“Ginger—” His expression was asking her to stop. She didn’t.
“But then one day, doing my job, I make a mistake. I bring important client papers that he’s left behind out to his weekend cabin, because I can’t find a courier to get them there faster than I can do it myself. I’m conscientious like that. And that’s my mistake.”
He rubbed his eyes, like she was giving him a migraine, and for a second she felt a bite of guilt and almost stopped. But then her blood bubbled up, hot, and she went on.
“I get to the holiday island where his cabin is, and—oh my gosh? What do I find? He’s been spending his spare time as a fucking human-hating grizzly bear, and he’s surrounded by other human-hating grizzly bears, and they want to eat my fucking face off! I find out he’s a monster, and he wants to be king of the monsters! He fucking turns into a wild animal on the weekends, and bringing him his own stupid files has put me at risk of being killed by magical! Fucking! Shapeshifters!” Her voice had risen. “So, Dane, if I happen to see a fishing boat pass by, or a couple of fanny-pack-wearing kayakers, fuck yes, I’m going to leave the cabin! I’m going to run out there faster than you’ve ever seen a girl run and I’m going to scream louder than you’ve ever—”
“I don’t hate you—or humans. What makes you think that?” he interrupted, looking genuinely stunned.
Stunned, and gorgeous. The way the noon sunlight cut across his cheek and the muscle of his neck, the way it lit his eyes and his hair—she could almost forget to be mad. Almost. Just for a second.
“Well, this entire culture does seem kind of geared toward exclusion of humans… on pain of death…” Her voice was sarcastic. “So I feel pretty safe assuming you all have a bit of a problem with us. See it from my perspective: so far, all the bear-people I’ve met—or shall we say, encountered—have tried to kill me, or ignored me, insulted me, manhandled me—”
“Catríona hasn’t. And I haven’t. I would never do those things.”
“You did manhandle me, actually. Last night—or did you forget?”
“No. I remember. And I’m sorry.” He looked and sounded it, even though all he’d done was grip her arms and give her a shake—compulsively, out of fear, when he’d first seen her on the island. “But Ginger, I need you to stay inside. Please.”
“Let me go home!” It was a shriek, shrill, and she hadn’t meant it to be.
“I can’t.” It looked like it hurt him to say it—like he wanted nothing more than to put her on a ship and send her somewhere safe. So how dare he not do it?
“I want to go home, Dane. Just fire me. Let me go. Let me go home. I want to go home. Please!” Now she was begging, and she hadn’t meant to do that, either, but she was and her voice was breaking. Tears burned at the borders of her eyes.
“I know this is a lot to take in. I know it’s—God, Ginger, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.” He looked like she’d stuck a shiv in his heart. “Don’t… oh, Ginger.”
“Am I gonna die because of you? Because I know you? Because I came to find you?” She was biting her bottom lip so hard she could taste iron. “I just want out—I—I just—”
He gripped her and pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest. The sound of his heart, deep and even, thudded against her temple; lightheaded, she gripped his sweater. The hard warmth of his body melted her against her will.
“I said I’d protect you—from anyone, from anything. Didn’t I?” he asked quietly, his strong arms tight around her. His voice was low and firm; when he spoke it burred—deliciously—in his chest. “Didn’t I, Ginger?”
“Yes,” she admitted in a whisper. This shouldn’t feel as good as it does.
“Have I ever said anything I didn’t mean?”
“No.” Her eyes closed.
“Do you really believe,” he asked slowly, quietly, the words hardening, “that I would let anyone hurt you?”
“I don’t know.” You can’t trust him, Ginger. He’s an animal. He’s not human!
“Don’t say that. You do know.” He pressed her even closer; she could feel the unyielding topography of muscle through his clothes. It made her pulse flutter.
“And if the council says I have to die, then are you going to fight every bear on this island?”
“Yes.”
She half-laughed, shocked. “That’s insane. All of this is insane. You can’t.”
“You’re mine,” he growled, one of his hands fisting in her hair. “And no one will touch you. No one!”
“I’m not yours,” she breathed, loving his closeness, his heat, his strength despite herself. Loving the way he said “No one.”
“I claimed you. Don’t underestimate me, Ginger—any man or woman who tries to harm you has to go through me. And they won’t relish it. I’ll see to that.”
I don’t underestimate you. Even now, she could see him in her mind’s eye: an enormous, humpbacked grizzly, swiping and roaring, shattering the stillness of the night. It made her shiver in his arms.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, soothing her. “Nothing’s going to happen to you… try and trust me. You’re precious to me, Ginger—you must see that. I’ll protect you.”
Precious? Was she? She’d always admired him… felt things for him… wanted him… but he was busy, successful, preoccupied. She wasn’t special to him. He valued her work and nothing else. Right?
Although… he had bought her that car, and the home, and taken her with him around the world… he was always praising her, listening to her… always had a smile for her, always looked her in the eye… he trusted her with his business… got her an entire new wardrobe…
He’s just charitable. None of it meant anything. Like him holding me now doesn’t mean anything.
Abruptly, forcefully, she wriggled out of his grip; he let her.
And anyway—he’s an animal. A bear. Who would want it to mean anything?
I’m in danger as long as I’m close to him.
“I need to be alone,” she muttered, scooting back and curling up against the headboard.
For a moment, his expression was dark, wounded—but then it smoothed out, and he had no expression at all.
“Alright. I’m going out again.” He stood, making the mattress spring. “Stay inside.”
“Don’t you have a guest room? Or anything?” Was she just supposed to stay cocooned in his bed, smelling him, sleeping where he slept, rolling in his sheets all day? That was a little too much for her. For any red-blooded woman.
“No,” he said, slowly. “But you can have free rein of the cabin. I’ll be back soon. We can talk more then.”
He looked like he expected her to speak, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. So he turned and left, leaving her squeezed up against the bedhead.
Chapter 3
Hours passed. She got tired of his bedroom and wandered out into the living room, rifling through his bookshelves and then his coat closet. She went through his fridge. Snacked on his apples. Grew bored—and restless.
I’ve got cabin fever. Literally!
Dane had said there was no way off the island. Was that true, though? What if a ship drifted by? Couldn’t she try and flag it down from the island’s shore?
Maybe not—the only inlet safe for anchorage was the one full of skinchangers’ boats, tied all along their pier. It would be crawling with bear… people.
“Why can’t he have any chocolate?” she muttered, scrounging through the pantry. “I have so many feelings to eat right now. Every feeling ever.”
The light changed outside as the day mellowed into afternoon. She tried to doze on one of the couches in front of the fireplace, but she was too edgy to nap.
She stared out the picture windows at the wind-stirred forest. The crackle and snap of the flames in the grate was dying down—the fire was burning out. It was getting dark indoors.
I need to get out of here. I can’t keep waiting for him. I’m not his pet!
Catríona thought I would be safe. Riona
said no one would touch me.
She was on her feet before she’d even fully realized she was making a decision. It felt good to be up.
I’m going out!
***
If there was a way to lock his cabin, she couldn’t figure it out—so she left it open. It was a chilly day, but not wet, and stepping off the front porch of his cabin into warm, clear sunshine raised her spirits immediately.
Where should I go? What should I do?
The spruce trees creaked in the coastal wind. Were there eyes on her right now? She stiffened.
Maybe I should just go back inside.
But no. She didn’t want to do that. She couldn’t just sit around like Anne Boleyn, locked up in the Tower and waiting for the unfriendly judgment that would separate her head from her body. No.
She wouldn’t be a prisoner. She was going to find out if there was any way off Storm Isle, or anyone who could help her.
Which reminded her of something.
Hunter. The stupid bastard who had boated her over here. Hadn’t he told her, before he let her walk up to Dane’s alone, that he was willing to stand in front of her?
“Look, if you do end up in some kind of trouble… you can come to me. I stay by the Fishhook.”
Yes. He had said that. He totally said that.
I don’t know where the Fishhook is… but someone will. I’m going to find him. Right now.
It scared her to do it—she half-expected some kind of bear to come barreling out of the sword fern and huckleberry and maul her—but she straightened up and marched down the path she’d come up last night. To find the Fishhook, and Hunter.
It was such a pleasant day—sunny, clement, glittering with birdsong—that she could almost believe she was weekend hiking. Following a cleared trail through a fresh-smelling forest, with the sound of surf pounding rugged Pacific coastline just past a screen of trees, nothing seemed wrong. Picture perfect.
Except she’d passed a few people on the crisscrossing footpaths and trailheads that upset her—strange, staring, unfriendly people, wearing hand-me-downs and camping gear. They made her spine lock up with fear: something about their unblinking brown-and-gold eyes and hostile, frosty body language triggered an urge to run.
But she didn’t. Wouldn’t.
Not gonna give these bear bitches the satisfaction.
She just kept tromping on.
But she didn’t know where she was going, and she needed directions.
Eventually, she got a break: a couple of girls, tweens, who were huddled by a spring and filtering its fresh water into bottles. They looked like First Nations girls; Coastal Salish. And they also looked too young to chew her head off. So she took a risk—and called out to them.
“’Scuse me, girls!”
They both looked up, clearly shocked that Ginger had spoken.
“Where’s the Fishhook?”
They went on staring. Finally, the younger girl whispered something to the older one, and they giggled.
“You’re Dane MacAlister’s, aren’t you?” the bigger girl asked boldly, flushing. The way she said his name left Ginger in no doubt of her crush on him.
“I know him. I wouldn’t say I belong to him.” It’s not like he wrote his name on me.
They considered that. Slowly, the older girl smiled.
“Do you have a name?”
“Ginger.”
“That’s pretty. I’m Louisa. This is my sister, Tahoma.” The smaller girl giggled again, turning bright pink too. “Why are you looking for the Fishhook?”
“’Cause I’m looking for a man named Hunter. Mr. Beaumont, maybe. You know him?”
“Sure. He does live out there.” Louisa scratched the back of her neck, her innocent staring going on and on. “Why do you need to talk to him if you’re Dane MacAlister’s?”
“I’m not Dane MacAlister’s,” Ginger answered, managing with an effort to keep her voice calm.
“Yes, you are,” Tahoma piped up. “It’s all the grown-ups are talking about. Anyway, if you’re not his, then who’s going to protect you?”
Oh, shit. “Okay. You’re right. I am Dane MacAlister’s. But I have business with Hunter, too. Where’s the Fishhook, girls?”
Louisa pointed further down the path—so Tahoma did too, imitatively.
“Follow this,” Louisa said confidently. “It’ll take you to the pier. You have to follow the water inland from there. It’s got a curve, so we call it the Fishhook, but it’s just a stream before it reaches the bay. Okay? He lives on the hook’s curve.”
“Alone,” Tahoma added, as if this was a scandalous point.
“Okay. Great. Thanks.”
She started off down the path again, but Louisa called out to her again.
“Miss Ginger!”
Throwing a glance over her shoulder, Ginger met the girl’s eyes.
“Tell Dane MacAlister we helped you!”
The sisters collapsed into fits of giggles.
Chapter 4
She’d had to pass by the island’s busy dock, around which was crowded a veritable village of cabins, and almost every man, woman, and child present had stared at her as she’d appeared. They’d looked up from their conversations and their grilling and their net repair as if she were the mythical creature, not them. No one had said anything, or done anything, but it had still been a relief to follow the waterside trail back into the woods and away from their eyes.
It took another forty minutes to reach what had to be Hunter’s cabin. She reckoned it was three by then, at least; the sunlight had a noticeable slant through the trees.
The cabin wasn’t fancy. It was unpainted, and the wood was unfinished, greyed by weather. Black twinberry shrubs and red maple saplings grew right up to its sides. The glass in the little windows was warped and one pane was broken. But smoke was coming out of the little metal spout of its chimney-stove, so she knew someone was home.
Instead of fear, anger frothed to the surface of her heart. This idiot brought me here. He should have known better! He had to’ve known better!
She stomped up to the cabin’s splintery door, inhaled, and then knocked as hard and loud as she could.
It took a minute. The forest sighed in the sea-wind. Waxwings twittered.
But Hunter finally opened the door.
And she slapped him right across his handsome face.
“Shit, girl, steady!” he shouted. “Don’t—”
“You dumb fucker! This is your fault! How could you bring me here, Beaumont?” The words poured out, furious. “Didn’t you know it’d be open season on me? And Dane? I bet you did. You wanted Dane to go down. But me?”
“Calm down!” He held out his calloused hands placatingly. “Just—count to three or something, Ginger. I didn’t know that anyone would try to hurt y—”
“Bullcrap! You had to know it was against your stupid bear laws to have humans on this island. What did you think would happen?”
“I thought Dane would catch heat for it! Maybe enough to knock him from the running for Alpha. Nothing more! Nothing violent! You gotta understand, Ginger. Gunnar’s changed things. It didn’t use to be like this. No one would be executed for—”
“What’re you cooking?” she asked abruptly.
“What am I… cooking?”
She’d wrong-footed him, and it was deeply satisfying to see the blank, baffled expression on his scruffy face.
“Yes. What are you making?”
“Me? I—Pan-fried salmon. Late lunch.”
“Sounds good. I’ll have some.” She ducked under his arm and slipped past the doorframe.
“Hey! Ginger! I didn’t say… ah, fuck.”
The cabin interior was just like the exterior: rough and unfussy. It was one room, the walls and ceiling untreated pine board. In a corner, near some cabinets and a cedar hutch, set on a stone base, was an antique woodstove. On the far side of the room there was a spindle-log bed covered with a cotton quilt. In the middle was a hand-carved table wi
th matching chairs. She slid into one of them; its back had a pine-tree-shaped cutout.
She stared at him expectantly. He sighed.
“Okay, fine. Great. Won’t you stay for lunch?”
“Yeah, I think I will. Thanks.” She crossed her arms. “Dish it up.”
Grumblingly, he did. She eyed the cabin wall near the door while he was busy. Coats hung from wooden pegs, boots scattered underneath. There was a jumble of fishing equipment on the floor, and a mounted hunting rifle that could be lifted down in an emergency.
“Here. Not fancy.” He slid a plate in front of her.
“Never heard of a taste profile, huh?” she asked, eyeing the baked-beans-and-salmon meal.
“I knew they couldn’t have manners where you’re from,” he grunted, sitting next to her. “Or you wouldn’t have invited yourself to get on my boat, and then to eat my—”
“Tell me what you know about Gunnar.”
He stared at her. “Tough girl, aren’t you?”
“Answer my question.”
“Why? MacAlister won’t tell you?”
“Dane’s busy,” she sniffed. “You tell me.”
“Too busy to talk to you?”
“You can wear this plate as a hat, or you can tell me what you know about Gunnar, Beaumont!”
He actually chuckled. She caught an impressed glint in his gold-and-caramel eyes.
“Alright… okay. Mercy.” He picked up his fork. “Hm. Where to start?
“I said it was different, didn’t I? Before he came on the scene? Well, it was. Things’d relaxed. Some of the ancient laws were dying out, and it was a good thing, too. We ignored them—didn’t need them anymore. There were precious few accusations and judgments and councils. Those were good times. Progress.”
She watched him eat, not touching hers. “I dunno anything about Gunnar’s early life. His clan comes outta the boreal forest in Saskatchewan, somewhere north of Prince Albert. Honestly, he never even used to come to the Gathering.
“But once he started to, these last few clanmeets… I tell you, Ginger. The man’s dangerous. He’s a traditionalist. No, more like a revivalist. He wants to resurrect the old law and the old ways. And he’s convinced a lot of people to think like him.”
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