Page 72 of Grin and Bear It

“Your natural authority. The way you command attention without trying.” He blocked her roundhouse kick and countered with a sweep she barely evaded. “The slight regal tilt of your head when someone annoys you.”

“I don’t tilt my head,” she protested, launching a combination that drove him back a step.

His smile widened. “You’re doing it right now.”

Thora realized with dismay that she had indeed tilted her chin upward in unconscious hauteur. She used his momentary amusement to sweep his legs, but he recovered faster than expected, rolling away from her follow-up and regaining his footing in one fluid motion.

“They confirmed everything,” she admitted as they circled again. “Showed me pictures of my mother with the same birthmark as mine. Gave me a magical pendant that apparently recognizes Tiikeri blood.”

“How do you feel about it?” His question came without judgment, simply genuine interest.

The sincerity in his tone disarmed her more effectively than any physical technique. “Overwhelmed. Confused. Like I’ve spent my whole life thinking I was a stray only to discover I’m supposed to be some kind of pedigreed show cat.”

He laughed at her analogy, the sound warming something inside her. “You’re definitely not a show cat. Too many battle scars.”

“Thanks for that assessment.” She feinted left, then struck right, nearly catching him off guard.

“It was a compliment,” he clarified, blocking her follow-up punch. “Show cats are pampered, decorative. You’re...”

“I’m what?” she challenged when he hesitated.

His eyes held hers with sudden intensity. “Magnificent. Wild. Real.”

The unexpected praise threw her more than any physical strike could have. Her sabertooth preened under his appreciation, a purr building in her chest that she hastily suppressed.

They grappled for advantage, bodies pressed together in a dance of strength and technique. His scent enveloped her—pine and honey and male musk—triggering a response she couldn’t control. With each point of contact, her skin warmed, her pulse quickened. Training with Artair had always affected her, but something about today—the emotional upheaval, the discovery of her heritage, his steady presence throughout—magnified every sensation.

With a surge of determination, Thora executed a complex twist that used his momentum against him. She pinned Artair to the mat, straddling his hips with her thighs while her hands pressed his wrists above his head.

“I win,” she declared, triumph surging through her veins.

But victory felt hollow when his body shifted beneath hers, the hard evidence of his arousal pressing against her core. Their ragged breathing synced, chests rising and falling in unison as awareness crackled between them.

“Have you?” he murmured, making no attempt to break her hold despite the fact that his bear strength could easily overpower her.

The question hung between them, loaded with meaning beyond their sparring match. Thora became acutely aware of every point of contact—her thighs bracketing his hips, her hands circling his wrists, the heat radiating where their bodies pressed together.

She should move. Should reassert boundaries. Should remember all the reasons entanglement was dangerous.

Instead, she found herself lowering her face toward his until their breath mingled.

“Tell me to stop,” she whispered, offering him the out she couldn’t give herself.

His response was to lift his head, closing the final distance. Their lips met in a kiss unlike their previous ones—no hesitation, no careful exploration. This was hunger unleashed, months of tension finally snapping.

SIXTY-FOUR

Artair broke free of her loosened grip, his hands coming up to tangle in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss. The taste of him—honey-sweet with an underlying wildness—sent heat spiraling through her core. She rocked against him instinctively, drawing a growl from deep in his chest that vibrated against her lips.

Her sabertooth stretched and purred, recognizing his bear as worthy—strong enough to match her, powerful enough to challenge her, gentle enough to treasure her.

In one fluid move, he flipped their positions, pressing her into the mat with delicious weight. His mouth traveled from her lips to her throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin where her pulse hammered.

“The gym—” she gasped as his hand slipped under her tank top.

“Private facility,” he murmured against her collarbone. “Security override engaged when we started sparring.”

The fact that he’d anticipated this—had wanted this as badly as she did—sent another rush of heat between her thighs. She arched into his touch as his palm cupped her breast, thumb circling the sensitive peak through thin fabric.

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