Читать книгу Sentinels: Kodiak Chained - Doranna Durgin - Страница 6

If a bear…

Like Ruger hadn’t heard all the jokes. Bear, woods, yeah, yeah, yeah.

But he wasn’t alone. From where he stood among a small patch of trees, he’d looked down on the unexpected plaids and bagpipes and sporrans and kneesocks, smelled the scents of whisky and wool in the cooling air, and heard a pipe-and-drum band squalling up into full sound over all.

And he’d looked down on this woman.

If a bear finds another bear in the park during a Celtic festival, does anyone notice?

He sure did. And so did she.

She stood outside the whisky-tasting tent with its miniscule cups of tasting whisky. If any of the humans standing near her had a clue, they would have treated her with more respect. They wouldn’t have casually bumped into her on the way to the open tent flap—or failed to see the strength in her short houri form, the beauty of nut-brown skin and black hair and smoky eyes.

She smiled faintly at Ruger and lifted her tiny plastic cup of honey-gold liquid in a quiet salute. Ruger lifted his chin in a subtle salute to the lady bear and eased back into the trees of the hill—not quite ready to give up his woods, thin as they might be.

If a bear…

Especially a Sentinel shifter bear looking for quiet the night before a field assignment in the continuing fight against the Atrum Core. One trying to pretend that he wasn’t quite himself, still recovering from what hadn’t killed him, but had maybe killed who he was and had always been.

Healer.

Never mind the Atrum Core ambush that had put Ruger out of action for months. The bite of Flagstaff’s night air, their team gathered in the hotel parking lot where the Atrum Core had been seen, Maks’ hand pushing against the hotel door, their tracker’s cry of warning—

The astonishing flash of stinking, corrupted Core energy blooming from the room to take the team down.

Ruger’s bruises had healed long before he’d woken from the induced coma. And theoretically, his singed senses were, in fact, recovered.

Theoretically. He could sit up here on the crest, thin, gritty soil beneath the seat of his jeans, and he could feel the accumulated ills and ails of the festivities below. He just couldn’t do anything about them.

A woman on chemotherapy, smiling brightly to a friend. And there, a middle-aged man whose lungs sat heavy in his chest, and on the far side of the festival, amidst children clustered at a game under the mercury lights, was a youngster with sickness lurking in his bones. Ruger couldn’t see him—even a Sentinel’s night vision had its limits—but he could feel it well enough.

On a normal night, he could ease the man’s breathing, offer the woman energy, and—

No, the child was what he was.

On a normal night…

Ruger closed his eyes, absorbing the taste and feel of the ailments and knowing—knowing—he could help. Knowing that if he channeled the healing energies that had once come so readily to him, he could…

Soothe…

Ease…

Mend…

He reached, and found nothing. He reached deeper, and found only a deeper nothing, a profound and echoing inner darkness.

Deeper—

The pain came on with the inexorable nature of a gripping vise, increasing to sharp retribution in an indefinable instant. Ruger grunted with the impact, momentarily stunned by it.

And then he was sitting up on the crest of the hill, startled by the sensation of warmth trickling from his nose and into his mustache.

Again.

He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped away the blood, sitting still in the dusk until he was sure the nosebleed had stopped.

Not so much the healer after all.

Well. He was still warrior. And he was still bear. And Nick Carter, Sentinel Southwest Brevis consul, still counted on that fact—counted on it enough that he’d pulled Ruger back into the field.

Not that he or Nick had much choice—not when mere weeks after the hotel ambush, the entirety of Southwest Brevis had been crippled in the aftermath of Core D’oíche. Ruger wasn’t the only one who didn’t know how much of himself he’d recover but who had things to do in the meantime. He could still offer his knowledge—and, unique among healers, he could damned well watch his own back.

And he needed to prove it. To his teammates, to himself.

Ruger got to his feet, shadowing through the woods quietly enough to startle those at the edges of it when he emerged. There, just down the hill… the lady bear still waited. Too much of a coincidence to believe, much too enticing to ignore. A bear in the swirling midst of the Celtic fair, tossing back what remained of her whisky, throat moving with her swallow.

She spotted him immediately and pitched the sample cup into the trash, moving away from the side of the tent to come his way—and scooping two more samples from the table beside the tent as she did. So many of the bear shifters were exceptionally tall, on the burly side—plenty of hair, rugged features. Ruger not as much as some, despite his Kodiak nature when he took his bear. Little black bear, he thought suddenly, and knew it true of her—the comfortable amble in her walk, her black hair glinting in the light, thick bangs cut to frame her face and her skin with enough tone so many would assign to South India what came from the bear. She was sturdy and rounded, her eyes large and dark and her nose just a little bit long, her mouth wide and chin gently 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 they hesitated, the lady bear spread her hands in a mollifying gesture. “No big deal, fellas. He startled me. Wouldn’t want to turn it into something noticeable, right?” She sent a significant glance at the security guard most definitely headed their way, a man in kilt and hose and arms that no doubt stood him in good stead when it came time for the caber toss. “After all, there’s still whisky to be tasted.”

That did it. They hauled their friend to his feet, brushed him off and dragged him away. One of the women offered a thumbs-up and said, loud enough to be heard over the distance between them, “He’s always an asshole at these things.”

“Could have been worse,” Ruger said, but his eyes were on the lady bear, and the lurking humor in her eye. Not for a moment discomfited; not for a moment concerned. “Someone could have gotten broken.”

They laughed and moved on, not quite taking him seriously. The lady bear did, eyeing him for a long moment, a smile in the corners of her dark eyes. “Mariska Banks,” she told him, and the humor took on a certain gleam. Invitation.

“Ruger James,” he said, and did the little whisky a grave injustice by tossing it back. “But you knew that.”

“My place?” she asked.

Sweet cinnamon bear, full of humor and fire and strength. “Anyplace you like,” he said, rumbling low.

She didn’t respond as she headed toward the parking lot, a ragged asphalt patch crammed full of cars in what had become true dusk. She looked over her shoulder, found him watching her, and smiled—and she didn’t wait. Not playing games, just a matter-of-fact check yes or no.

Ruger took a deep breath of the night air, found it scented with leftover heat and sage and creosote. It tasted like anticipation. The hair of his nape bristled, a tingle on his skin.

He followed her.

Through the musicians, past the collection of Celtic dog breeds on display, past the sheep and even a few Highland cattle. By the time they reached the parking lot, he’d caught up; by the time they walked to the unlit far end where Ruger had parked, evening had found its way into nightfall.

The guy’s friends probably thought they couldn’t be seen in the dark, with their semicircle blocking the way to Ruger’s short-bed Hemi. Sentinel night vision tinged the men blue, but left them crystal clear—along with the crowbar, the baseball bat and the tire iron.

“We thought about it,” one of them said as Ruger and Mariska stopped, backlit by the fair. “And we decided it was a big deal after all.”

Ruger exchanged a glance with Mariska. “This time,” he said, “we share.”

This time, someone got broken.

Mariska jammed her key in the lock of the small house, her brevis accommodations for this Tucson assignment. Like all Sentinel temp homes, it sat right where the city abruptly gave way to desert: a place where a bear—or wolf or javelina or big cat—could roam.

Ruger stood up close against her back, one arm reaching over her shoulder and propped against the stucco house, his breath stirring her hair and his presence stirring her body.

He’d fought with her. Beside her. He’d known her strength; he’d trusted her training. And he’d embraced it, not grown wary with it.

After a lifetime of feeling too bold, too strong, too much, Mariska quite suddenly didn’t quite feel alone anymore.

The brush of his body warmed her from the inside—a ruffled feeling that trilled down her nape and tickled along her skin, gathering heat low in her belly, tightening down along the backs of her thighs. Greedy and unabashed.

Because now she knew—it would end soon enough. She hadn’t intended it when she’d come here; she’d imagined herself needed—wanted—in the field beside him. She’d had only to meet him to understand how personally he’d take her presence—to sense the pride of him.

Maybe he’d understand. Maybe he’d see it had nothing to do with her respect for him—the famous Southwest healer of both brawn and compassion—and everything to do with what she wanted from life, and a little bit about what he deserved.

In any event, it hadn’t been hard this morning to convince Nick Carter to send her out as Ruger’s backup on the coming field op. He hadn’t been proven in the field since the Flagstaff ambush; they couldn’t risk him.

Not that they ever should have been asking so much of him in the first place.

And it was an opportunity—a chance she’d never been afforded on her home turf, where too many had seen her grow up and still thought of her as little Mariska.

The bear in her went after what it wanted.

What she wanted now was one night when it didn’t matter that she was strong and practical, exotic but not beautiful. Different. She was the one the men approached out of curiosity and not because of any true interest; she was the one who looked short and stumpy next to the sleek Sentinel women who shifted to big cat form, the one who embarrassed even Sentinel men with her strength, never mind her vigorous nature in intimacy.

No little wonder she’d come looking for this singular man—the man she’d watched and admired and come to know through reports. A man who would be her physical match, and whose underlying nature might just match hers. If nothing else… just for tonight.

Tomorrow, everything would change. He wouldn’t tolerate what she’d done for the sake of her place in this brevis. No bear would.

As soon as she twisted the doorknob, he pushed the door open—looming over her in a way that made her feel not threatened or crowded, but claimed. And when he moved forward, she pushed back—contact enough to strengthen the lure when she did move away.

She laughed when he growled an undertone of response. “Ruger,” she said, trying out the taste of his name, and tossed the house keys onto the low bowl shelf by the entry.

He pushed the door shut and took her shoulders from behind—an aggressive move not so different from that of the man at the festival. But for Ruger she turned easily, fluidly, enjoying the strength in his hands and the assumption in his touch. She drank in the sight of him, too-wiry sable hair just long enough to grip when the moment called for it, beard trimmed closely enough to guess the shape of his jaw, and no need to wonder about pale brown eyes or strong brow and cheek, the full shape of his mouth. No need to wonder about the breadth of his shoulders, well above hers, or that bit of hair peeking out at the unbuttoned neckline of his shirt.

She ran her hands across the rough nap of the material, absorbing the warmth beneath, the plane of muscle—the hint of nipple.

He inhaled sharply. “Whatever you want of this night, tell me—” he took a deep breath, let it out “—now,” he said. “Tell me now.” While I can still think. The unspoken sounded clearly enough.

She didn’t hesitate. “What I want is tonight. All of it.”

He looked at her long enough to make her doubt—to hold her breath as he searched her gaze. And then he brought his hands up to cup her jaw, tangling his fingers in her hair, tipping her head up to take her mouth in no uncertain terms. No shy attempt to get acquainted, no hesitant questions. He brought her into it strong and hard, holding her right where he wanted her as he slanted his head for a deeper connection.

It took her no time at all to grab him back, hands skimming his ribs, finding his flanks and kneading hard to pull him up against her. She was too short; he was too tall. It didn’t particularly seem to matter. She felt his response all the same, and she stood on her toes to reach his kiss, full of bursting internal exclamations and enthusiasm. When they broke apart to breathe, she tipped her head back and laughed for the pure exhilaration of it.

“Hell, yes,” she told him, and kicked off her leather walking flats, flipping the snap on her pants even as he came back for her, leaving barely enough room for her hands at his zipper, fingers on automatic as she drank up the scent, the touch, the very presence of him—kissing hard and strong and deep, her hair and her nerves already mussed beyond all redemption by his stroking hands.

She stepped out of her pants, right there in her foyer—no lights necessary, with her night vision showing perfect detail. She reached for the jeans now hanging low on his ass—and for the first time he startled her, both with the low and demanding noise in his throat and with his hands as they slid away from her hair, her shoulders, coming to rest at her waist—picking her right up off the floor with no effort at all to flip her around.

She found her balance with her hands braced against the half wall between the foyer and the great room, and she understood right away. Even in the thrill of it—the strength of him, the anticipation—she whirled back around. “No,” she protested. “I want to touch—”

Just like that, she was facing the wall again, his body pressing against her—but he leaned down, the side of his head against hers, the stiff brush of his beard against her jaw and her hair tangling between them. “Next time,” he said, and quivered up against her, restraint in the hands that tightened at her hips and the sudden gust of breath in her ear. And then he waited, no more than a heartbeat—a space for protest.

Next time.

“Hell, yes,” she said, bracing her arms against that wall.

“Protected?” he asked. Sentinels were, as a matter of course—those who couldn’t ward themselves had it done for them.

His hands ran over her belly, up to her breasts, learning them, kneading them—lightly at first, until she arched into his hand and said, “Hell, yes.”

His arm crossed her chest—supporting her, continuing to play her breast; the other dropped back to her belly—splayed there a moment, pressing them together while Mariska tipped her head back and hummed, a low and uninhibited sound. A bear sound. Her legs parted and he took full advantage, cupping her; she cried out in surprise at the sudden rush of pleasure and heat, and again as his fingers pressed into her.

“Ready?” he asked, and this time his voice came strangled, the tremble of him surrounding her.

“Hell—” she breathed, and got no further, for he lifted her hips and found his way home, his exclamation of surprised pleasure in her ear, his legs stiffening until he found his balance again.

“—yes,” she whispered, wanting so badly to touch him in return—but her arms knew better, absorbing the increased weight while she held her breath in expectation, waiting to feel the fullness and size of him in motion.

Except he just stayed there—holding her, fingers tightening around her body, his breath a convulsive gasp in her ear—while she finally realized he was grasping for control.

Who the hell wanted control?

She squirmed.

He growled, holding her tightly—so tightly, his head pressed to hers and his hips suddenly plunged against her.

Except he somehow had the wherewithal to grab back control—he played with her, little thrusting increments of sensation. She gasped in outrage and then at the spiraling, clawing sensation, drawing on the nerves from her spine to her tightly curled toes. And she gasped in delight—at the understanding that she was claimed, that she was in the hands of the strength and power she craved.

With a cry, she pushed back at him, squirming inside and out. And yes, he made a harsh, startled noise, a fierce noise—a sound of wrenching pleasure as he lost control again and pounded into her without restraint. Her own delighted whimper rose in volume as her feet came right off the floor and hooked around his legs and—

Oh, hell, YES—

He caught her as she stiffened and trembled—and then he shouted as if the moment took him completely by surprise. His knees gave way, and there they were on the floor while she sat back in his lap, clinging weakly to the half wall.

As the aftershocks of hellaciously superb sex faded away and Mariska’s stunned fog of pleasure eased, a short laugh snorted its way out. She clapped a hand over her mouth, sagging precariously close to the wall, but couldn’t help it; she did it again. And of course he felt it—the clench of her internal movement around him, her slipping position.

He pulled her upright, finger-combing the hair away from her face as he tucked his mouth in beside her ear again, and this time his voice was a growl. “What?”

“Just—” she said, and waved her hand at them, at the wall, at the foyer littered with her clothes and her shirt somehow hanging open and her breasts free. “Just—” she tried again, and gave it up and laughed right out loud.

She felt him relax slightly. “Lady bear,” he said, and nipped at her ear.

“Does that make you a gentleman bear?” she asked, twisting to look back at him, his face so close to hers.

He offered a wry smile from within that beard. “Not for a long, long time.”

“About tomorrow—” she said, not having planned it in the least.

But he shook his head. “Tonight,” he told her, “is always. No matter what happens tomorrow.”

Her heart clenched, much as her body had clenched only moments earlier. “An always night,” she whispered. No matter tomorrow.

Eventually they got past the foyer. Not before Ruger spread his shirt on the rough textured paint of the half wall, set her on it, and provided what she’d clearly wanted the first time—the chance to fondle and stroke.

He’d meant for things to go slower, then—a chance to admire the sturdy bones of her, to marvel that he hadn’t worried about crushing her or frightening her, and the certainty that she’d been able to brace herself against that wall no matter how he pounded into her. A chance to run his hands over full hips and full breasts and her curvy, flat and tight waist, and to marvel at her perfect proportions. Not tall, not long and lean and slender, not any of the things that so many men ogled.

But all the things that Ruger ogled.

And it didn’t go slow at all.

So eventually they made it past the foyer… but only as far as the sprawling couch, where they finally fell asleep. She, sated and lightly snoring… he, completely smitten.

But when he woke in the morning, covered only by a soft cotton blanket that had slipped down far enough to threaten modesty, the light streamed in the windows of the airy Southwest home and Mariska the lady bear was gone.