Page 46 of Choose the Bears

“And you didn’t go after him?” I snapped, fangs bared, reaching for Todd’s leather jacket, right before Rye stepped in front of him.

“You said you wanted to take care of the intruder personally.” Rye’s green eyes burned into mine. “We respected that, so don’t go thinking to take out your frustrations on my skulk mate.” I let out one long, shuddering breath. “But what’s more important is what is being done about your mate.” He glanced up at the building, the shadowy shapes in the stairwell catching our attention. “I hope she’s with you, because he made a real mess in her apartment. We can provide surveillance, but we can’t keep her safe, not here.”

“You won’t need to.”

I stepped away from all three of them, conscious I was burning through goodwill and carefully crafted alliances with little thought.

Because there wasn’t enough space in my heart for good sense, not when this need burned everything else up. I’d felt Imogen’s kisses on my skin, felt her breath fan across my lips, knew exactly how it would feel when she finally surrendered to the bond. I knew that would happen right down to my bones, but first? I glanced at the two police officers walking towards their car and recognised one of them.

First I needed to prove myself worthy of her.

Chapter 25

Imogen

I woke up blushing.

That dream… the way it ended. I’d had plenty of nightmares but never ones that finished like that. It took me a moment to recognise my surroundings, but when I did, I sighed. No dingy, stinky bedroom, no snoring Mike, just… peace. The pleasant styling of the room allowed me to take a full breath, right before I went to jump out of bed.

My wrist made clear what a mistake that was.

“Fuck… fuck…” I winced, staring down at the brace and then gingerly raised it up so it rested against my chest. The angle instantly improved things. I felt around for the sling and then put that on, my muscles finally able to relax. The bruising was still a dull throb but much more manageable.

I looked at the messy pile of my clothes on the floor and knew I wouldn’t be putting them back on. They were dirty for one, but also it was hard enough to get them off, let alone put them back on again. Instead, I got up and went to the loo, then when my stomach began to rumble, protesting the lack of dinner last night, I walked out.

This felt like shuffling down the hall of a hotel in my PJs, but it appeared I wasn’t the only one. Up ahead of me, a few women and a cluster of children were ushered into a room. I could smell coffee and that lured me onwards more surely than a siren’s song. I walked into the dining room to see a lot of people had the same idea.

Tired, worn faces and tentative smiles–I saw a lot of that as I scanned the room, but it was the black eye on one woman that had my eyes widening. She met my fleeting gaze head on, her head held high, so I jerked mine down. I wanted to apologise, but I didn’t know her, so instead I went to the coffee urn and began to pour myself a big mug.

“Mum, I don’t like this cereal.” The woman with the black eye’s daughter looked up at her, pleading for other options and I could see why. Generic boxes of cereal, jugs of milk, and some fruit were all that was on offer. “I like Froot Loops.”

“I know, sweetie, but?—”

“Froot Loops!” A little boy ran around in circles beside her, shouting his demands. “Froot Loops!”

“Honey, they don’t have?—”

I heard the tremble in the woman’s voice. Just a little shake, but it spoke louder than anything else anyone was saying. It told me the story of how she was trying to stay strong, but it was hard, really fucking hard. I couldn’t produce Froot Loops out of the air, but I felt I had to. Anything to help settle the kids, take that burden from their mother. She wanted that too, I could see it in the way she frantically looked around the room, trying to summon those sugary rings of dubious origin as if from thin air, but instead it was all Weet-Bix, Cornflakes, and muesli for fuck’s sake. My mind worked, wondering where I could get something a bit more kid friendly from.

And that’s when I remembered the kitchen I saw last night.

I walked in through the door, seeing gleaming stainless steel everywhere before I spied the big walk-in cool room. I yanked open the door to see not a lot, but there was some honey and eggs. In the pantry there was some flour, and that’s when inspiration hit.

“What about pancakes?” I asked, thrusting my head through the servery window and addressing the kids. “Would pancakes do?”

The woman pulled her kids closer, and they wrapped their arms around her legs. That was a defence mechanism if ever I saw one. By clustering close, they were at their strongest, but moments later, the little girl looked up at her mother.

“Can we have pancakes?”

“Oh, well, I’m not sure—” Mum started to say.

“I’m happy to make them if you want,” I told her, and when she met my eyes this time, it was with a completely different look. I saw the sadness and frustration there, but also gratitude. If it took buying a bit of peace, she’d let me make pancakes.

“Thank you. That’s very kind…”

“Imogen,” I replied. “I’m Imogen.”

“This is Kaleb and Ava,” she said, pointing to her children. “And I’m Hannah.”

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