Kodiak Chained Page 2

  That did it. They hauled their friend to his feet, brushed him off and dragged him away. One of the women offered a thumbs-up and said, loud enough to be heard over the distance between them, “He’s always an asshole at these things.”

  “Could have been worse,” Ruger said, but his eyes were on the lady bear, and the lurking humor in her eye. Not for a moment discomfited; not for a moment concerned. “Someone could have gotten broken.”

  They laughed and moved on, not quite taking him seriously. The lady bear did, eyeing him for a long moment, a smile in the corners of her dark eyes. “Mariska Banks,” she told him, and the humor took on a certain gleam. Invitation.

  “Ruger James,” he said, and did the little whisky a grave injustice by tossing it back. “But you knew that.”

  “My place?” she asked.

  Sweet cinnamon bear, full of humor and fire and strength. “Anyplace you like,” he said, rumbling low.

  She didn’t respond as she headed toward the parking lot, a ragged asphalt patch crammed full of cars in what had become true dusk. She looked over her shoulder, found him watching her, and smiled—and she didn’t wait. Not playing games, just a matter-of-fact check yes or no.

  Ruger took a deep breath of the night air, found it scented with leftover heat and sage and creosote. It tasted like anticipation. The hair of his nape bristled, a tingle on his skin.

  He followed her.

  Through the musicians, past the collection of Celtic dog breeds on display, past the sheep and even a few Highland cattle. By the time they reached the parking lot, he’d caught up; by the time they walked to the unlit far end where Ruger had parked, evening had found its way into nightfall.

  The guy’s friends probably thought they couldn’t be seen in the dark, with their semicircle blocking the way to Ruger’s short-bed Hemi. Sentinel night vision tinged the men blue, but left them crystal clear—along with the crowbar, the baseball bat and the tire iron.

  “We thought about it,” one of them said as Ruger and Mariska stopped, backlit by the fair. “And we decided it was a big deal after all.”

  Ruger exchanged a glance with Mariska. “This time,” he said, “we share.”

  * * *

  Mariska jammed her key in the lock of the small house, her brevis accommodations for this Tucson assignment. Like all Sentinel temp homes, it sat right where the city abruptly gave way to desert: a place where a bear—or wolf or javelina or big cat—could roam.

  Ruger stood up close against her back, one arm reaching over her shoulder and propped against the stucco house, his breath stirring her hair and his presence stirring her body.

  He’d fought with her. Beside her. He’d known her strength; he’d trusted her training. And he’d embraced it, not grown wary with it.

  After a lifetime of feeling too bold, too strong, too much, Mariska quite suddenly didn’t quite feel alone anymore.

  The brush of his body warmed her from the inside—a ruffled feeling that trilled down her nape and tickled along her skin, gathering heat low in her belly, tightening down along the backs of her thighs. Greedy and unabashed.

  Because now she knew—it would end soon enough. She hadn’t intended it when she’d come here; she’d imagined herself needed—wanted—in the field beside him. She’d had only to meet him to understand how personally he’d take her presence—to sense the pride of him.

  Maybe he’d understand. Maybe he’d see it had nothing to do with her respect for him—the famous Southwest healer of both brawn and compassion—and everything to do with what she wanted from life, and a little bit about what he deserved.

  In any event, it hadn’t been hard this morning to convince Nick Carter to send her out as Ruger’s backup on the coming field op. He hadn’t been proven in the field since the Flagstaff ambush; they couldn’t risk him.

  Not that they ever should have been asking so much of him in the first place.

  And it was an opportunity—a chance she’d never been afforded on her home turf, where too many had seen her grow up and still thought of her as little Mariska.

  The bear in her went after what it wanted.

  What she wanted now was one night when it didn’t matter that she was strong and practical, exotic but not beautiful. Different. She was the one the men approached out of curiosity and not because of any true interest; she was the one who looked short and stumpy next to the sleek Sentinel women who shifted to big cat form, the one who embarrassed even Sentinel men with her strength, never mind her vigorous nature in intimacy.

  No little wonder she’d come looking for this singular man—the man she’d watched and admired and come to know through reports. A man who would be her physical match, and whose underlying nature might just match hers. If nothing else...just for tonight.

  Tomorrow, everything would change. He wouldn’t tolerate what she’d done for the sake of her place in this brevis. No bear would.

  As soon as she twisted the doorknob, he pushed the door open—looming over her in a way that made her feel not threatened or crowded, but claimed. And when he moved forward, she pushed back—contact enough to strengthen the lure when she did move away.

  She laughed when he growled an undertone of response. “Ruger,” she said, trying out the taste of his name, and tossed the house keys onto the low bowl shelf by the entry.

  He pushed the door shut and took her shoulders from behind—an aggressive move not so different from that of the man at the festival. But for Ruger she turned easily, fluidly, enjoying the strength in his hands and the assumption in his touch. She drank in the sight of him, too-wiry sable hair just long enough to grip when the moment called for it, beard trimmed closely enough to guess the shape of his jaw, and no need to wonder about pale brown eyes or strong brow and cheek, the full shape of his mouth. No need to wonder about the breadth of his shoulders, well above hers, or that bit of hair peeking out at the unbuttoned neckline of his shirt.

  She ran her hands across the rough nap of the material, absorbing the warmth beneath, the plane of muscle—the hint of nipple.

  He inhaled sharply. “Whatever you want of this night, tell me—” he took a deep breath, let it out “—now,” he said. “Tell me now.” While I can still think. The unspoken sounded clearly enough.

  She didn’t hesitate. “What I want is tonight. All of it.”

  He looked at her long enough to make her doubt—to hold her breath as he searched her gaze. And then he brought his hands up to cup her jaw, tangling his fingers in her hair, tipping her head up to take her mouth in no uncertain terms. No shy attempt to get acquainted, no hesitant questions. He brought her into it strong and hard, holding her right where he wanted her as he slanted his head for a deeper connection.

  It took her no time at all to grab him back, hands skimming his ribs, finding his flanks and kneading hard to pull him up against her. She was too short; he was too tall. It didn’t particularly seem to matter. She felt his response all the same, and she stood on her toes to reach his kiss, full of bursting internal exclamations and enthusiasm. When they broke apart to breathe, she tipped her head back and laughed for the pure exhilaration of it.

  “Hell, yes,” she told him, and kicked off her leather walking flats, flipping the snap on her pants even as he came back for her, leaving barely enough room for her hands at his zipper, fingers on automatic as she drank up the scent, the touch, the very presence of him—kissing hard and strong and deep, her hair and her nerves already mussed beyond all redemption by his stroking hands.

  She stepped out of her pants, right there in her foyer—no lights necessary, with her night vision showing perfect detail. She reached for the jeans now hanging low on his ass—and for the first time he startled her, both with the low and demanding noise in his throat and with his hands as they slid away from her hair, her shoulders, coming to rest at her waist—picking her right up off the floor with no effort at all to flip her around.

  She found her balance with her hands braced against the half wall bet
ween the foyer and the great room, and she understood right away. Even in the thrill of it—the strength of him, the anticipation—she whirled back around. “No,” she protested. “I want to touch—”

  Just like that, she was facing the wall again, his body pressing against her—but he leaned down, the side of his head against hers, the stiff brush of his beard against her jaw and her hair tangling between them. “Next time,” he said, and quivered up against her, restraint in the hands that tightened at her hips and the sudden gust of breath in her ear. And then he waited, no more than a heartbeat—a space for protest.

  Next time.

  “Hell, yes,” she said, bracing her arms against that wall.

  “Protected?” he asked. Sentinels were, as a matter of course—those who couldn’t ward themselves had it done for them.

  His hands ran over her belly, up to her breasts, learning them, kneading them—lightly at first, until she arched into his hand and said, “Hell, yes.”

  His arm crossed her chest—supporting her, continuing to play her breast; the other dropped back to her belly—splayed there a moment, pressing them together while Mariska tipped her head back and hummed, a low and uninhibited sound. A bear sound. Her legs parted and he took full advantage, cupping her; she cried out in surprise at the sudden rush of pleasure and heat, and again as his fingers pressed into her.

  “Ready?” he asked, and this time his voice came strangled, the tremble of him surrounding her.

  “Hell—” she breathed, and got no further, for he lifted her hips and found his way home, his exclamation of surprised pleasure in her ear, his legs stiffening until he found his balance again.

  “—yes,” she whispered, wanting so badly to touch him in return—but her arms knew better, absorbing the increased weight while she held her breath in expectation, waiting to feel the fullness and size of him in motion.

  Except he just stayed there—holding her, fingers tightening around her body, his breath a convulsive gasp in her ear—while she finally realized he was grasping for control.

  Who the hell wanted control?

  She squirmed.

  He growled, holding her tightly—so tightly, his head pressed to hers and his hips suddenly plunged against her.

  Except he somehow had the wherewithal to grab back control—he played with her, little thrusting increments of sensation. She gasped in outrage and then at the spiraling, clawing sensation, drawing on the nerves from her spine to her tightly curled toes. And she gasped in delight—at the understanding that she was claimed, that she was in the hands of the strength and power she craved.

  With a cry, she pushed back at him, squirming inside and out. And yes, he made a harsh, startled noise, a fierce noise—a sound of wrenching pleasure as he lost control again and pounded into her without restraint. Her own delighted whimper rose in volume as her feet came right off the floor and hooked around his legs and—

  Oh, hell, YES—

  He caught her as she stiffened and trembled—and then he shouted as if the moment took him completely by surprise. His knees gave way, and there they were on the floor while she sat back in his lap, clinging weakly to the half wall.

  As the aftershocks of hellaciously superb sex faded away and Mariska’s stunned fog of pleasure eased, a short laugh snorted its way out. She clapped a hand over her mouth, sagging precariously close to the wall, but couldn’t help it; she did it again. And of course he felt it—the clench of her internal movement around him, her slipping position.

  He pulled her upright, finger-combing the hair away from her face as he tucked his mouth in beside her ear again, and this time his voice was a growl. “What?”

  “Just—” she said, and waved her hand at them, at the wall, at the foyer littered with her clothes and her shirt somehow hanging open and her breasts free. “Just—” she tried again, and gave it up and laughed right out loud.

  She felt him relax slightly. “Lady bear,” he said, and nipped at her ear.

  “Does that make you a gentleman bear?” she asked, twisting to look back at him, his face so close to hers.

  He offered a wry smile from within that beard. “Not for a long, long time.”

  “About tomorrow—” she said, not having planned it in the least.

  But he shook his head. “Tonight,” he told her, “is always. No matter what happens tomorrow.”

  Her heart clenched, much as her body had clenched only moments earlier. “An always night,” she whispered. No matter tomorrow.

  * * *

  Eventually they got past the foyer. Not before Ruger spread his shirt on the rough textured paint of the half wall, set her on it, and provided what she’d clearly wanted the first time—the chance to fondle and stroke.

  He’d meant for things to go slower, then—a chance to admire the sturdy bones of her, to marvel that he hadn’t worried about crushing her or frightening her, and the certainty that she’d been able to brace herself against that wall no matter how he pounded into her. A chance to run his hands over full hips and full breasts and her curvy, flat and tight waist, and to marvel at her perfect proportions. Not tall, not long and lean and slender, not any of the things that so many men ogled.

  But all the things that Ruger ogled.

  And it didn’t go slow at all.

  So eventually they made it past the foyer...but only as far as the sprawling couch, where they finally fell asleep. She, sated and lightly snoring...he, completely smitten.

  But when he woke in the morning, covered only by a soft cotton blanket that had slipped down far enough to threaten modesty, the light streamed in the windows of the airy Southwest home and Mariska the lady bear was gone.

  Chapter 2

  That she’d left didn’t surprise Ruger. She was on assignment today; she’d only ever asked for the night. She, like all of his kind, was clearly wont to an independent nature, not needy on the morning after.

  Besides, she’d left him out some tea makings and a protein shake.

  Ruger didn’t bother to head for home—a tidy little trailer in the foothills of the Catalinas. He dug out the little overnighter kit from his truck’s half-cab storage, brushed his teeth, and helped himself to a quick shower, relieved at the neutral scents of her soap and shampoo.

  But the shower did nothing to clear his head; his senses reeled in the aftermath of Mariska—and in the surreal but inescapable fact that he was about to report for field duty without his healing skills. He stared at the lightly fogged mirror and felt as though he saw someone who had been, not someone who was. Strong in body once more, a man more big than beefy or hulking, a man with strength in arms and torso and defined muscle all the way down to the towel that draped his hips.

  But still only part of what he’d been.

  He tugged on his shirt, stepped into his pants, grabbed the protein shake, and headed out to the truck with the heat of the early morning soaking into his shoulders. Thinking changes and forward as he started up the truck. Maybe that was why he pulled into the barbershop when he saw it. When he stepped out, his hair was only a smidge more crisp around the edges—but his bared cheeks sensed the slightest breeze, and that untanned skin tingled in the sun.

  As if facing the world without a beard for the first time in his adult life would distract him from things still missing.

  He still had his knowledge. His herbs and creams and brews. But those would no longer be infused with the healing energies—and they hadn’t ever been the reason for his demand in the field.

  Not to mention that brevis liked a healer who could look after himself. Counted on Ruger to do so, instead of using their depleted manpower. Until Flagstaff, when he’d walked into that Atrum Core ambush just like the rest of his team. Then when Core D’oíche had hit not so long afterward, he hadn’t been there to help the wounded.

  So damned many wounded.

  But he shouldn’t be thinking about that now. Now was about forward. First stop, Brevis HQ, where he’d join the briefing on his new assignment in Arizo
na’s high timber region, following up on whatever Maks Altán had uncovered.

  Brevis itself hid in a deceptive handful of stories on the edge of Old Town Tucson, where the building foundation dug down deep into caliche to hide invisible subterranean floors below. Apartments and offices and meeting rooms above; medical, the amulet lab and so much of their archived history below. A complete and tidy headquarters for a race of earthbound sentinels unknown to the world at large.

  Ruger parked the pickup in his assigned slot and headed for the high conference room outside Nick Carter’s corner office—a room draped with local plantings and replete with the astringent scents of the desert. Ruger pretty much knew what he’d find there—the vast window, the carpet thick underneath and the conference table holding a bottomless pot of herbal tea. Businesslike and still welcoming.

  He’d find Carter and possibly Jet, the wolf who’d discovered her human side through Atrum Core experiments, as well as the other members of his team—all new to him, he suspected. He was ready for that.

  He wasn’t ready to open the big wood door and find Mariska sitting at that table, her expression more of a wince than a welcome, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of his newly shaved face.

  He might not have known she’d be on his team, but...

  She’d known. He could see it on her face. She’d known, and she hadn’t said anything. And he couldn’t think of any reason why not.

  At least, not any good reason.

  He gave her a wary nod, yanking out a chair at the end of the table—the one he always took, not because of any stupid alpha game, but because in a room of men made big by their Sentinel nature, Ruger stood the largest...and took the most leg room while he was at it.