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.
Chapter 2
T
hat she’d left didn’t surprise Ruger. She was on assignment today; she’d only ever asked for the night. She, like all of his kind, was clearly wont to an independent nature, not needy on the morning after.
Besides, she’d left him out some tea makings and a protein shake.
Ruger didn’t bother to head for home—a tidy little trailer in the foothills of the Catalinas. He dug out the little overnighter kit from his truck’s half-cab storage, brushed his teeth, and helped himself to a quick shower, relieved at the neutral scents of her soap and shampoo.
But the shower did nothing to clear his head; his senses reeled in the aftermath of Mariska—and in the surreal but inescapable fact that he was about to report for field duty without his healing skills. He stared at the lightly fogged mirror and felt as though he saw someone who had been, not someone who was. Strong in body once more, a man more big than beefy or hulking, a man with strength in arms and torso and defined muscle all the way down to the towel that draped his hips.
But still only part of what he’d been.
He tugged on his shirt, stepped into his pants, grabbed the protein shake, and headed out to the truck with the heat of the early morning soaking into his shoulders. Thinking changes and forward as he started up the truck. Maybe that was why he pulled into the barbershop when he saw it. When he stepped out, his hair was only a smidge more crisp around the edges—but his bared cheeks sensed the slightest breeze, and that untanned skin tingled in the sun.
As if facing the world without a beard for the first time in his adult life would distract him from things still missing.
He still had his knowledge. His herbs and creams and brews. But those would no longer be infused with the healing energies—and they hadn’t ever been the reason for his demand in the field.
Not to mention that brevis liked a healer who could look after himself. Counted on Ruger to do so, instead of using their depleted manpower. Until Flagstaff, when he’d walked into that Atrum Core ambush just like the rest of his team. Then when Core D’oíche had hit not so long afterward, he hadn’t been there to help the wounded.
So damned many wounded.
But he shouldn’t be thinking about that now
.
Now
was about forward. First stop, Brevis HQ, where he’d join the briefing on his new assignment in Arizona’s high timber region, following up on whatever Maks Altán had uncovered.
Brevis itself hid in a deceptive handful of stories on the edge of Old Town Tucson, where the building foundation dug down deep into caliche to hide invisible subterranean floors below. Apartments and offices and meeting rooms above; medical, the amulet lab and so much of their archived history below. A complete and tidy headquarters for a race of earthbound sentinels unknown to the world at large.
Ruger parked the pickup in his assigned slot and headed for the high conference room outside Nick Carter’s corner office—a room draped with local plantings and replete with the astringent scents of the desert. Ruger pretty much knew what he’d find there—the vast window, the carpet thick underneath and the conference table holding a bottomless pot of herbal tea. Businesslike and still welcoming.
He’d find Carter and possibly Jet, the wolf who’d discovered her human side through Atrum Core experiments, as well as the other members of his team—all new to him, he suspected. He was ready for that.
He wasn’t ready to open the big wood door and find Mariska sitting at that table, her expression more of a wince than a welcome, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of his newly shaved face.
He might not have known she’d be on his team, but...
She’d known.
He could see it on her face. She’d known, and she hadn’t said anything. And he couldn’t think of any reason why not.
At least, not any good reason.
He gave her a wary nod, yanking out a chair at the end of the table—the one he always took, not because of any stupid alpha game, but because in a room of men made big by their Sentinel nature, Ruger stood the largest...and took the most leg room while he was at it.
Nick sat at his desk, two computer monitors in play and a stack of folders threatening to slide over the edge. Annorah leaned over to scoop them up and deposit them in the middle of the table, shoving one in Mariska’s direction and another at Ian Scott, the amulet specialist who’d briefly worked with Maks in Pine Bluff. One to Ruger, and one to a woman Ruger didn’t know—a wards or shielding specialist, most likely.
Ian flipped his folder open and began an immediate doodle in the margin—impatient with such meetings as ever. Sardonic in nature, his snow leopard showing strongly in his pale hair, striking eyes, and the flow of his movement—at least, when he wasn’t acting like an overcaffeinated cat. “If we’re all up to speed on this,” he said, “let’s skip to the good part.”
Ruger made a subliminal grumbling noise that the others nonetheless perceived very well, his normally amiable nature tangled by his reaction not to Mariska’s presence, but to her guarded expression.
“Not everyone comes at this from the inside,” Nick said mildly, ignoring Ruger’s mood and responding to Ian. As alpha as they came, that Nick Carter—full of wolf and full of innate pack understanding. But an alpha didn’t need to posture or dominate...an alpha just
was.
That mild voice meant plenty.
Ian sighed and flipped his pencil against the table a few times. “Okay, sure,” he said, sitting back. “What’ve we got, then?”
“Mariska, I am Jet.” The whisky voice belonged to the woman with whisky eyes, Nick’s fiercely beloved Jet. As usual, she hovered by the window, restless and graceful. As usual, she tended the social necessities first. More wolf than any of them, Nick included—wolf born and human made, escaped from the Core, bereft of her pack, and now forever with Nick. “I’ll be scouting wide.”
Ian raised his hand. “Ian Scott. Amulet hotshot.” He tapped the folder a few unnecessary times. “I’ll be supervising amulet recovery in the installation Maks has found.”
Annorah crossed her arms. “Annorah. Communications central, here at brevis.” If she looked defiant, Ruger suspected it was only because she wanted to be out in the field again. It wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon; she’d lost that privilege in Flagstaff when her inexperience-driven fear had nearly sabotaged the mission.
Nick leaned back in his office chair. “Nick Carter,” he said, pale green eyes astute as he watched them all. “Boss.”
Mariska hesitated, her troubled gaze flicking from Nick to Ruger. She cleared her throat. “Mariska Banks, on assignment from Western Brevis. I’m personal security.”
Ruger’s subliminal growl went loud, as all the implications of the situation hit him at once—and then combined with her guilty expression to make sense.
She was there to look after
him.
And she’d known about it while he hadn’t.
Hell, she’s bear.
She’d likely made it happen in the first place. He looked past her to Nick. “That’s not the plan.”
“It’s not,” Nick said easily. “But early yesterday, Mariska came to me with some compelling points. This rogue has been too active—too unpredictable. We need to catch him as soon as possible, and to do that we need to understand him as soon as possible—the contents of this bunker will allow us critical insight. So it would be best if you aren’t distracted by security issues while you’re tapping your healer’s perceptions at the new bunker.”
Hell, yes, she’d made this happen. She’d insinuated herself into this field op...she’d supplanted the one thing he could still offer to brevis. He couldn’t help his utterly flat voice, or the way it did nothing to disguise his anger.
Betrayal.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Whoa,” Ian said. “So can I, but I’m thinking this is a conversation I don’t need to be part of.”
“There is no
conversation,
” Nick said. He eyed Ruger, and if his gaze was still easy, it was also implacable. The decision had been made.