Loved by The Alpha Bear (Primal Bear Protectors Book 1)

by K. T. Stryker

  He’s right—she’s completely neglected her work. Rolling back to the desk, she puts the nose to the grindstone for another hour before dinner. Before she goes back to the dining room, she opens an unread email.

  Clara,

  Lunch tomorrow? Feeling cooped up—let’s grab food and go for a walk. Or, uh, roll. 11 a.m. at the coffee place?

  xx Alice

  Smiling, Clara types out an affirmative reply

  Be happy to! See you then.

  Clara

  She closes the email application and shuts her laptop. For a while, Clara gnaws at her lip. Why is she nervous? That’s a question without an answer.

  Clara wheels to the coat hangers by the door and grabs a scarf, winding it around her neck. Sighing, she pulls out her phone and looks at the time. 10:40 a.m.

  A smile spreads across her face. “Why are you hovering?” She turns the wheelchair around, facing Nathan. He looks tired—Clara knows he didn’t sleep again. He was tossing and turning all night, and it shows on his face today. “Do you want to come? I’m sure Alice would like to speak with you again.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so, and you and I both know that.”

  “It was just a suggestion, Nathan.” Clara smiles. “No need to get worked up.”

  Nathan nods. He rubs the back of his neck. “Not worked up.” He pauses, his lips parted. Clara watches as he creases his eyebrows. “Have fun at lunch,” he finally says, smiling.

  “What, are you going to be lonely?” Reaching for Nathan’s hand, she squeezes it.

  He looks distant, but her touch seems to settle him. The shifter leans down and kisses her forehead. “Not for long.”

  Clara’s heart swells, and she can’t stop smiling, even after she’s kissed him goodbye and rolled out to her car. Her physical state isn’t so bad today, so she pulls out the ramp and rolls her wheelchair into the backseat of her car. After it was left in town the other day, Nathan snuck down to town and drove it back.

  When she gets to the coffee shop, it’s not Alice who greets her. Rolling up to the shop, Clara squints. The woman against the wall by the door glances at her, raising an eyebrow. Her black hair is pulled into a ponytail. She puts out her cigarette against the brick and tosses it in the ash tray by the garbage can.

  Clara feels ugly gnarling thing in her gut. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Naomi?”

  Chapter 8

  Clara wants me to stay, Nathan thinks again.

  The knowledge that he can’t stay with Clara hurts. He tries all night, through dinner and into the night hours, to shove it away. He lies in bed next to Clara, listening to her soft breathing and watching deep-blue shadows crawl across the ceiling.

  Tomorrow, Naomi will erase Clara’s memory. They will go home, and once again, Nathan will be under the thumb of his sister.

  He balls up the sheets in his hand, turning onto his side so his nose presses into the gap between pillows. The bedding smells like her—like honey shampoo and pine deodorant. Nathan swallows, his throat dry.

  Sleep evades him, worse now than any of his nights of insomnia in the last month. He scratches his chest, but it doesn’t make the ache in his sternum go away. It’s not a physical problem—just physical symptoms of anxiety.

  Eventually, Nathan accepts that sleep isn’t happening. Flipping over, he wraps his arms around Clara. She shifts in her sleep, unconsciously leaning into him. The warmth of her body soothes him but only a little. Any comfort it brings is negated by the cold knowledge that after tomorrow, he won’t see her again.

  Naomi is smart—she’s not wrong that human and shifter relationships are often risky. It rarely works out well, even with shifters whose animal parts are relatively docile or easy to deal with. The stress of being a shifter, the way it outcasts you from society, is something humans often can’t understand.

  That’s not to say that Nathan doesn’t think of himself as human—in his heart, he does. Just because he can be something else doesn’t mean the human part of him is invalid. Naomi and Luka would not feel the same, and he knows that. He’ll never bring these things up to them.

  Nathan knows he’s a special case. The danger, the stress, the things people worry about with human and shifter romantic relationships—all that is made so, so much worse by Nathan’s condition.

  He breathes into her neck, a shaky burst of air. The inhale is somehow even worse—strained like that of an asthmatic without an inhaler.

  Gently, impulsively, he presses a kiss to Clara’s shoulder. There are a couple moles there, along with a soft sprinkling of clay-colored freckles.

  “I love you, Clara,” he tests. When there’s no response, Nathan shudders and says the rest so quietly he doubts she could make it all out if she tried. “I’ll miss you forever, I think. I hope you’ll miss me for less than that.”

  Sleep doesn’t come at all that night. At some point, he zones out far enough that his brain quiets for a while. Nathan settles into the darkness and waits for the slow rise of dawn.

  They have breakfast together. It’s nothing special this time, just cereal. He doesn’t want Clara to get the impression that he’s going over the top. If he’s learned anything about the woman he’s stayed with for the last month, it’s that she’s smart. If she suspects he’s saying goodbye forever, she won’t leave.

  It’s almost disappointing when she doesn’t suspect him at all. His kiss goodbye lingers but only for a moment—only enough to feel like sensual hesitation. It’s not enough for goodbye.

  Nathan doesn’t think it’ll ever be enough.

  When she leaves, Nathan shuts the door behind her. He stands in the empty space, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing. In, out. In, out. Don’t cry. In, out.

  “This isn’t worth your tears,” he reminds himself out loud, his voice sounding so much louder now that he’s in an empty house.

  Slowly, Nathan opens his eyes. The light is dim. It’s a cloudy day, which is fitting. Usually, the sun shines on his worst days. For once the weather fits his mood, at least.

  He makes his way to the kitchen. Nathan’s fingers hesitate over a half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the counter. The consideration lasts a minute, tempting him toward a dark place he knows he shouldn’t go, shouldn’t be.

  Temptation wins. Nathan unscrews the cap, carefully setting it to the side. Slowly, he lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a swig. Instead of the relief he was expecting, the taste lingers in his mouth and burns his tongue. It wasn’t a big swig—he knows it won’t numb him if he doesn’t drink more.

  He screws the cap back on and sets the bottle back before grabbing a glass of water instead. Alcohol won’t help this and he should know that. This isn’t the sort of thing that alcohol fixes. Turning to substance abuse is something he used to do, not something he wants to do now.

  Nathan sinks into the reclining chair in the living room, tilting it back. He needs to clear out of here soon, but he figures Naomi will give him a call after Clara’s memory is gone.

  He turns his arm over. The cuts are slowly healing, but the bruises remain dark and painful over his tanned skin. Nathan exhales and drops his arm, closing his eyes.

  The sound of the doorbell jolts him to his senses a few minutes later. Sitting straight, he tries to calm his pounding heart. Alice? Clara? No, couldn’t be. Naomi wouldn’t let that happen.

  Nathan stands and slowly makes his way to the door. He opens it, only to find himself face-to-face with the private investigator from the other day.

  Impulse tells him to shut the door and lock it and leave through the back. Common sense, however, stops him. He gapes, furrowing his brow. “What can I do for you, investigator?”

  “I’m not on duty,” the man explains, gesturing at his plainclothes. Nathan hadn’t even noticed them—he was too busy thinking about the possibility of being arrested and going to jail. “Please, call me Liam.”

  “OK,” Nathan answers hesitantly, narrowing his eyes. This man saw him shif
t just a few days prior into the exact type of animal shifter they’re looking for. “What can I do for you, Liam?”

  “I’m not here to arrest you or interrogate you. I just want to talk.” His tone is desperate, eyes pleading.

  Suspicion makes Nathan hesitate. “Why should I talk to you?”

  “Because I need your help,” the man begs, “About Naomi.”

  “About Naomi?” Nathan says, surprised. “What do you want with my sister?”

  “I’ll explain all that,” Liam presses his hands together. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  There’s something in Nathan’s brain that warns him this might be a trap—a ploy for information. He doesn’t know anything about this man. What eventually leads him to make a decision, however, is nothing more than ugly temptation: the temptation of a way out, even if that way is jail. What does he care if he gets arrested? There’s hardly much left for him outside of the big house—just more of his temper causing problems.

  He opens the door wide, stepping to the side to allow Liam in. “OK. A few minutes.”

  They sit in the living room. Liam looks stressed—he keeps running his hands together. Nathan sits in that same recliner, keeping his posture upright to secure some sense of dominance over the conversation. “Well?”

  “I’m in love with your sister,” Liam blurts. “Or, I think that I have the potential to be.”

  Nathan snorts and shakes his head. “That’s a shame, then. My sister doesn’t even give shifter men a chance to get in her pants, much less human investigators like you.”

  “But we’ve already slept together,” Liam argues. His expression goes dark and serious.

  Nathan’s jaw drops. “Oh.”

  “Yes,” he explains. “But there’s a lot I don’t understand about her life—about you. It’s blocked me off, and right now Naomi’s angry with me.”

  “I don’t blame her.” Nathan looks at the water, not at Liam. “You didn’t even try to understand the full story.”

  “But I want to understand,” Liam begs again. “Tell me your side.”

  What right does this guy have to come in here and ask for all the details of Nathan’s personal life just so that he can fuck Naomi again? “Little late for that, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” Liam admits. “But I…” he trails off, then sighs. “OK, I don’t like shifters. I’ve always hated them—”

  “Real nice, you’re convincing me already,” Nathan drawls, grabbing the water glass from earlier and drinking from it.

  Liam looks hurt, but the shifter doesn’t care. The other man scratches the back of his head before continuing. “I have…a bad history with shifters. My father was killed by one when I was a child, and my mother killed herself long after,” he admits.

  “Sorry for your loss,” Nathan says. “Good to know you’ve decided to hate all us ever since. No wonder you think I killed Mihra.”

  “All the facts point toward you killing Mihra—”

  “I thought—” Nathan interrupts, snarling a little and turning to Liam, “that this wasn’t an interrogation.” Deep breaths. He tries to relax.

  Liam holds up his hands in surrender. “It’s not. But…” He pauses, tilting his head. “What else would be the story?”

  Something inside of Nathan breaks all the way, a dam that’s been growing weaker and weaker with every passing day. With Clara’s impending memory erasure, it’s close to bursting. Now, it falls apart and floods.

  “My girlfriend,” Nathan says, using the human word, “had clinical depression.” He rubs his face, stubble gritty under his fingertips. “She was medicated, but she refused therapy. I supported her—I did everything I could. I worked every day to keep her happy, but if you know anything about depression you know it doesn’t work like that.”

  Breathing slowly, he makes eye contact with Liam. The man’s eyes soften. Nathan continues. “She killed herself. She took pills, a bunch of the ones I’ve gotten over the years for my insomnia. When I tried to stop her, she shifted and gutted herself. It’s no wonder they saw that and decided it must have been me.”

  Nathan pauses, watching the investigator wince. Nathan continues. “You’re investigating, so I have no doubt you know about my condition. Of course they’d suspect a shifter with a medical issue that makes him even more dangerous.” He shakes his head. “But I didn’t do it. You can do the more in-depth autopsy they never bothered to do because they were so sure it was a murder.”

  There’s a sticky silence as Liam sits. Nathan watches him, and when the man finally looks up, he nods. “I believe you.”

  Nathan notices he’s tearing up. He sits straight. “What are you crying for?!”

  “I—” The man hesitates. “It’s hard to explain—you wouldn’t understand.”

  Nathan snorts. “Try me.”

  "My mother, she..." Liam trails off, looking frustrated or perhaps confused. He scratches the back of his head.

  Nathan feels irritation bubbling. "She...what, exactly?"

  "You know the stories. I'm sure you do." Wringing his hands, Liam gestures. "Shifters who become shifters later in life after contracting a severe illness."

  "Yeah, I know." Nathan frowns. "You're a little off base, though. People always have the shifter genes. They don't just gain them later. For some, the abilities stay dormant. What you're talking about is activation."

  The investigator nods. "Activation, then. She became a shifter—a brown bear."

  A brown bear. Ugly, slow realization gurgles in Nathan's stomach. He lets out a long exhale through his teeth. "Go on."

  "She...had trouble controlling herself." Liam shakes his head. "I was twelve. I don't remember as much as I'd like to. I know my father had a lot of trouble with the change. He never liked shifters." He looks to Nathan, but the shifter gestures for him to continue. "She accidentally injured him, Nathanael. He died in a hospital later."

  "Oh, lord." Nathan rubs his temples. "I was afraid you were going to say that."

  Liam looks truly apologetic. He scratches the back of his neck again. "She was the shifter I talked about.” Liam makes a small, sad smile at Nathan. "She killed herself after."

  Nathan isn't sure how he's supposed to respond. He nods. Anxiety makes him gnaw on his lip, which makes things worse because it reminds him of Clara and her lip-chewing habit. Discomfort coils and wrestles in his chest like snakes, but he's surprised to find he doesn't feel like he's going to shift. Am I managing my stress better?

  "I'd say I'm sorry for your loss, but I already did," he finally says. "Well, fuck. I wish I could tell you that validates how you feel about us and about me in general, but it just makes me feel sorry for you. And you have shifter blood in you, you know."

  The man on the couch in front of him gulps. Nathan watches as he squeezes his eyes shut tight and then opens them again. It's a strange display of physical anxiety that makes Nathan feel weird—mostly because he does some of the same things himself.

  "That makes sense, I guess," Liam says.

  "Don't act like you haven't thought about it before."

  Shaking his head, Liam raises a hand in acknowledgment. "No, I have. I think I..." He stops and pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's a hard thing to accept, being different."

  "Believe me, I know exactly how you feel," Nathan murmurs, but his brain feels distant.

  Nathan wasn't lying. He does know exactly how Liam feels. To what extent, though? Nathan's always been different—hell, he's an outcast among his people. They treat him like a disaster that never should have occurred.

  He squeezes his eyes shut tight, grinding his teeth. The low tide of the broken dam inside of him starts to get choppy, getting him worked up. “Sometimes,” he murmurs, opening his eyes and looking at Liam, “you have to accept being different and find the best way to live with it.”

  “And I have to accept that I have shifter blood,” Liam says.

  “Yes.” Nathan cups his hands around his face. “What do I want?” He asks h
imself out loud.

  Liam looks confused. “I think that’s up to you.”

  “Rhetorical question. I mean, but ask yourself that as well. Do you want my sister?” Nathan speaks to Liam, but inside his head he’s putting himself through the ringer.

  What does he want?

  “I want things to be easy, is what I want,” Liam admits, sighing deeply.

  It hits deeper than Liam probably realizes—Nathan sits a little straighter. Is that what Nathan wants? For things to be easy? For decisions to be simple? To know exactly the right course of action at every point in time?

  Nathan shakes his head and bites his lip. “But things aren’t easy.”

  In his head, Nathan wonders if that isn’t the sort of thing Clara would say. Things aren’t easy. Life is hard. “Life is hard. Weakness, less so.” He begins spouting what he thinks she’d say.

  “In what way?” The investigator creases his forehead.

  “Weakness, or difficulty, it’s—” He thinks for the right way to phrase it. “Without it, there’s no drive. Without a drive, what’s the point?” He looks at Liam. “What’s your drive? What are you fighting for?”

  Futzing with his tie, Liam thinks. “I want to be the man Naomi saw before she learned about the rest.”

  Nathan nods. “And?”

  “I want to stop hating myself for what I am.”