The Soul of a Bear
UnBearable Romance Series Book 3
By:
Amelia Wilson
Table of Contents:
UnBearable Romance Series Other Books
Invitation From The Author
Chapter One: Paul
Chapter Two: Paul
Chapter Three: Paul
Chapter Four: McKayla
Chapter Five: Paul
Chapter Six: McKayla
Chapter Seven: Paul
Chapter Eight: McKayla
Chapter Nine: McKayla
Chapter Ten: Paul
Chapter Eleven: McKayla
Chapter Twelve: Paul
Bonus: Rune Sword
Preview: Wild Winter
Preview: Rival Love
Copyright © 2017 by Amelia Wilson
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UnBearable Romance Series Other Books
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Chapter One: Paul
I ambled towards the kitchen on tired, heavy legs, hiding my yawn behind my hand, before stretching my arms above my head. My back cracked with satisfying pops and I shook my head wildly, until the smooth hardwood under my soles was replaced with cool tile. I swiped the remote off the counter, near the coffee pot, and turned on the small television tucked in the corner, to listen to the news drone on in the bright, early morning.
Through squinted eyes, I peered into a cabinet in search of coffee, and my shoulders slumped in relief, when I found a small, almost empty bag at the back of the top shelf. Jon’s kitchen was essentially empty; anything that could go bad had been used before our trip to Alaska, and he still hadn’t gone shopping. I jerked the cutlery drawer open with my free hand, and grabbed a spoon. A frown was plastered on my face and a deep crease appeared between my brows.
My best friend was probably the most stable, emotionally balanced person I had ever known or knew of. Jon was there for me when my brother spiraled into drugs; when my mother was hospitalized with a stroke when I was sixteen. He was the man I aspired to be, and I loved him like the sibling I had never really had.
But, even thought we’d been friends since we were two years old, I still didn’t understand.
Carefully pouring ground coffee beans into the filter pot, I grumbled under my breath in displeasure. Those times when I wished I was like Jon were becoming more and more frequent, and our trip to Alaska had only exacerbated the issue. He’d found his mate; our landlady was mated, and there was no one for me to talk to about anything, since none of our friends knew what Jon really was.
A bear shifter.
The memory of his first shift at the camp, that day, popped into my mind’s eye and my expression smoothed out some. Phantom sensations took over my muscles in less time than it took to blink, and I let out a heavy sigh, as images played back against my eyelids.
I’d been absolutely terrified, when the aches and pains that Jon had been complaining about, for weeks before, had manifested into shooting and burning pains. No matter how hard I’d tried to convince him not to go on the camping trip, he’d still insisted. Then, within hours, he was on the forest floor, turning into something that had given my younger self horrible nightmares for months afterwards.
Not because I was afraid of him, but because of what he’d gone through.
“Don’t you think that’s enough coffee, there, Paul?”
I blinked hard as Jon’s rough voice prickled my ear drums. I looked down to find the brew basket almost overflowing with ground beans, and I muttered a curse. I scooped the coarse powder back into the bag, carefully and glared at my friend as he sauntered up, to stand next to me.
“What’s got you so ornery?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I answered quickly, my lips pursed into a thin line as my lie echoed in the small space between us. Exhaling through my nose, I ignored Jon’s arched brows to change the subject.
“Thanks for letting me stay here, since we got back. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, Jon. To be honest, on the plane, I was thinking that I might just cut my lease and find a new place. I don’t want to see what Tommy did to my apartment.”
Jon clapped a strong hand on my shoulder and smiled broadly, at my words of gratitude. I gnawed on the inside of my cheek. I couldn’t get a good night’s rest here; my little brother plagued my thoughts until I was just too exhausted to stay awake. The flight back from Alaska had given me some pretty severe jet lag, but even that didn’t seem to help much.
“Any time, Paul. The truth is - I still think you’re an idiot for letting him stay there while we were gone. It’s your own fault, and if I wasn’t so busy with Lucy, I would’ve kicked you out two days ago.”
I snorted at that and shook my head, while Jon laughed. I turned the pot and braced my palms on the counter.
“No. Seriously, though,” Jon continued. “You need to go home at some point, man. I can handle this, so you can handle that.”
“I hear you. I know. I just… it sucks knowing that Tommy probably won’t surprise me, you know? I mean, before we left, he was a drug addict. Now, he’s a drug addict with a baby on the way that probably isn’t even his.” Just thinking about it all thickened my voice, and I twisted to lean back against the counter with a grimace.
“At least you have the completely appropriate hope that Lucy will get better. I know that Tommy won’t.”
“You don’t know anything for sure, Paul. I get that you don’t believe in him, and it’s probably warranted, but he could still surprise you. What happened to ‘the baby might set him straight’, huh?”
“That was bullshit, and you know it, Jon.” Maybe the clean, crisp Alaskan air had played with my mind, but I regretted ever saying such a thing. Touching my chin to my chest, I blew out a hot breath before the smell of coffee filled my nostrils and settled into my lungs. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll be out today, at some point. You need some quality time with your mate… I’m just a cockblocker.”
“Sounds like a deal, then. Besides, don’t you want to go back to work instead of idling around someone else’s apartment all day?” Jon asked.
I gave a toothy, disheartened smile, and exhaled heavily, while Jon started to rummage through his bare kitchen. I focused on the floor, and my gaze narrowed into fine points as my mind worked through what I knew would happen, once I left this dying haven.
No matter my best friend’s reassurances, the sinking feeling that churned in my gut wouldn’t be ignored; something bad was going to happen at my apartment. Whether it involved Tommy’s physical presence, or not, was yet to be determined, but my une
asy feelings were rarely wrong when it came to my brother.
“I’m not saying you need to take this to the face, Paul.” Job spoke up, suddenly, and his steady voice drew my eyes upward, even as he ducked his head into the refrigerator. “I’m just saying you shouldn’t hide from it. I mean, you’ve been moping around and avoiding going back to your home, because of your brother. I get that you felt bad for him and that’s why you let him stay there, but you’ve gotta face the fact that you can’t let him run your life - even a tiny part of it. I know that to you it doesn’t seem like much, but you just suggested abandoning your apartment because of him. That’s not good, you know.”
“I wasn’t being serious.” I straightened up in a pathetic attempt to defend myself. Jon wore a look of disbelief that had me rolling my eyes. “I wasn’t. Don’t look at me like that. You know how I feel about him, Jon. If it wasn’t for Mom, I would force him out of my life for good. It’s been years, and I’m tired. Not wanting to deal with him, where he is, or who he’s with, is perfectly normal.”
“If you say so. Let’s change the subject, shall we? That vein in your forehead is starting to bulge, which means you’re getting pissed off.”
Grumbling at Jon’s effective tease, I twisted to reach into a top cupboard for a coffee cup. The hot brew was only inches away and smelled better than it should’ve, and I grabbed the pot handle with tight fingers. Steam wafted into my face, the sound of pouring liquid tickled my ears, and I took a deep breath before relaxing my body.
Talking about Tommy - Hell, even thinking about Tommy - made me so tense. It’s a good thing that Jon is a masseur. This conversation is his fault, so it’ll be free.
Smirking at my own, slightly uncomfortable thought, I set the pot back on the coffee maker, and began to spoon sugar into my mug, before opening my mouth.
“What about you? Aren’t you excited to get back to work?” Within seconds, my coffee was perfect, and I licked my lips as I gripped the mug. I turned to lean against the counter once again, and I frowned slightly when I caught Jon glowering at me from behind the refrigerator door.
“What? Why would I be excited to do a butt-load of paperwork that’s accumulated over the summer? No, thank you.” I scowled at that and hid my dark expression behind my mug, as the brew burned my tongue. I took a small sip only; my throat flexed at the welcome intrusion and a shudder slid down my spine.
The coffee in Alaska downright sucked, and no matter my situation with my brother, I was glad to be back in California.
Chapter Two: Paul
I slowly rolled my sleek, two-door into my parking space and shoved the gear in park, letting my head fall back hard against the head rest. My apartment loomed over me, casting the front half of my car into shadow. I closed my eyes to ready myself for whatever I’d be plunging into. Nerves ate at my gut and fingertips, and I took a few shallow breaths before turning off the engine and popping open the door.
The ground floor of my three-story building didn’t look any different to when I had left it, and I trudged over to my mailbox with my keys jingling. As usual, there was no one around; most of the people that lived around me were professionals, who worked during the day. It was one of the main reasons I’d moved here, a year before. I worked open my box to find it stuffed almost to the brim. For two months’ worth of mail, though, it wasn’t too bad and I carefully extracted the envelopes before locking up the flimsy safe, once again.
I took the elevator to the second floor, where I found it increasing harder to breathe, as my apartment came closer and closer. Anticipation ran riot in my veins, sending my heart rate into a frenzy and forcing my foot to tap against the metal that coated the inside of the elevator. I stared at my reflection and held back a sigh at the lines around my mouth that hadn’t been there when I was on vacation.
A soft ping filled the space, and I waited for the doors to slide open before steeping out onto my floor. Apartment doors lined either side of the long hallway, and my steps were heavy as they carried me towards my own. The familiar smell, which I’d gotten used to over the time I’d spent here, wafted into my nostrils, tinged with something sweet that I couldn’t identify. Absentmindedly fiddling with my keys as I walked, I took deeper breaths, only to notice that the sweet smell was getting stronger the closer I came to my door.
For a long moment, I just stood there staring at the wooden barrier, but that small collection of seconds didn’t last. I jammed my key into the lock and took a deep breath, before slowly pushing open my apartment door.
The stench of vinegar hit me like a brick wall, and I scrunched up my nose in disgust. My stomach roiled, but the episode was quickly over as I realized something was wrong. A small, cheap painting that was supposed to be on the wall directly to my right was missing, and my sense of smell dulled, to sharpen my eyesight.
I stepped through the threshold, my legs quaking slightly as I took in my kitchen - or what had once been my kitchen.
Everything was gone. Even the tiles I’d spent so much time and money on had been pulled up off the floor and from the walls between the cabinets; or rather, the space where the cabinets used to be.
Standing at the mouth of the short hallway that led into my apartment from the door, I couldn’t muster up the ability to feel anything at all. If my kitchen looked like this, what did the rest of my apartment look like? I didn’t have an answer to that question, but it triggered a white-hot rage in the base of my chest and it closed my throat. Glancing around, I clenched my hands into fists at my sides and my keys dug harshly into my palm.
Some tiny, rational part of my mind forced my free hand into my pocket, and I had fished out my phone and was dialing 9-1-1 before I even really realized what I was doing. Holding the phone to my ear, I waited for an answer with fire rushing from my nostrils. The details of the destruction slowly came seeped into my scope of comprehension; nails and needles, debris from scraping the tiles off the floor, coated the boards that supported my apartment. Blood was splattered in a few places, staining the light yellow paint on the walls.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The feminine voice sucked me out of the red haze that threatened to consume my mind, and I cleared my throat roughly. I blinked hard and shook my head, before opening my mouth, and my words came out slurred off a thick, heavy tongue.
“Yeah - I need a couple of cops and an ambulance or two.” Even over the phone, I could sense the operator’s confusion and surprise. I quietly shuffled a few steps deeper into my apartment, before continuing. “I’m about to beat the shit out of my drug addict brother.”
“Oh – uh - sir… what’s the address?” Maybe this woman knew she shouldn’t try to talk me off the edge on which I teetered; how many people called 9-1-1 beforehand, in a situation like this? I didn’t know, and I didn’t feel like talking about it to her as I prattled off my address. “I’ve dispatched units to your location. What’s your name, sir?”
“I’m going to hang up now.” Speaking slowly, I frowned under furrowed brows, and the woman started to protest only to be cut off as I ended the call. I made my way to the living room in a daze, stepping carefully between burned, malformed spoons and the occasional, used needle.
I’d expected something, but I’d certainly never expected this.
My brother and his girlfriend were lying on my mattress, which was stripped and stained with bottles of soda and junk food wrappers and bags surrounding them. Like the kitchen, my meticulously crafted hardwood flooring had been ripped up; my entertainment system was gone, and the only parts of my $700 sectional sofa I could see were two of the cushions that were propped against the wall.
A rug, of priceless sentimental value, which I’d gotten from my great-grandmother, when I was eight years old, had been turned into what looked like a meth prep station. A hundred or so empty dime bags were scattered all over one half of the four- by-six-foot rug and the other half cradled a pile of needles, spoons, and a few lighters.
Tommy groaned, catching my attention, a
nd my head snapped to where he lay. I watched him flop onto his back. Track marks lined both his arms - there was even one in his neck - and he looked like a corpse. His lids hid sunken eyeballs, his cheeks were ashen and his skin was stretched tight. After a long look, I realized he must’ve just shot up within the past hour or so.
My numbness, at the state of my apartment, died with that notion and I stomped over to Tommy and unceremoniously shoved my foot into his gut. He was so high he only expelled the slightest of grunts, and his reaction only fueled my anger. My shallow, heaving breaths, which were filled with the smell of what I now knew to be meth flew from my nostrils, and my blood roared in my ears to the beat of my furious heart. I reached down and grabbed my brother by the biceps, dragging him off the mattress and across the sharp, studded floor before he managed to gain some awareness.
Tommy struggled weakly, probably not even realizing who I was, and I was just fine with that. When I dropped him, he fell to the floor, too weak to even push himself onto his hands and knees and I straddled him to send my fist into his face. Everything happened so fast; one moment I was rearing back my arm and next, the sound of his nose breaking was crackling through the air.
That was when my brother really came to. His glazed eyes cleared, widening from a mix of pain and shock. I watched, speechless, as he slowly comprehended what was happening.
“Y- you…” Small and scared, Tommy’s slurred declaration sent me into a further fury and I punched his face again with all of my strength. His scream echoed around the living room, and his struggling started in earnest.
But, I wasn’t high as a kite, emaciated or tired - I was filled with rage.
I tightened my thighs around Tommy’s torso, as he tried to wriggle away and I sent punch after punch into his face until he realized he should probably try to protect himself. When I grabbed his arms, my hands could wrap all around his forearms with a little extra finger length to spare, and I tucked his wrists under my knees. Every move I made was methodical, as if I beat people for a living and knew just where to hurt them the most.
The Soul of a Bear (UnBearable Romance Series Book 3) Page 1