Tracked by the Bear
Page 1
Tracked by the Bear
An MC Shifter Romance
Table of Contents
Tracked by the Bear
Copyright
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Stalk me...
Also by Adele Niles
Copyright
First Edition, October 2019
Copyright © 2019 by Adele Niles
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and situations are the product of the author's imagination.
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent from the author.
License
This book is available exclusively on Amazon.com. If you found this book for free or from a site other than an Amazon.com country specific website it means the author was not compensated for this book and you have likely obtained this book through an unapproved distribution channel.
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About This Book
Tracked by the Bear
All I want is to escape the city and focus on my art.
No distractions and no drama.
Maiden’s Fork is nothing like the city. It’s secluded, wooded and far from the city lights, but there are distractions everywhere.
They come in the form of big, strong, tattooed and over the top alpha men on motorcycles and rumors.
Rumors of strange things that happen in the woods. Things that make a girl curious.
The moment I get too close I know it’s too late and that the rumors are true.
He’s tracking me and I want to be caught.
Tracked by the Bear is an MC Shifter Romance with plenty of heat and over the top alpha love. This shifter book is safe, with no cheating and a HEA that will have you baying for more!
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Chapter 1
Belinda
It begins as a low rumble, like distant thunder. I stand at the upstairs window of my new mountaintop home and look over the trees.
The rumble grows to a primal growl. Then it builds to a visceral roar that blankets my body. My being. It stirs longing in my loins.
The sound sucks the air from my lungs and pulls my soul toward it. I lean out the window to drink in the booming, throbbing blasts—
When it passes and dies away.
I shake my head. What’s wrong with me? Am I that lonely, that bored, that I’m ready to jump out of a window at a sound of life in these forsaken woods?
Yes.
I feel this is one of the few noises of civilization I’ve heard since we left the city.
Then another sound of civilization comes to my ears: my mother’s voice.
“Belinda! I know it’s beautiful out there and I could stand and look out the window all day, too, but do you think you could come help me unpack?”
I turn around. “I know. I can’t stop staring.”
She smiles at me. “Welcome to your new home.”
I pick up a random box and start tearing at the top. When I had told mom I was moving away she decided to come with me. Actually, she insisted. As much as I wanted to live on my own, far away from everyone and everything, she wasn’t taking no for an answer.
When she offered to help pay for the move, I decided it was a good idea, even though Mom and I don’t always get along or see eye to eye.
My mother walks over to me with a boxcutter, moves my hands out of the way, and skillfully opens the box. “Like this, Belinda.”
“Mom, I have it. I agreed you could move out here with me if you’d stop trying to control everything.”
“Honey, you need to give this a chance. We just got here. It takes time.”
“Oh, yeah? Like you gave Daddy a chance?”
My mother’s hands stop. She looks at me with so much pain in her eyes, I’m immediately sorry I said the hurtful words. But I can’t seem to apologize. My anger is too great.
My mother looks down, but then inhales and looks back up into my eyes.
“I did give your father a chance, Belinda. I gave him many chances. But his desire for other women was stronger than his desire for a home.”
She picks up my hand where it rests on the packed box. “He didn’t just cheat on me, Belinda. He cheated on us. The best thing was to get out of the city. Out of the place where every street holds a memory. Out of that cesspit where every person in your circle knows the worst about you.”
“Those people are my friends.” I jerk my hand free of hers. “Why do you always have to think the worst of people? Sometimes people are there to offer help and support.”
She doesn’t answer me, just shakes her head sadly.
My own words have brought down a wave of loneliness and despair. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
I storm out of the room, grabbing my messenger bag off my bed and my keys off my bureau. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. A curvy young college grad with long black hair and big brown eyes—I used to be popular and social. But now my image shows hair knotted in a long braid on a sun-browned girl wearing a plaid overshirt, blue jeans, and running shoes already ruined by the rotting forest floor.
I march down the wooden steps of the beautifully restored stone house my mother managed to purchase with her generous divorce settlement. I have to admire her taste. This house is magnificent. But right now, it feels more like a cage than a home. Had I moved out here alone I would have picked a small, quaint apartment somewhere.
And I want out of my cage. I want out now.
* * * * *
I jump in my Jeep. It’s a gift from my mother, probably in compensation for some guilt. She’s been too generous since the divorce.
I drive carefully down the narrow, winding mountain road. My mind flashes back to my father teaching me to drive and his warnings about riding the brakes and taking turns too fast. He was so patient. So caring. I feel a stab of pain in my heart. Was my mother right? Did he leave me as well as her? Somehow, I know there is more to the story than that. But the way things stand right now, with no communication and all the hurt feelings, I just have to wait and hope someday I learn the truth.
In the meantime, I guess, I’m stuck right here.
I make the last turn that breaks through the trees and dumps me onto a street in the tiny downtown of the place I now call home: Maiden’s Fork.
As I drive down the larger of the two streets that make
up the settlement, I draw looks from the few locals who have also come down out of the mountains for the day.
I drive past an old Dutch church with boarded-up windows that seems to have been repurposed given the many tire marks in its dirt lot, but the boards keep it from being picturesque enough to be worth photographing.
My camera is in my messenger bag, as always, because in my former life—as I now have to think of it—I was a photographer, and a fairly good one. I managed to sell a few coffee-table books featuring photos of unusual New York City architecture, but as far as I can tell, no architect has ever set foot in this part of the world. So if I am going to continue with my chosen career, I’m going to have to find other subject matter.
I look around. There doesn’t seem to be much of interest in Maiden’s Fork. It’s enough of an address to get us political flyers in our post office box at the general store, but that’s not saying much.
Besides the general store, there are a couple of bars to keep the locals from going stir-crazy, and a restaurant that advertises burgers, steaks, and of course beer.
The fanciest establishment is a pizza parlor—which apparently does enough business to support a flashing sign—but it certainly isn’t unique enough to grace a book on anyone’s coffee table.
A movie theatre near the church looks like it might have been built in the nineteen thirties, which would make it interesting if it had been restored or at least kept up. Unfortunately, it looks like it’s been used for bathroom trysts as much as a feature films, and the splintered glass marquee advertises last-season’s bomb.
There’s a bus depot for an interstate bus line, which certainly makes sense. What I can’t understand is why there aren’t more people lined up to get on the bus out of town.
I park the Jeep on the side of the road and clamber out. Looking first one way and then the other, I wonder if it’s worth my time to grab my camera and march up and down the street. Perhaps I could take a few close-up shots? But the idea doesn’t appeal to me.
I’m about to give up and go for a walk in the woods to see if there’s anything more interesting in there than bear shit and trees when I hear a faint rumbling again.
It’s the same sound I heard this morning.
It seems to be drawing me in.
I quickly set up my camera for action shots rather than stills. Whatever the origins of this disturbance, I want to capture it.
I walk down the main street toward the sound. I have to turn into an alley to get nearer the source. I walk close to the walls of the building that line the alley and decide with each step whether or not I’ll take the next. But the sound is getting louder.
I look up to see a steeple rising on my left, and realize I am coming up on the old boarded up Dutch church I passed on my drive here. I press against the filthy walls of the alley to edge around the corner to where the sound is the loudest.
Rough looking men come out of the back door of the church. They head toward a bank of motorcycles in the back lot. Other men are already sitting on bikes and revving their motors.
My heart beats hard as I watch the scene unfold.
The men are clad in leather and have cut-away jean jackets on their backs. The jean jackets have identical patches with the letters URSA MC. An enormous black bear is emblazoned in the center of the letters, fully upright, with hideous claws extended and its giant jaws opened in a roar.
The men themselves are no less scary. They are huge, muscled, and tattooed on their arms, necks, and faces. Some have rippling long hair and beards thick enough to confound any facial recognition. Others have clean shaven heads that offer canvases for lightning, dagger, and skull and crossbones tattoos. Chains dangle from piercings and scars run across faces and chests.
I find myself trembling, but the camera in my hands is demanding its due. Common sense tells me this crew will not appreciate my photography. Yet I can’t help myself. The scene before me is mesmerizing.
I make sure my shutter is on silent. I raise my camera to my eye.
Just as I’m about to take a picture, the best-looking man I’ve ever seen steps out on the top step of the church and stands in a wide straddle stance to survey the crew assembled before him.
He holds his hands in fists by his bulging thighs. His broad torso casts a black shadow on the church door. His beard is cropped short in deliberate design, and his thick blond hair curls and waves like that of a Viking warrior. He scans the lot and his thick eyebrows furrow. Those eyes move in my direction. I see a flash of deep blue as he glances past the corner where I cower.
My finger is frozen on the button that could capture this magnificence for all time.
Suddenly, he throws back his head. I think he’s about to speak, but instead, he sniffs. And the company around him tests the air too. They slowly swivel their heads around in a single direction, as if searching for an origin of the aroma.
And it is me.
They all face the alley where I’m hiding.
I turn and run. No longer careful, I simply run. My heart pounds and my grip is tight on my camera, but I’m barely aware of anything except the pumping of my legs and the slapping sound of my tennis shoes on the ground. I don’t hear anyone running after me, but I don’t dare turn around to look.
I clear the open end of the alley and make for my Jeep. As I hear all the bikes firing up behind me, I know for sure the sound I heard this morning—it was the roar of an outlaw motorcycle gang. And now they’re after me.
I jump in the Jeep and twist my key in the ignition. I throw it in reverse and drive backward down the street. At the entrance to the mountain road that leads to my house, I jam the gears into second to take the steep incline and drive as fast as I can without killing myself.
When I reach my house, I brake hard. My Jeep spins behind the house and out of sight of the road. I let myself in the back door and throw the bolt. I dash to the front door and do the same. I gallop up the steps to the second floor and plaster myself against my bedroom window.
Silence.
Just the birds. And the faint wind.
And a low distant rumble.
But it’s not coming this way.
My bedroom door bangs open. I shriek before realizing it’s just my mom.
“Well, I’m glad to see you’re back after your snit this morning,” she says. “Where did you go?”
“Uh…downtown.”
“Oh good.” My mother fusses around the room, plumping pillows and straightening books that are already straight. “I knew when you learned of the history and the natural beauty of this place, you would love it. Did you see any interesting architecture?”
“Um…no. But I did find out they have a club.”
“A club?”
“Uh, yes. A motorcycle club.”
My mother stops her incessant arranging to stare at me. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. Well, I guess you will run into unsavory types no matter where you live. I hope you didn’t speak to any of them.”
“No,” I say. But I feel a strange sensation in my chest.
I have to admit…I wanted to.
Chapter 2
Drake
I need to think, and the clubhouse is the place to do it. The walls of this old church have been a sanctuary for the club ever since URSA MC took over. We are the United Righteous Shifters of America and no one dares to enter these walls that doesn’t belong here. But today when I stepped out to speak to the club, I scented something. Something close. Too close. And the bear in me nearly tore me up trying to get at it.
But when I ask Griffin, he tells me he may have scented a human female, but nothing special beyond that. And I trust Griffin.
I trust him to tell me the truth. Just as I’d trust him with my life.
I may be the Alpha and President of URSA, but Griffin is VP for a reason. And that reason has nothing to do with him being my cousin.
He’s the most righteous bro I know. If he’s wrong, he gets it right. If he’s right, he doesn’t back down.
If he says he didn’t smell anything special, he didn’t..
But I know I did.
Was that scent meant just for me? The bear inside me gives a growl at this thought. What’s he know that I don’t know?
But it doesn’t matter. Whoever or whatever it was took to the hills.
And I don’t have time to think about it, anyway. There’ve been reports of Howlers in town, and we’ve had to deal with these fuckers before. My patrol of the town didn’t turn up any Howlers, but that doesn’t prove anything. It just means there weren’t any with the balls to show their face to me. I’m the Alpha of URSA. They know better than to fuck with me.
But I gotta remember—someone got to the last Alpha. And he’d been around a lot longer than me. They tried to make Ash’s death look like a hunting accident, but I knew better. A simple gunshot wouldn’t have brought down that shifter. Hunting accident, my ass.
I just wish I knew how they got to him. More than that, I wish I knew who. ’Cause when I find the sucker, he’s gonna tell me how.
Then he’s gonna die.
Taking over after Ash hasn’t been easy. All the bros had been behind Ash, so when he got fucked up, there were some crazy rumors going around. Good thing Griffin and Zane had my back. Griffin is Ash’s son, and his say so would have been enough, but Zane has their respect, too, so between the three of us cousins, they’re okay.
Usually.
The thing about outlaw bikers is they’re not gonna follow any law or man they don’t respect.
And getting that respect is one thing. Keeping it is another.
But I take each challenge one at a time.
I look out the clubhouse window at the forest beyond. It would be easier if I had a mate to share my life with. Someone warm and supportive. Someone who loves my cock as much as I love her sweet cunt. Someone who will bear my seed in her soft belly. I wait for the bear within me to react, but he’s quiet. He’s got a hell of a lot more patience than me.
I’m thinking I’ve got my thoughts sorted out, when Zane walks into the clubhouse and throws them back in the shitter.