Page 7 of Falling for My Shifter Guardian

My eyes linger on him as he works—the way his brow furrows in concentration, the way his strong jaw tightens ever so slightly, like he’s holding something back. My gaze drifts lower, taking in his broad shoulders that seem to fill the entire space around us, the way his forearms flex with every precise movement of his hands. Those hands—rough and calloused from years of labor and battle—move over my skin with a gentleness that feels almost reverent.

“You’re good at this,” I say softly, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He shrugs, his steel-gray eyes flicking to mine for just a second before returning to his work. “Comes with the territory.”

“What territory?” I ask, trying to steady my breathing. “Being a human first aid kit?”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face, but when his eyes meet mine again, the humor is gone, replaced by something deeper. Something that makes my heart stutter and my breath hitch. “Being someone who cares,” he says, his voice low and steady.

The words land with a weight I’m not prepared for. His gaze holds mine, and I can’t look away. There’s something raw, almost vulnerable, in his expression—and it makes my chest tighten, my pulse quicken. The air between us feels charged, and I’m acutely aware of every point of contact between his hands and my skin.

He finishes wrapping the bandage around my hand, his fingers brushing against mine as he secures it with a piece of tape. The touch is fleeting, but it’s enough to send a spark racing up my arm. “There,” he says, his voice rougher now, like he’s fighting to maintain control. “You’re good to go.”

But he doesn’t move away immediately. Instead, he shifts just slightly, his nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly, as if he’s catching a scent in the air. My cheeks flush as I realize what it could be—what he could be smelling. My body betrays me, my breathing uneven, my skin tingling where his hands had been. His gaze lingers on me for just a fraction of a second longer than it should, and I swear his shoulders tense, as if he’s holding himself back.

I swallow hard, the room suddenly feeling too warm, too small. “Thanks,” I manage to say, the word barely audible. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

He grabs the broom from the corner of the kitchen and begins sweeping up the broken mug with swift, practiced movements. “I told you—I made a promise.”

“To my dad,” I say again, my back pressing against the counter for support. “Is that the only reason you’re always taking care of me?”

He freezes mid-sweep, the broom still in his hand. The silence stretches, heavy and taut, as though the air itself is holding its breath. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost too quiet to hear. “You know why.”

My brow furrows. “No, I don’t. That’s the problem. You’re always there when I need you, but then you pull away. It’s… confusing.”

He straightens, turning to face me, his steel-gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. His expression is guarded, his jaw tight, as though he’s holding something back—something heavy, something important. “Olivia…”

He doesn’t say more, but the weight of my name on his lips feels like a confession. For a fleeting moment, I think he might finally tell me, finally let me in. His eyes soften, a crack in his armor, and I hold my breath.

But then, just as quickly, the shutters come down. He shakes his head, stepping back. “I should go,” he says abruptly, finishing the task of sweeping the shards into the dustpan. His movements are mechanical now, his voice distant. “I’ll take this out on my way.”

“Derek—” My voice is barely above a whisper, a plea I’m not sure I want him to hear.

“Goodnight, Olivia,” he says, his tone soft but unyielding, leaving no room for argument. Without another glance, he turns and walks away, the sound of the door closing behind him echoing in the now-empty room.

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me standing in the middle of my kitchen with a bandaged hand and a head full of questions.

I sink into one of the chairs at the table, staring at the now-empty doorway. How can someone take such good care of me and still keep me at arm’s length? How can he make me feel so safe and so unsure at the same time?

I don’t have the answers. All I know is that Derek Mercer is a puzzle I’m not sure I’ll ever figure out.

But damn if I don’t want to try.

Chapter 4

Olivia

The night air bites at my skin as I step out of the diner, pulling my jacket tighter around me. It’s late—too late—and Whispering Pines is eerily quiet, the streets deserted except for the occasional flicker of a dying streetlamp. My feet ache from hours on the floor, and all I want is to get home, kick off my shoes, and drown the day in a pint of chocolate ice cream. The silence should be comforting, but it isn’t. Not tonight.

I glance over my shoulder, the feeling of being watched crawling up my spine. Stop it, Olivia. You’re just tired… and maybe letting Ben’s paranoia get to you. That thought makes me wince. Lately, everything about him feels off—his constant warnings about danger, his sharp comments about my choices, his possessiveness.

I shake off the thought and take the shortcut through the park. It’s not my usual route home, but my bed is calling, and the shadowy trees don’t seem so threatening when the alternative is walking an extra ten minutes. I tell myself it’s fine. Whispering Pines isn’t exactly a hotbed of crime.

Except, the moment I step into the woods, something feels… wrong.

The air here is heavier, cooler. The pines rise like dark pillars around me, their branches whispering with the wind. My boots crunch against the dirt path, the sound too loud in the stillness.

Then I hear it.

---