notched below. Not plump, but plenty of hips and breast packed into a petite form.
Not a woman who would break easily.
She watched him watching her, making her way through the crowd as if the whisky tent rowdies weren’t there at all, and when she got there she said, quite matter-of-factly, “You took too long to come over.”
Not a shy creature, the bear.
“Just thinking about who you might be,” he said, looking down on her—accepting, without thinking, the sample cup she proffered him. It felt too small in his hand—but then, so many things did.
Maybe she wouldn’t.
He’d definitely been cooped up in brevis medical for too long.
She watched him, her large, dark eyes thoughtful, and he hoped his unbidden thought hadn’t shown on his face.
Or maybe, given the speculative light in her eye, he hoped it had.
Then she smiled, just a curve at the corner of that wide mouth. “I’m on loan from Colorado. I knew you were in this area… but so far at brevis it’s mainly been wolves and big cats.” She frowned in thought. “Though I’m pretty sure that one guy was a weasel.”
Ruger grinned, scratching his fingers through the beard beside his mouth. Full beard, short enough to be tidy, long enough to obscure the landscape of his lower face. “Pine marten,” he told her. “He prefers to be called pine marten.”
She shrugged. “He’ll have to watch where he puts his hands, then.”
Ruger’s hand closed around the tiny whisky sampler; his jaw tightened, ever so slightly. Not that she was his to care about, but…
She laughed, as if she’d understood perfectly well. “I took care of it.” She nodded out at the milling crowd. “Lay odds he’ll learn better tonight, too.”
Ruger cut his gaze out toward the whisky tent, and found the man in question readily enough. Mid-thirties, a wiry guy who probably thought that scruff at his chin counted as a beard, and who had buckled an ostentatiously large sporran over his jeans—most likely to hold the flask now in his hand. He looked bored with the fair, but not the least bit bored with the sight of Ruger’s new companion.
“It happens,” she told him, sipping the whisky. Her eyes widened appreciatively; Ruger could smell the peaty nature of the liquid from his own sample. She shrugged, still looking at the man who’d noticed her. “You know how it is. They can tell something’s different. They’re not sure just what… but they think they want it.” She cocked her head at him. “Or maybe you don’t know. You’ve got that forbidding thing going on.” She nodded at the thinning crowd.
He didn’t look; he’d already seen them. Ladies’ night out, three friends in their late twenties who’d struck the right note of agreeably Celtic and casual, ostensibly admiring the silver rings they’d each purchased. A decade younger than he was—none of the scars, none of the same realities.
They had no idea of the battle that had so recently raged across this region, or of his part in it.
He took the whisky, letting it sit on the back of his tongue a long moment before it warmed his throat, and when he lifted a shoulder in a shrug, she smiled, understanding.
He was already talking to the one person in this park who interested him.
She said, “I’m still finding my way around here. I hit the Making Tracks bar last night—I thought I’d see more of us there.”
“We’re spread thin right now,” he said. “If we weren’t, you wouldn’t be in this region at all.”
“To be honest,” she said, “I was hoping to find you there. Annorah from brevis communications suggested this place when I didn’t.”
Of course she’d known of him. There weren’t so many bear shifters around that it was hard to keep track. And one did keep track, when entering a new brevis. “Wouldn’t be here if I’d realized the Celtic fair was here. Those trees normally make for decent privacy.”
“Oh?” She raised her brow, her gaze back to his before it drifted across the breadth of his shoulders, lingered on his face… went briefly lower.
In an instant, every muscle in his body tightened. She smiled, just a little.
Bears. Not game players. Predators. Knew what they wanted, when they wanted it. “I’m heading out tomorrow,” she said, as if she could read his mind. Maybe she could—some blooded Sentinels did—but he thought not. It wasn’t a talent for bears.
Of course, neither was healing. Usually.
He nodded slowly, and agreed, “It’s that kind of night.”
“I figured I’d be on my own,” she said. “But I’d be happy if I wasn’t.”
He nodded again, this time with something of a smile. There were a number of teams heading out in the morning… and any number of Sentinels who didn’t want to be alone tonight. “Like I said. It’s that kind of night.”
She studied him, inhaling deeply—slowly. Taking the measure of his scent and closing her eyes briefly. “Bear,” she said, as if to herself, but when she opened her eyes she looked directly at him and smiled. “It’s been a long time.”
Hell, yeah.
And here he came, moving in from the crowd: Mr. Way-Over-His-Head, mid-thirties, wiry, and chin scruff. And—bonus!—plenty of hard alcohol on his breath. “Hey there,” he said to her. “Thought you might like to dance to some Wicked Tinkers with us.”
She cut a quick glance his way. “No, thank you,” she said, as politely as it could be done.
“Hey, if you don’t know how, don’t worry about it. We can teach you all the moves you need.” He mimed a quick Highland step, and it held way too much thrust.
She gave him another glance, more deliberate this time. “I’m not into it, thanks.” This time, there was meaning in her glance at Ruger. He read it easily enough, for all that he didn’t yet even know her name. I’ll deal, it said.
“C’mon, honey,” the guy said. “You’ll make me look bad in front of the guys. Besides, you’ll like it. You just met this guy; I been waiting for the right moment all night.”
“You missed it.”
“Just a dance or two,” he said, getting bolder, a little more reckless—more desperate, with a glance back at his smirking buddies. “That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?”
Ruger clamped down the rumble in his chest.
I’ll deal. Her look was a warning… and a request.
Ruger closed one hand into a fist and stood down.
She spoke quietly but clearly, glancing over to the trio of women-witnesses, at that. “I don’t know you. I don’t want to talk to you. Please leave me alone now.”
Maybe the guy didn’t hear her; maybe he didn’t care. He took her arm, and not gently.
Oh, the little bear could move. Ruger saw it, but he doubted the guy did. A twist, a shift, the flat of her palm with just the right force in just the right place… the guy blinked at her from the floor.
“Oh!” she said, with a certain suspicious clarity and lack of emotion. “I’m so sorry! I was so startled when you grabbed me!”
The women smirked.
The guy’s friends threw aside their whisky tasters, bristling en masse—taking a step forward.
Ruger shifted. That was all it usually took—the movement. The distinct moment when they realized that he filled more space than they’d expected, that he moved with the easy power of his kind.
In the instant