Page 7 of Claimed By the Grumpy Shifter

But tonight, I'll stand guard at this window and watch over what's mine. Because that's what bears do. We protect what we love, even when they don't know they're loved yet.

The hours pass slowly. I see her moving around her apartment, a glimpse here and there through the windows. She eats dinner alone at a small table, reads a book curled up on her couch, moves through her evening routine with the kind of solitary contentment that speaks to someone who's used to being alone.

But she shouldn't be alone. She should have someone to cook for, someone to curl up with, someone to make her laugh and hold her when she's sad. She should have a family, babies to love and nurture with all that maternal instinct I saw when she held little Emma.

She should have me.

I don't know how this is going to work, don't know how I'm going to bridge the gap between what I am and what she needs. But I know I'm going to try.

Because for the first time in my life, I've found something worth fighting for that isn't about duty or orders or survival.

I've found home.

And I'm not letting it go.

Chapter 4 - Christine

I wake up thinking about amber eyes.

It's ridiculous. I barely know the man, but Marc Steel has somehow invaded my dreams, leaving me restless and aching in ways I don't quite understand. I lie in bed for a long moment, watching the morning light filter through my bedroom curtains, and try to convince myself that yesterday was just my imagination running wild.

But then I remember the way he looked at me, like I was something precious he wanted to protect and devour all at once, and my pulse starts racing all over again.

I roll over and check my phone. Six-thirty. I don't usually get up this early, but there's no point trying to go back to sleep when my mind is spinning like a hamster wheel. Besides, if I'm being honest with myself, there's a tiny part of me that hopes Marc might be an early riser too. That maybe I'll catch another glimpse of him through his window.

Which is pathetic. I'm pathetic.

But that doesn't stop me from taking extra care with my morning routine. I actually blow-dry my hair instead of letting it air-dry into its usual messy waves. I spend fifteen minutes debating between three different outfits before settling on a fitted blue sweater that brings out my eyes and jeans that make my legs look longer than they actually are. I even put on mascara and lip gloss, telling myself it's just good business practice to look professional.

It has nothing to do with the possibility of seeing my mysterious neighbor again.

Nothing at all.

By the time I make it downstairs to open the shop, I'm second-guessing every choice I've made. The sweater is too tight. It clings to my curves in a way that makes me self-conscious. The jeans are too casual. The lip gloss is too much. I look like I'm trying too hard, which I am, and Marc will probably take one look at me and realize I'm just another desperate small-town girl with unrealistic expectations.

I'm in the middle of this internal spiral when I unlock the front door and nearly walk straight into a wall of muscle.

"Oh!" I gasp, stumbling backward. "Marc! You scared me."

He's standing right outside my door, looking like he's been there for hours. He's wearing dark jeans and a charcoal henley that hugs his massive frame in ways that should be illegal, and his amber eyes are fixed on my face with that same intense stare that made me forget how to breathe yesterday.

"Sorry," he says, his voice still that rough gravel that does things to my nervous system. "I was hoping to catch you before you opened."

There's something almost predatory about the way he's positioned himself, blocking my exit, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe. Any other man and I might be nervous, but with Marc, I just feel... claimed. Like he has every right to be here, waiting for me.

Which is insane. He's my neighbor, not my boyfriend.

"You're up early," I manage, proud that my voice sounds mostly normal even though my heart is pounding faster.

"Couldn't sleep." His gaze travels over my face, taking in every detail with the kind of attention that makes me feel like the most fascinating person in the world. "You look beautiful this morning."

Heat floods my cheeks so fast I'm probably glowing. Men don't call me beautiful. Men barely notice me, period. But Marc says it like it's an undeniable fact, like the sky is blue and water is wet and Christine Parker is beautiful.

"Thank you," I whisper, then clear my throat and try again. "Thank you. Did you... did you need flowers for something?"

"Yeah." He steps aside so I can prop the door open. "I need to buy some flowers."

There's something odd about the way he says it, like he's not entirely sure what flowers are for. I glance at his hands. No wedding ring, no tan line where one used to be. Not flowers for a wife or girlfriend, then.

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