Bear Necessities (Bad Boy Alphas): A Post-Apocalyptic Bear Shifter Romance

by Selena Kitt

  “Nuh, I can’na…” Kirstin took a step back, but Donal already had her in his arms, pulling her into the room, shutting Moira out.

  “Aye, lass, ye can and ye will…” Donal buried his face and hands in Kirstin’s long, dark hair. “I want ye, I need ye…”

  “Aye,” she whispered, knowing just how he felt, unable to hide her own feelings, not here, in his arms. “Time’s almos’up, ye ken?”

  “Aye.” He lifted his face to look into her eyes, searching there for some answer, some solution to their strange dilemma. “Lemme look at ye.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling tears stinging her eyes, swallowing around a lump in her throat. “I wish I was someone else fer ye, somethin’ else…”

  “Nuh, lass. Do’na say’t.” Donal groaned, wrapping thick, strong arms around her waist, pulling her body in tight to his. “Ye’re e’rythin’ I’ve e’er wanted.”

  Kirstin shook her head, but her throat was closed with pain and heartache—and her impending change. She couldn’t speak. She would lose the ability entirely soon.

  “You’re m’only love, and if I can’na’ave ye…”

  “Shhh.” Kirstin couldn’t stand any more words and she was grateful when Donal’s mouth found hers. This was a language she understood. Her arms went around his neck, fingers playing in the hair curling at the nape, his big hands moving over her tunic and plaid as if he could memorize her with his palms.

  She wanted him, was desperate for him. If only he would take her and make her his own, mark her. She was a wulver, and wanted his claim, more than anything, but she knew it was the one thing she couldn’t have. Kirstin knew she should have listened to Sibyl’s sensible advice. If anyone knew what it was like to be caught between two worlds, it was Sibyl. Donal was laird of his clan, and now he was promised to another—a highborn, English lady, a woman who would arrive this week, a “gift” from King Henry VII.

  It was a contract arranged by the English king so he could secure the border. If the Scots married the English, it seemed reasonable they’d stop killing each other. It was a sound, logical plan, one that had been set in motion when Sibyl Blackthorne had come to Scotland to marry Donal’s older brother, Alistair. But the heart didn’t always follow the logical plans set forth by the mind, even the mind of a king.

  Sibyl had fallen in love with Raife, the leader of Kirstin’s wulver pack, and had made a life with him in the den. Alistair was dead—killed by Darrow, Raife’s brother, after the laird had taken Darrow’s wulver wife hostage. Clan MacFalon had welcomed Alistair’s younger brother, Donal, as their new laird, and King Henry had made him warden of the Middle March. But that came with more than just a title, she knew. Sibyl’s heart had led her astray, from the life of a lady to living in a wolf’s den, and her advice to Kirstin had been sensible, even if they both knew it was useless to argue with what the heart wanted.

  “Come back with us,” Sibyl had pleaded. “Find a wulver to love. They are all good, strong men. Any of them would make a good mate for you.”

  Kirstin had nodded her agreement. In her head, she knew it was true. She should find a nice, wulver warrior and settle down, like the rest of the wulver women.

  There was just one problem with that.

  None of them were Donal.

  The man had found his way into her heart and she couldn’t stop her feelings, no matter how hard she tried. And she had tried. She’d thrown herself into caring after Darrow—the reason she’d come to the MacFalon castle in the first place—after his near-fatal fight with Alistair. She’d thrown herself into helping Moira and the rest of the servants, learning the daily workings of the castle. This is what she’d done at home, after all, and came naturally to her.

  But none of it had distracted her from Donal.

  He’d been everywhere she went, everywhere she looked, that devilish smile and those dancing eyes. She told herself—often—that the man was, well, just a man. He wasn’t a wulver. He wasn’t her kind. He would never be able to understand, let alone tolerate, her ways. Kirstin didn’t have a choice, not like the wulver men. They could change at will, could even transform into half-man, half-wolf, but wulver women didn’t have that luxury.

  Wulver women’s bodies were tied inextricably to their moon cycles. When they went into heat, they changed into their full wolf form, and when they did, they were unpredictable. Kirstin’s life had always been ruled by the moon. Unlike Laina, Darrow’s wife, who had hated that fact and tried her best to find a way to change it, Kirstin had always accepted her lot in life as a wulver. “We are what we are,” that’s what Raife always said, and it was true. You couldn’t spend your life wishing you were someone, or something, else. It was a recipe for heartache.

  But that was just what she’d done, Kirstin realized, clinging to Donal, wishing she could stop what was coming. She wanted to blame him, for being so kind, so generous, so damned handsome and irresistible, but she knew better. It wasn’t Donal’s fault. The man hadn’t done anything untoward, hadn’t made any advances. It was, shamefully, all on her. It was her own wild heart that had betrayed her.

  Now she was tied to him, utterly in love with him, and she knew it was hopeless. Kirstin knew Sibyl’s logical advice would have been easier to follow a month ago, before she’d let herself fall for this man. Kirstin should have returned to the wulvers’ den with her family then. She should have ignored the calling of her heart to his, should have denied her feelings, should have turned and walked away.

  Kirstin remembered her home fondly, with some measure of homesickness, but she knew, in her heart, she would miss this man more. But when Donal had taken his brother’s place as laird of clan MacFalon, he had, in turn, assumed his brother’s responsibility to “marry the border.” To join the English and the Scots, as King Henry VII had instructed him to.

  Even if Donal was in love with another woman.

  Or, another wulver.

  That clearly didn’t matter to the heads of state.

  What the heart wanted had to be second to what the crown wanted.

  “I should go.” Kirstin tried to disengage herself from him, but he held her fast in the circle of his arms. To be fair, she didn’t too try hard to get away. She spent too little time in the man’s arms, and could have spent an eternity there. Since that first morning in the garden when she had fallen into his arms like some lovesick teen and confessed her affection for him, she had found herself taking every opportunity she could to be with him.

  “I do’na want ye t’go, lass,” he murmured, hands lost in the thick mass of her hair. “I’m n’afraid of ye. Stay wit’ me.”

  Kirstin whimpered and held onto him even tighter, remembering the look on his face when she’d told him how she felt, that slow, dawning realization. Sibyl had warned her that men were dense when it came to matters of the heart, that Donal had no idea that Kirstin’s subtle clues, which seemed so overt to her, were flying right by him. She didn’t understand how this was possible, but after weeks of talking, flirting, even putting herself in harm’s way in hopes of being rescued—the man had simply caught up, dragged her off the “runaway” horse, and deposited her back under Raife’s care, telling the pack leader to keep a better eye on her—Kirstin finally just confessed.

  And she’d thought her foolishness would end there. From the stunned look on the man’s face, she should have just kept her mouth shut. But Darrow had healed and they were all anxious to return to the wulvers’ den, and she didn’t have any more time for subtlety, she’d decided. So she had taken the opportunity, when Donal found her alone in the garden that morning, to throw herself into his arms and tell him.

  And he’d just stood there, looking at her, face unmoved, unchanged. His eyes, though, they told her everything—those dancing, blue-grey eyes and the slow, dawning realization that came to them. She could almost see every ploy, every time she’d laughed at his jokes or flirted, flit through his mind as he looked at her and, watching him, she regretted every single one. She w
anted to crawl under the stone bench, curl up, and die. She wanted it so much, she actually turned to go. She had to go tell Sibyl and Raife she’d be returning to the den with them after all.

  Her motion to leave seemed to startle Donal out of his trance. That’s when he’d grabbed her arm, pulling her back to him so fast it took her breath away, and kissed her. And it had been everything she hoped. Everything and more. Kirstin had been kissed, on more than one occasion, but being kissed by this man wasn’t anything like being pawed by a wulver male in the dark damp of the tunnels. Being kissed by this man was like coming up for a breath after being underwater. It was as natural as that.

  And just as sweet.

  Now she had to go, had to leave him after all. If only she’d told him sooner, if only she’d done so before Donal had sent the messenger, accepting King Henry’s offer of an English bride. Donal had told her that before Kirstin’s confession, he hadn’t cared who he married, hadn’t even considered it. In fact, the man had even proposed to Sibyl, given that she had once been promised to his older brother, just because it seemed “logical.” Sibyl, already in love with Raife, had turned him down, so Donal had replied to the king’s offer with a lackadaisical “yes.”

  Now Lady Cecilia Witcombe, the Earl of Witcombe’s only daughter, was on her way to marry the laird of clan MacFalon. Not that it mattered, Kirstin knew. The king would never approve a marriage between a wulver woman and a man, even if the king himself had once bedded one. There was a big difference between bedding a wulver and marrying one. She and Donal had talked in circles about it, and they kept coming around to the same point.

  “Ye know I can’na stay.” Kirstin lifted her face to look at him, at those stormy eyes, his brow knitted with worry. “Y’er to marry another.”

  “Do’na remin’me.” He groaned, his expression pained, as if her words had stabbed him in the gut.

  “She’ll arrive soon,” Kirstin reminded him, reminded herself. “In another day, mayhaps two.”

  Donal nodded miserably. They both knew it was true, even if they didn’t want to think about it.

  “Ye lead yer clan, Donal,” Kirstin reminded him of this too. “Ye mus’ do what’s right for the greatest good.”

  “Ye’re my greatest good, lass.” He cupped her face in his hands, searching her eyes. “Ye’re m’very heart.”

  His words broke her. How could she do this? How could she feel this way, knowing she couldn’t be with him, and still stand? She didn’t know.

  “I can’na stay wit’ ye,” she whispered, her lower lip trembling, in spite of her self-admonition to stay strong. “I can’na stay.”

  “Then I’ll come wit ye.”

  And there it was again. They went around and around, in circles. It was impossible. He couldn’t live in the wulver den with her, and she couldn’t live in the MacFalon castle with him.

  “Yer family’s here,” she urged. “Yer obligation’s here. Yer wife...”

  They both winced at the word “wife.” Kirstin didn’t like to think about another woman coming anywhere near this man. Even in her human form, Kirstin’s instincts turned animal at the thought.

  “But me mate is ‘ere.” He kissed her cheek, the tear that slipped down it caught on his lips. “I want ye, Kirstin. I claim ye. D’y’hear me? Yer mine. Ye’ll always be mine.”

  “I wish’t were true,” she whispered as he kissed her other cheek, another tear.

  “Tis true! We can make a life together, lass.”

  “How?” she pleaded, wishing she could see a way around it. “If ye marry me, King Henry’ll come down on all our heads. T’will be the end of the wolf pact and the end of the possibility of peace in the borderlands. I can’na be responsible fer that.”

  “Let me worry ‘bout that,” he insisted.

  “And then what?” she cried. “Ye live wit’ a woman ye hafta lock up once a month because she changes into a wolf?”

  “T’wouldn’t be the firs’ time a man had to deal with a she-devil once a month,” he replied with a grin.

  “Donal!” Kirstin laughed. She couldn’t help it. He always made her laugh, took her outside herself. It was the first thing that had attracted her to him. That and those big, dancing, mischievous, blue-grey eyes.

  “But m’love…” She turned her wet eyes up to him, hating herself for saying it out loud, but it was true, and it was the one thing she knew they couldn’t change. “There’d be nuh children. Nuh heirs. We could’na mate while I was… while…”

  She flushed, feeling the heat in her face, in her limbs, at the thought of mating with this man, as woman or wulver. The look in his eyes told her he was thinking about it too.

  “Nothin’ would keep me from ye, lass.” That dark, determined look had come into his eyes. The man could be stubborn. “Nothin’.”

  “Och, Donal.” Kirstin sighed, shaking her dark head. “Ye can’na come wit me, and I can’na stay. Tis impossible.”

  “Tisn’t impossible,” he insisted.

  “I’ll change, then ye’ll see.” She lowered her head, not wanting to look at him, to see the expression on his face. She hated herself, hated her very nature. If she could have swallowed some magic potion in that moment that would have given her the ability not to change into a wolf, she would have done it in an instant. “Ye do’na really want me, Donal. Ye will’na, once ye see… “

  “I do want ye.” His grip tightened around her, rocking her in his arms. “I’ll always want ye, whether ye’re a woman or a wolf or a… mouse!”

  That made her laugh through her tears, but it didn’t erase the reality of what was. The fact remained, Kirstin couldn’t be this man’s wife, no matter how much they both might want it. And she was sure that Lady Cecilia Witcombe was a beautiful woman who would make Donal the perfect wife. And most importantly, she wouldn’t turn into a beast once a month on a whim. But if the woman had been in front of her, Kirstin would have torn her throat out without a second thought. And that made her an animal.

  In fact, she was an animal. And that was the problem.

  “Nuh!” Kirstin choked, voice muffled against his chest, but she hardly had any breath left, and there were no more words, no more arguments to be made. She felt it happening, her strength leaving her limbs.

  “Aye, lass,” Donal insisted, his mouth finding hers, sparking a fire in her that was undeniable and unquenchable. They went to the floor, slowly sinking together, and Kirstin knew there was no stopping it. Donal would see for himself, and it would be soon. Far too soon. Kirstin saw the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the pale face of the moon had risen in the sky.

  “Open up!” Gregor pounded on the door from the outside.

  Kirstin barely heard him. Donal’s mouth crushed hers and she welcomed the weight of him as they tore at each other’s clothes. He was shirtless, and then so was she, her plaid slipping easily off her body, leaving her naked beneath him, more than ready.

  The pounding came again.

  “G’way, boy!” Donal growled, nuzzling the soft hollow of Kirstin’s throat before moving down to her breasts, making her moan when he grabbed handfuls of her hair, pulling her head back so he could get better access.

  She wanted him, but she couldn’t have him.

  Her body burned for him, but it was impossible.

  She longed to speak his name, but all that would come out of her throat was a plaintive howl, a keening wail.

  “Kirstin, m’love,” Donal whispered, and she felt him, eager to enter her, almost as hungry as she was.

  She met his eyes in the dimness, the light from the window fading, no lamp lit. She wondered what he could see, but she didn’t have to ask. She saw it in his eyes, the dawning realization, the slow shift from desire to horror. She was changing. There was nothing she could do to stop it.

  His hand moved in her hair, and then, in fur. Her ears pricked, her hearing keener now, her vision too. She saw everything her human eyes could not, the shadows fading, the edges of things growing sharp. She h
eard the sound of Gregor panting outside the door as he threw his shoulder against it. She felt the heat of Donal’s breath on her fur, the weight of the man who had previously been crushing her, now like nothing.

  The pounding had stopped but now the whole castle seemed to shake with the blows as Gregor applied his big shoulder to the door again and again.

  “Kirstin,” Donal whispered, his hands cupping her face, finding fur and jowls and soft, twitching ears.

  She whined, rolling to her side, their eyes locked. Donal pet her gently, stroking her muzzle, her neck, his expression pained. She’d tried to tell him, but he hadn’t believed her, not really. Who would believe it, unless they’d seen it with their very own eyes?

  Kirstin put a dark, grey paw up on the man’s chest, seeing her own limbs gone, replaced with that of a wolf. No more hands to grasp with. It was as it ever was, as it had always been. There was nothing she could do to stop or change it, and she knew he would finally understand this now. He would turn away from her in horror and disgust, and she wouldn’t blame him.