina Marten—the damned music journalist—was his mate. But was she?
The vision he’d been granted at his coming-of-age ceremony had been more amorphous than Jax’s or Chase’s visions. What he saw as a teen had been an interpretation—a situation, a place, a drink. And a necklace. Nina’s necklace.
Years ago, he’d thought that vision led him to Kirsten, the girl he’d met during grad school at Yale. But then she—also a shifter—had locked on someone else. He could remember that night like it was yesterday, and his heart rent in two thinking of it again. Drew rubbed his finger over the blue string, memories of Kirsten bubbling to the surface.
That awful night, she’d admitted that she’d always known Drew wasn’t her fated mate, but she had assumed at the time she would never find that man. Except she did. A month before their wedding.
The only thing left from Kirsten was this bit of blue leather tied around his wrist, a simple band that she’d tied around his wrist the night of their engagement. For four years now, it’d been a reminder of what he’d lost. And now? Now, Drew had no idea what to do.
Was Nina Marten really his mate? And if she was, what did she see in Drew that made her gasp and practically run away? It couldn’t be anything good. The fact was, when Kirsten had torn Drew’s heart in two that night four years ago, it’d never repaired. He was still ripped apart, still damaged and not whole. He doubted he ever would be. What sort of partner would he make for a mate in his state?
No wonder she ran.
Drew flexed his hands into fists, tightened the considerable muscle in his arms. Pent up frustration coursed through him, demanding release. It burst out of him in one swift punch. He slammed a fist into the wall and hissed in both pain and relief to see a crevice there from the force of his punch. Drew hated this feeling, of not being in control. He spun, only to find Bret, arms folded, leaning against the wall just beside the hallway and watching him.
“What do you
want?” Drew growled. He forced himself to breathe and started over. “Sorry,” he said, quieter this time. “Do you need something?”
“Yeah, I want to know what’s wrong.”
Drew tried to walk past him, but Bret barred his way.
“Dude, this isn’t like you. What’s wrong?”
Drew slid a cold glare Bret’s way, but movement caught his attention to his left. Chase and Jax were joining them from the kitchen, where Drew could hear Tiff and Emily chatting. He felt surrounded, and it killed him. To see his brothers happy, to be jealous of them. It was an emotion he didn’t want to have. But he couldn’t escape it.
“I told you, nothing is wrong,” Drew said through gritted teeth.
“Tell that to the wall you just punched, man,” Chase said with an eyebrow raised.
An excuse formed in his mind, and Drew grabbed hold of it like a lifeline in an angry sea. “It’s clan stuff.”
Chase stood up straight. “Did you hear from Uncle Mac again? Last we heard, Errol hadn’t been spotted in months.”
Drew sighed. Maybe this wasn’t quite the lifeline he’d wanted it to be. “That isn’t stopping some of the clans causing trouble. Since everything that happened with Derek Craven, the Swanns are calling for a conclave to oust us. And the wolves in the Southern Clans are on the verge of civil war.”
For centuries, the Hart family had been chieftain of the Western Clans, a vast territory that ruled over shifters. North America was divided into three such territories—Western, Eastern, and Southern, with a hundred-mile neutral zone in between. For nearly a hundred years, there had been peace within the territories, but that was changing. Since Errol Hart, Drew’s father and the last sitting Western Clans chieftain, had gone mad with power and started terrorizing the shifters who swore fealty to him, relations had been tense.