Lumberjack Werebear (Saw Bears Book 1) (3 page)

Kellen’s oversized hands slipped from her shoulders, and he looked back at her once as he walked back toward the men by the fire.

Whatever relaxed moment she’d found by the fire with those strangers, there was something much deeper going on here. Something she couldn’t fathom, nor would she ever. These men were different from anyone she’d ever met. It took a certain kind of person to live out in the middle of nowhere, away from civilization, and it had apparently taken its toll on all of them.

Kellen, Tagan, and her own instincts had all warned her off Connor, and now he was going to try and hurt Tagan for some notion of dibs on her. Brooke’s stomach lurched, and for a second, she thought she’d be sick right at the corner of 1010.

She was nobody’s dibs, and Kellen didn’t need to worry. As soon as dawn streaked the sky, she’d been speeding off in her Volvo.

Nothing, and no one, could make her stay.

Heart pounding, trying to get away. A scream trapped in her throat. Brooke slammed against the wall as the stranger’s palm connected with her cheek again. Whimpering. Was that from her? Scared, scared, scared.

“You stupid bitch. All you had to do was give me your purse.” Fetid breath. Soulless voice.

Couldn’t move. Crying. Tears burning tracks down her face. She was going to die in this stairwell. “I tried…” she whispered, desperate to explain. Purse wound around her arm. Couldn’t hand it over fast enough. Now she’d die for clumsiness. “Please don’t kill me.”

Laughter, empty and cruel. Echoing down the empty stairs. Rotted teeth showed in an empty smile. A slash of light reflecting off silver. The blade.

“Not gonna kill you, darlin’. Gonna mark you so you always remember the day you fucked with me.”

Pain, pain, pain.

“Nooo!” Brooke shot up in bed and fell over the edge. She couldn’t breathe, and the mark on her neck burned like hellfire. Where was she? It was dark. Too dark.

Blue eyes, reflecting like an animal’s in the dim light of the moon. Terror seized her throat, making it impossible to scream.

“Shhh,” Tagan said, falling to his knees beside her.

“Don’t touch me!” she sobbed, trying to fling his grip off her upper arms.

He didn’t let go. Instead, he drew her into his lap and held her tight.

“Don’t touch me,” she said again with less feeling.

“It’s okay. I’m here. No one is going to hurt you.”

A low wail left her lips as she clutched onto his T-shirt in the dark. Her tears were dampening the fabric, but she didn’t care. For the first time since she’d been attacked, the touch of a man didn’t frighten her. She didn’t even flinch when he lifted his hand to stroke her hair away from her face.

She squeezed her eyes tightly closed and allowed him to rock her gently until her heart felt like it was back in her chest. He smelled like soap and piney woods with an undercurrent of something rich and masculine. She didn’t deserve his comfort. She didn’t deserve anyone’s comfort.

Stupid fucking nightmare.

Every time it was the same.

Every time she had to relive the night that stripped everything from her.

When she opened her eyes again, they had adjusted to the minimal blue moonlight filtering in through the bedroom windows. Kellen crouched near her ankles, staring at her like he’d never seen a woman cry before. Denison and the rest of the crew, all but Connor, stood just inside the doorway, looking haunted.

“We thought someone was hurting you,” Tagan said, his voice a soft stroke against her ear.

How did she explain that someone
was
hurting her? All the time.

“She’s okay,” he told his crew. “Go on back to bed. I’ll watch her until she falls asleep.”

Kellen squeezed her ankle under her flannel pajama bottom pants and gave a sad smile. It should’ve felt too intimate coming from a stranger, but instead, a comforting warmth spread up her leg. Denison stepped forward and brushed his fingertips over her head, and the same warm tendrils flooded her, making her feel dizzy, like she’d taken a cheap shot of whiskey. The other men did the same, one by one.

“Why did they do that?” she asked when they had gone.

Tagan slid his arm under the crease behind her knees and lifted her onto the bed. “Because touch is important to us. You were hurt. None of them would’ve been able to sleep tonight if they didn’t reassure themselves you were okay.”

“It felt…”

A slight frown took Tagan’s face. “It felt like what?”

“Comforting.”

His eyebrows shot up, as if she’d caught him by surprise. Seconds ticked by as he studied her face—for what, she didn’t know. “I’m going to get you a drink of water, and then we should talk about what happened to you.”

Brooke lifted her chin and shook her head. “I don’t want to do that—”

“But you will, or that nightmare will follow you to the grave. Wait here.”

Panicked at the idea of sharing that night with anyone, she clutched the comforter and eyed the window. She could just leave. She could leave here and keep the hurt inside where it belonged.

Tagan returned, disrupting any thoughts of escape. He handed her a glass of water and turned to flip the switch on an old-fashioned sconce on the wall. The soft glow of a lightbulb bathed the room, and Brooke drew the covers over her lap like armor. No doubt her hair was a rumpled mess, and she was wearing the least attractive pajama set she’d ever laid eyes upon. It was the reason she’d bought it, so she could be invisible.

But here, in front of Tagan, with him studying her with that unsettling calmness about him, she wished she’d brought something cuter. He wore a thin, gray cotton T-shirt, still rumpled and tear-stained from her earlier meltdown. Black sweats were slung low across his tapered waist and his feet were bare as he drew one under him.

As she cradled the glass of cold water, he reached over and tugged at the bandage on her neck. The one she never removed unless she was switching it out for a new one.

She allowed it. God, she was actually going to let someone see the ugliest part of her. And not just someone, but Tagan, who felt…important.

She scrunched her face as the adhesive pulled at her skin.

“Brooke, why do you have a bandage over an injury that is healed?”

“Because it doesn’t feel healed.”

“It still hurts?”

“No.”

Tagan folded the bandage carefully and dropped his gaze. His motions were slow, calculated. “What happened?”

Tagan thought she was weak. She saw it when he’d helped rid her trailer of the mouse, and she could see it now. But she wanted to be stronger. She wanted his respect. Tilting her chin up and straightening her spine, she said, “I was mugged. He was caught. He went to jail for three months, and now he’s free. I left Boulder because I wanted to get better.”

He huffed air from his lungs and dragged his gaze to hers. His eyes were such a strange color. Blue and green and brown all at once. Churning, as if something she’d said had angered him. “That’s a nice, shortened version there, but that won’t help you deal with this, and it won’t help me understand.” He patted the bed and settled a pillow, then lay beside it, hands hooked behind his head. “I’ve got all night.”

With a long, steadying sigh, she lay beside him on the pillow he’d fluffed for her and stared at the sagging ceiling. “I was a painter. I had shows in galleries and made a living off my art. People wanted to be near me and speak with me about how I created and why. I had everything. Friends, a supportive family, a mentor who was with me every step of the way. My apartment wasn’t the nicest, but it was home, and soon, I was going to have enough money saved up to buy a condo I’d been eyeing. My life was perfect.”

“Nobody’s life is perfect.”

“Mine was.” She saw it now, that perfect life dancing just out of her reach. Days filled with outings to appease her creative side, and nights spent in her studio, working out everything she wanted to say with oils or acrylics. When she became too comfortable with one, she switched.

Stacks of blank canvases, waiting for her to put a story on them. Waiting to be hung in the galleries who were happy to provide space and good lighting for her when she had enough to sell. Champagne and pictures for local newspapers, and Meredith always there when her nerves got the best of her.

“I like to take the stairs instead of the elevator. Elevators have always scared me. Probably because when I was younger, my mom and I got stuck on one for a few hours. I was a creature of habit, always leaving around the same time to go to the gym or to go pick up food. A man stopped me and asked me for a light in one of the wells one night, but I didn’t think anything of it. I told him I didn’t smoke and went on my way. The next day, he was there again, but instead of a light, he wanted my purse this time.” Thickness clogged her throat as she thought about how mad the man had been when she fumbled. “I tried to hand my purse to him, but it was a small one with a wrist strap, and when it didn’t slide off, I yanked to try and loosen it. Only, it came out of the man’s hand instead. He hit me.” She pitched her voice to nothing but a whisper. “I thought he would kill me, but he only laughed when I pleaded with him not to. He gave me the mark because he wanted me to remember what he’d done and how helpless I really am. He made the mark with a pocket knife. I don’t wear the bandage because it hurts, Tagan. I wear it so I don’t see how pathetic I am in the mirror every day.”

“What’s his name?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Does to me.” His voice sounded grittier than she’d heard before, and when he spoke, the air in the room felt heavy, harder to breathe.

She wanted to give him what he demanded, really, but thinking about saying that monster’s name out loud felt like conjuring the devil himself. “I can’t.”

His body went rigid beside her. “You aren’t pathetic, Brooke. And you aren’t weak.”

“You thought I was. I could tell when you saw me scream at that mouse.”

“I was wrong. You’re maybe the bravest woman I’ve ever met.”

Those words. Oh, what they did to her heart. A layer of loneliness slipped from her, making her feel raw and exposed, but hopeful, too.

“What happened to your paintings?” He rested his arm by her side and squeezed her hand gently with his.

Flutters filled her stomach as he left his warm hand on top of hers. The callouses on his palm rubbed against the smoothness of her hand. They really were from two different worlds, but everything in her sang that Tagan knew heartache, too. He was a kindred spirit who would understand, if only she could be brave enough to explain.

“I can’t paint anymore. Every time I try, it comes out dark. Different. Unsellable. The bright parts of me that created before were snuffed out. I guess…I guess I came out here because I thought I could connect to the outdoors and find my muse again.”

“You drew starscapes.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.

“Yes.”

“Put your jacket on.” He sat up and scrubbed both hands down his face. His hair was still mussed from sleep, but when he looked back at her, his expression wasn’t tired. It was kind. Her fingers twitched for the warmth he’d taken with him when he’d let go of her hand, but in this moment, she knew exactly what Tagan was.

He was a friend. He was a decent person. And he was a good man.

And as scary as it was to trust someone with her darkest secrets, he wasn’t running. This perfect stranger was offering her sanctuary she hadn’t known existed.

Five minutes later, teeth brushed, jeans and sweater on, jacket folded over her arm, Brooke waited on her porch for Tagan. She hadn’t known which trailer he lived in, but one across the road and two down had the light on. When Tagan ducked under the front door and smiled at her, all doubt was erased. A strange zing of excitement traveled up her spine that he lived so close.

With a silent twitch of his chin, he gestured her to follow. She jogged to catch him, pulling on her jacket as she ran. It was still winter, but on the cusp of spring, and even though the days were warm, the nights had a chill that bit right through those trailer walls. She’d been sleeping with the window unit heater blasting and still hadn’t managed to keep the gooseflesh off her calves.

The light from the park disappeared as Tagan opened a gate for her and waited for her to pass.

“It’s so dark,” she whispered, afraid to wake the others. If she could hear every word through the walls of her rental, surely they could, too.

“I figured you’d have trouble seeing,” Tagan said, handing her a cold, black cylinder. “Here.”

Brooke clicked on the flashlight and pointed it toward the ground. “And you don’t have trouble seeing in the dark?”

A simple “no” sounded over his broad shoulder before he marched off at a grueling pace.

The trail wound this way and that like some giant serpent through the trees. The smell of pine was fragrant, and the sound of forest birds soft in the distance. Gentle wind rocked the branches in the evergreen canopy over their heads, and the pine needles made swishing sounds as she walked across them.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, desperate to fill the silence. The dark had frightened her as a child, and out here in the middle of nowhere, those fears crept back.

“You’ll see.”

She halted. “I don’t know about this. I think we should go back. It’s the middle of the night.”

“You scared?” he asked. It wasn’t a taunt. She could tell when he turned around. In the illumination of the flashlight, his expression only held concern.

Embarrassed, and afraid her voice would shake, she nodded her head.

“Of me?”

“No.” She frowned. By all accounts, she had every right to be afraid of him. She’d only met him yesterday and was in the woods with him, in complete darkness, and no one knew where she was. But for whatever reason, instinctual perhaps, Tagan didn’t feel like a threat to her. Instead, he made her feel…safe.

He approached slowly arms extended, but didn’t touch her, as if he were trying to calm a frightened animal. “It’s five minutes more hiking, and we’ll be there. You shared something big with me tonight, and I know that was hard. I’m sharing something of mine, too.”