Bearly Rescued: A Howls Romance (The Mates of Bear Paw River Book 3)

by Everleigh Clark

  Caleb was a grizzly shifter. As oldest son of the alpha from a long line of strong alpha males in the Alexander line, Caleb should have taken over the clan when his father died. But he hadn’t been back in years, and he’d never go back if he had his way. Too much pain in Bear Paw River.

  Caleb had been plenty happy ignoring life around him the past year; no responsibility, no family to worry about, nothing. He could pretend to be a normal human guy making ends meet, building homes, road construction, everything the average joe did if he didn’t get furry, sprout fangs, and grow into an eight-hundred-pound grizzly bear. Yeah, it was nice, calm. Boring. But at least he didn’t have to worry about someone else getting hurt because he fucked up.

  And then he met, Stone, the tiger shifter who told him all about his mission to infiltrate a group of humans who were kidnapping shifters. It was the closest to accidental rage shifting Caleb had been in years, and it had scared him. But not as much as the threat to his family. Shifters were disappearing from all over the U.S., and it was only a matter of time before this threat came to Bear Paw. He might not ever go back, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to sit back and let these pieces of shit continue this. Whatever it was they were doing, Caleb wanted in—so he could stop them.

  Stone was already undercover at a facility in Virginia, and, rumor had it, he was about to get into the inner circle of the head of the organization. Since no one knew who headed it or where they were, this was a golden opportunity. But it meant they needed more grunts on the ground. That’s where Caleb came in. With a few swipes of his paws, he’d been able to hack into the U.S. Army’s personnel database. He was now Caleb Johnson, and his DD-214 listed him dishonorably discharged from the Army for murder—killing a fellow soldier while following the orders of his platoon sergeant. Easy peasy. Now, he was a good follower and an even better enforcer.

  The man in charge, “Bossman,”—a dweeby-looking businessman with dark hair and perfectly manicured nails—had called him a week and a half later. Of course, Caleb had been in jail for drunk and disorderly conduct, sporting a huge black eye and a cut along his cheek. With a few new drugs in his system to keep him from healing too quickly, and his lack of shifting into bear form, Caleb was able to play the part of dumb thug for hire. Bossman had bailed him out and hired him on the spot.

  Now he was in prime position, and he only had three more minutes to get this SOB decrypted. It took him a whole five attempts before he was in, past the firewall and the secondary security protocols. Ninety-eight seconds to download… Come on, baby. He checked his watch and prayed this wasn’t the day someone showed up early. As soon as it finished, he grabbed the flash drive and pocketed it then gave the system a reboot so it would seem like the whole thing had gone down for two minutes. He could give it a bug, so they could monitor Bossman’s communication, but Stone had told him not to go that route yet. They didn’t want to take any chances on the asshole catching onto them.

  The outer doors opened as the new shift came in, and Caleb darted out of the room, leaving the door ajar, like it was when he’d arrived. He needed to get the flash drive into the hands of the young wolf shifter, Shaw, who was about to pull up to the gates and ask for directions.

  “Johnson!”

  He turned his head to one of the three guards ambling in as if they didn’t give a fuck that the place smelled and sounded like death.

  “You’ve got a problem,” the redheaded Opie on steroids said.

  His heart plummeted into his feet. Shit, were they onto them already, only one week into the job? “It’s your mother, right? Tell her I had a good time, but no means no. Once was all she’s getting.”

  Red’s eyes went wild with rage, but his buddy got in between them. Damn. It would have been nice to let off a little aggression.

  “Go check on the visitor out front, asshole. You’re lowest man, so you get the shit jobs,” Baldy said.

  “All right. I like shit as much as anyone else.” Caleb grinned and walked past them, giving one a not-so-subtle shoulder-to-shoulder contact.

  “What a fucking idiot,” Red murmured from behind him as he walked out to the truck to meet his contact.

  These guys were easy to manipulate. Red had mommy issues, Baldy was a pussy stuck in the body of a gladiator, and Brony hated confrontation. If he had more time here, Caleb would totally screw with their heads. But, first…

  “You lost, boy?” Caleb glared down at the young male in the brown delivery truck.

  “S-sorry, man. I’m looking for Cresta Vine Street. Mind pointing me in the right direction?” The male jumped out of the truck and practically threw his map in Caleb’s face. “See? It’s right here. My GPS stops working when my cell phone dies, so I’m doing it the old-fashioned way. It’s pretty cool. Like a real map, but seriously, dude, I have like three sets of flowers I’m supposed to get to this place in time for the funeral.” The kid shoved the map way into his personal space, and Caleb grinned. Finally, some fun.

  He grabbed the male by the collar and squeezed hard. Caleb punched him in the stomach, and the kid let out a huge groan and doubled over. Then Caleb pressed his hand against his back and the palm of his hand against the kid’s chest and heaved him up and into his truck. He slammed his door and threw the map back in the window. “Does this look like a fucking funeral home, skippy? Stay out of my personal space and get the hell out of here before I call the cops. Oh, one more thing.”

  Wide eyes met him from the truck.

  “Cresta Vine is three blocks to the west of here. This is Cresta Hill. Get out of here, ya melon-drinking fart bender.”

  “You’re crazy, man!” The truck’s wheels screeched as the man drove away like a bat out of hell.

  “Shit, Johnson. I didn’t tell you to rough him up, just to get rid of him.” Red stood next to him, running a hand through his strawberry curls.

  “Yeah, you did.” Caleb gave him a wide grin. “You said to get rid of the truck for the shit job.”

  Red cursed but backed away a few steps. “Come on, man. We’ve got a few more jobs for you. We need a body taken to the incinerator and then you get to check on the female in the west wing. If you’re lucky, you won’t lose any fingers.”

  Caleb shrugged and clapped the man on the back like he was an old friend. “Ah, hell, who needs fingers? I can pick my nose with something else.”

  “Shit. Go get the body.”

  “Got it.”

  Caleb tapped his now-empty pocket as he walked down the long hall to the room with the body of the former guard. He hoped he’d pulled his punches enough. Then again, the kid was a wolf. He’d survive. The thumb drive and intel was now on its way to Stone.

  ~.~

  Izzy shivered in the dark room—not from the chill; she was a wolf shifter—but from the skittering of rodents in the wall. The tiny scratches and shuffling had her on alert. She hated those parasitic, infected things. Rats. And if it was true even the rats had been experimented on, they might carry some new diseases that could indeed hurt her. She would have curled into her blanket on the mattress in the corner, but they’d taken both from her after her last escape attempt. The beating hadn’t been as bad as the previous time—the bruises and cuts had healed—but the panic in the poor guard’s gaze right before he was shot then left in the room next to her, barely alive, until the infected rats fed on him… She shuddered. It had been her fault he’d died. Max had been one of the nicer guards. Hadn’t felt her up or beaten her or called her horrible names. He’d even snuck her food after her first punishment for trying to escape. She still remembered hearing his screams echoing off the walls as the rats fed on him. That had been two nights ago, and she still hadn’t recovered from the horrific sounds and the smell—foul garlic, feces, nail polish remover—of death.

  She curled her knees up to her chest and closed her eyes. Her ripped khakis and shirt had been replaced with a hideous stained hospital gown when they first brought her in. Though she didn’t have a window, her biological instincts t
old her it was evening. Plus, there were only half as many guards at night. She pictured the moon, full and golden, its glorious pull beckoning her to run wild and free. Her older brother, Zach, would have already shouted for her to go, grinning as he gave her a head start. He loved chasing after her, tackling her, fighting with her with his teeth and claws like siblings do. Not hurting each other, but still loving the roughhousing. She called him Wacky; he called her Dizzy. Her twin, Lexi on the other hand, had never condoned that kind of silliness. A tear trickled down her cheek. Dammit. She needed to get her emotions under control. The bastards who would come fetch her for her nightly blood draw would love to see the little bitch crying again. She’d only cried once—after they’d beaten and forced her onto the sterile chair in the white room then blindfolded her. The white room scared her even more than the rats. Someday soon, she expected they would stop taking her blood and would inject her with whatever they were working on. Screams neither human nor animal haunted the hallways during experiment time, and the scent of death wafting from one more failed experiment kept her awake. The humans were up to something vile, and it scared the crap out of her.

  Her brother could save her—if he knew where she was. But Zach wasn’t here. She was all alone. Her lower lip trembled, but she forced herself to bury the fear and sadness. Only rage would help. Yeah, it got her beaten a lot more than the other prisoners, but it helped her stay in control. It was the only thing she did have control of. She let the rage build. These bastards wanted to do experiments on her and figure out what made shifters tick? Well, she’d make them work for it. Just like the last…she stared at the tick marks on the wall behind her. Eighteen days. Well, eighteen she could account for. Who knew how long she was unconscious during her tranqued-out flight to the States.

  Heavy footsteps sounded down the hall, and a door slammed. Go time.

  She couldn’t see his face in the shadows, but he was large. Bigger than any of the others. Great. They’d hired a linebacker to be her next guard. Linebacker dude was so huge, he took up the whole doorway. She wrinkled her nose. God, the stench of cheap cologne on top of extreme body odor had her gagging. “Dude, ever hear of a shower?”

  “Come.” Nothing else. Linebacker probably didn’t have much of a vocabulary. Maybe she could outwit the Neanderthal into giving up the key since she wasn’t going to get far with her normal kicking, punching, and biting routine.

  “I’ll come if you can answer one question.” She backed into a corner. Not that it would do much good if he came in and grabbed her. But, still, it was fun to play with the assholes. Hell, it was the only fun she had all day. And their reactions gave her a semblance of control.

  A deep sighing rumble came from his chest before he answered, “Shoot.”

  Grinning, she stepped forward. “What’s the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?”

  His response sounded like a laugh squelched down quickly and made into a grumbled clearing of his throat. He walked in, and the light from the hallway flickered across his rugged face and firm jaw. He crossed his arms over his large chest. “If you’re not actually fishing for an easy answer like African or European, and are asking about the relative velocity between the specific bird and the air, you have to calculate wind speed and the frequency of its wings beating and the amplitude. But let’s say twenty-four miles per hour for shits and giggles.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “Come on.” His deep voice sent a shiver down her spine. “I answered your question, and I’m not carrying your ass. No matter how beautiful you are.”

  Well, there went her control. She took a deep breath and preceded him into the hallway. His towering presence should have scared her, but it was the safest she had felt in months. Great. Bring on the Stockholm syndrome.

  As Linebacker led her down the hall, she pretended she wasn’t going toward the scary room where she’d be tortured and tormented—and what was up with the stupid music the dick in charge always played? Bossman had this crazy compilation which was part new age and part classical. Wolfgang Amadeus Yanni, anyone? The songs were so boring, she practically fell asleep each time, which, considering she was also being cut in different spots on her body and forced into weird positions, said something.

  The sounds of classical music emanated from the room on the far end. “Great, let’s get down with Tchaikovsky and bloodletting,” she grumbled. At the very least, if they were going to do all the yucky stuff that made her light-headed and woozy, they could change it to something a bit livelier. Seriously, wouldn’t one rather be tortured to “Rise of the Valkyries”? Or was it “flight”?

  “It’s ride.” Her escort grinned down at her. “Do you always talk to yourself out loud?”

  She shrugged. “Only when I forget to turn on the special inner monologue gatekeeper 2.1. Or I forget because I’m about to get poked with more holes than the Guinness Records chick with all the piercings.”

  “Sorry.” His gaze softened, warm chocolate pools filled with emotion, like he actually cared then the mask came back up again.

  “If you were really sorry, you’d let me go. You have to know what they’re doing to my kind isn’t ethical. Yeah, we’re part animal, but we shouldn’t be treated like this. No one should.”

  “I’m just doing my job. Get on the chair so I can strap you down.”

  A huge, metal dentist chair with leather cuffs in four spots. One for each limb. Then there was the thick strap that would go around her waist if she fought too much. She shivered for a moment and forced herself to sit down.

  “Fine. But if they finally gank me, I’m going to haunt you for the rest of your life.” It was also because her traitorous body wanted to watch him in the shower, but she wouldn’t tell Linebacker that. From the smell of him he didn’t know what a bar of soap was anyway.

  “I’ll be back for you in one hour.” He locked her wrist and ankles into the shackles. “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “I use Dr. Bronner’s Castile Soap, and you can watch me anytime you want, Princess.”

  She flipped him the bird, thankful her fingers at least still got her message across.

  He chuckled and walked out the door.

  Left alone in the dark room filled with the beautiful, yet haunting, chords, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back. This time, when they started in on her, she’d distract herself with visions of a huge, smelly Neanderthal of a guy who kinda maybe turned her on with his boyish grin and huge…brain. And his ass was pretty hot, too.

  The doctor in charge of all lab-ratting shuffled into the room and started his usual prep-work. He cleared his throat a few times, mumbled under his breath, slid files out of the cabinet, and set heavy things onto the counter. Torture devices, syringes, microscopes, they were all the same, right? She finally opened her eyes. Not knowing what was coming was worse than anything they could do to her.

  Bossman walked in and gave the room a quick once-over before turning to his assistant with a sleazy smile. “Let’s back off a bit today and let our guest relax a bit, recharge her batteries.” The freaking doctor could have been the lead singer of an emo band. His dark hair had been straightened and hung gloriously down to about his neck on one side, with an asymmetrical blunt cut on the other side. Seriously, his hair was amazing. If Isabella could carry it off, she would totally try the blunt cut, asymmetrical thing. But her mom would probably kill her. Then again, she was a prisoner inside a compound of crazy asshole humans who were experimenting on all the shifter prisoners. Maybe getting yelled at by the queen mother about her choice of hairstyle wasn’t too big a deal. Why was she even thinking along these lines? Oh, Dr. Frankenstein—that wasn’t his name, but he reminded her of a crazy monster-making scientist—Bossman’s head of lab crap had already connected her IV. And the cool drugs making her feel spacey were trickling and swimming through her veins. Nice. What would Frankie look like with a bit of black lining his baby blues and some styling gel spiking the top of his hair? He co
uld totally rock it. Maybe start a whole new fan group like Justin Bieber’s Beliebers. Frankies? Crap, keep your head on, girl. She reached as far as she could with her fingernails and scraped the inside of her palm. Metallic scents filled the room as her blood trickled down her fingers.

  “She’s scratching herself again, Doctor. I thought I asked you to take care of that,” Bossman fumed at Frankenstein. Good old Frankie blanched and rushed for the little caps on the end of the table. Within minutes, her precious fingernails/claws were cut down to the quick and covered with the little condom-like things people used for their house kitties. Dammit.

  Another flood of medicine went through her, and Tchaikovsky practically ruptured her eardrums. Death by Lilac Fairies, great.

  Bossman laughed, the half snort half wheeze making him sound more like a teenager than a man. “It’s actually Borodin, and we won’t let you die.”