Wren and the Werebear (A Shape Shifter Romance Novel)

by Aubrey Rose

  Wren shook her head. Tears slipped from her eyes, and she wondered how she'd gotten so weak. She was unable to stop herself from crying. She held the tooth in her hand tightly and breathed out, trying to gather herself.

  "Why?" she asked.

  "Why?" Dawson brushed her hair back and looked her in the eyes, as if to tell her that what he said meant more than anything he'd said before.

  "Why? Because you're the most beautiful and intelligent woman I've ever met. Because you don't mind getting mud in your hair and sand in your toes. Because there's something between us and you can feel it, I know you can. Wren, when you dance with me I want to dance forever."

  Wren shook her head, her sorrow clenching her throat. She wasn't worth his words.

  "I'm no good for you. For anyone, but especially for you."

  "Because you drive me crazy?"

  "Because I'm a killer. Because I'm supposed to kill people like you."

  "Will you kill me when you come back?"

  Dawson cupped a hand under her chin and lifted her face up. With the sun gone and the sky dark, she could see the twinkle of stars behind him.

  "No," she said, her cheeks wet with tears.

  "Then you will come back?"

  Dawson's voice, so open, so trusting, made Wren's heart wrench in her body. She had no strength left to argue, and she didn't know what she would argue against. She had nowhere else to go.

  "I don't know," she whispered.

  Dawson wrapped his arms around her and she felt her cheek press against his chest. She heard his steady heartbeat against her ear. He buried his face in her hair and kissed the top of her head.

  "You're a strong woman, Wren," he said. His hands smoothed her hair, ran down her back. Every motion was consoling, and she leaned into his touch. "Grieve for your father. Comfort your mother. And when everything is done, if you still don't know where to go... come back to me."

  Wren's eyes filled with fresh tears, and when she closed them she could still see the constellations swimming on the back of her eyelids. She stood there a while in silence, letting her grief spin out of her into the darkness. Then she had to go, and Dawson let her leave.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Wren did not see Dawson again before leaving. The pain of grief began to fade as soon as she left to walk down the trail, and by the time she'd reached the hotel she was safely wrapped in numbness and duty.

  She packed her remaining clothes and left a few bills in her hotel room for Matt. She called ahead to the airport and booked a flight for Chicago. Nobody was in the hotel lobby when she left—it was late, after all, and probably they were eating dinner.

  It was dark when she started her ride back down to the airport, dark when she kicked her motorcycle into fourth gear and sped down the curves of the coast. The waves looked unearthly, the white crests moving slow and glimmering in the blue light of the moon. She passed the small towns along the way, wondering what secrets were hidden in each one.

  A shifter. He’s a shifter. The words reverberated in her mind as she made her way back to her mother. The curdled feelings inside of her didn’t know what to make of it. Should she hate him? And if she should, why was it so hard for her to stop loving him?

  A plane, a taxi, and then she was back in Chicago, the sun coming up as she rode to her parents' house. Her mom's house, now. She met her mother at the front door and they embraced. Her mother felt small in her arms, more fragile.

  Wren made the funeral arrangements. A thousand phone calls later, it seemed, she collapsed into her bed and slept. She slept for ages, and when her mother woke her to eat, she ate, then slept some more. It was the only way for her to protect herself from thinking too much about what was happening.

  Flowers came to the door, and foil-covered casseroles, and other gifts for her mother who was deep in grief. Wren labeled the foil with names and dates for her mother and stacked them in the fridge. She put water into the flower vases and arranged them nicely on the table, and then the counter.

  Although her father was a CSE veteran, officially there was no such thing as the CSE. And so he was buried in a graveyard just outside of the city, with no officials attending. Wren thought it was appropriate, and the men from his bowling league were there to pay their respects anyway, along with all of the family friends who had known and loved him. Wren's mother put a bouquet of white roses on the oak coffin and prayed, and Wren stood there and held her mother while she cried. Her father's body was lowered into the earth.

  All the while, Wren thought about what she would do next. Where she would go. What she would do for work. She had to work; her mother had depended on her father, and now Wren was going to have to take care of her. The lawyer had named the amount she'd be getting from life insurance, and Wren knew that it wouldn't be enough for her mother.

  The numbness took care of her grief; she wondered who could take care of her mother. Her skills as an assassin would be useless elsewhere. Would she have to take the next assignment CSE offered her? She didn't want to shuffle paperwork. But she didn't want to kill, either.

  After the funeral, a young man with dark hair came up to her and handed her a large manila envelope. A packet of some kind.

  "What's this?"

  "It's from the CSE," the man said. Wren looked up at him. Something about him seemed familiar, but she didn't know what. "Don't open it now. It's for you and your mother."

  "Do I know you?" she asked.

  The young man smiled.

  "I'm Marty's younger brother," he said. "He says he wishes he could be here, but he's on assignment."

  Wren nodded. She knew what it was like to work for the CSE. Always work.

  "Your father was a great man," the man said. "They told stories about him at the academy. And about you."

  Wren's eyes flicked up at the young man.

  "Me?"

  "You took down the one that got Chief," he said. "That's a story Marty won't ever stop telling. You're a legend already."

  "I hope that all the stories stop soon," Wren said, thinking about Dawson and about the small town full of shifters that she'd left. "There aren't many shifters left out there."

  "No, you're right," the young man said. "I hope we get them all soon too."

  "Tell Marty I said hi," Wren said, feeling the weight of the manila envelope in her hands. It itched her to stand there talking with someone from the CSE. It was the CSE that had gotten her dad killed, the CSE that had put him in such a dangerous spot.

  "I will. Hey, can I ask you something?"

  "Since I'm a legend and all?" Wren smiled.

  "I'm training to be an assassin," the man said. "I want to go out in the field soon. Any advice?"

  "Advice?" Wren was about to shake her head when she remembered something. "One thing. Follow your instinct. Trust your heart."

  Wren could see that the man didn't understand, but it didn't matter. He would understand when the time came. There was nothing else she could do for him. She stood amid the gravestones and watched the young, well-dressed man walk away.

  Back at her mother's house, she slit the envelope open and let the papers fall onto the kitchen table.

  "What's that?" her mother asked.

  Wren looked at the pages and something inside that had been pinning her down suddenly lifted a bit at the corner.

  "It's a life insurance payout. From the CSE." Wren turned to her mother, handing her the page.

  "Three... three million dollars?" Her mother sat down, one hand clutching her blouse. "This is impossible."

  "For each of us." Wren looked down at the other papers in the packet, the legalese swimming over her head. Three million. She didn't have to work at the CSE. She didn't have to work anywhere. She didn't have to kill anymore.

  Her mother was still talking, but Wren wasn't paying any attention. Her thoughts drifted back to her father teaching her how to track in the woods. How to shoot a gun. She remembered the first time she'd held a gun, her father's broad hand covering hers, s
howing her where to put her fingers on the trigger. She remembered the shot, loud and ringing in her ears for minutes. The ringing was still echoing in her ears when her mother's voice came through.

  "What are you going to do, Wren? Will you go back to D.C.?" Her mother looked up at her hopefully.

  "No," Wren said. The ringing had subsided, and she knew now that she could trust her instinct. That's what her dad had said... to trust her own self. To follow her heart. And she knew just where her heart was leading her.

  "I think," she said carefully, letting the page fall back down onto the kitchen table, "that I'll go back to California."

  ***

  Wren rode up the long curves of the coast, the afternoon wind blowing through her hair. Under her body the motorcycle rumbled and roared. She'd packed up the few belongings she knew she needed—some clothes, a few photos of her parents.

  She'd dropped off her gun at CSE headquarters before leaving. Not having the familiar steel against her hip or leg made her feel naked, and she looked around more often, wary of danger without any protection. Now, though, it was just her and the bike flying across the waves, up, up to Maugham.

  Would he be there? Wren berated herself for the question. It had only been a few weeks—he wouldn't have left. Or perhaps they had all gone, packed up to find a place that was more secure. She imagined the small town emptied out, the gas station closed, the hotel windows boarded up.

  No, she told herself as the road whizzed by under her feet. The asphalt was black and hot in the mid-afternoon sun, and sweat dampened the collar of her blouse at the back of her neck. The wind was exhilarating nonetheless, and she rode nonstop from Los Angeles up, heat be damned.

  She slowed a few miles before the town, uncertainty creeping into her mind. Yes, he would still be there. But would he even want to see her? He might have forgotten her.

  She dropped into fourth gear. He might have met someone else. She hadn't told him that she would come back, after all.

  The sign for Maugham passed by and she dropped to third gear. Ahead of her the road glinted and shimmered with the mirages of sunlight off of the asphalt. She squinted harder to see. There was a person on the side of the road. A man.

  Dawson walked alongside the highway, his shirt again draped over his neck, his back shining with sweat in the afternoon heat. She slowed down, fifty feet away, but he didn't stick out his thumb. He didn't even turn around. With a rev of the engine, she blew past him and turned sharply onto the side of the road, parking on the dirt pullout. Her tires raised the dirt from the ground, and for a second she couldn't see him in the cloud of grit and dust. She pulled off her helmet.

  Then the ocean wind blew the dust away and he stood in front of her, one hand lifted to shield his face. His eyes met hers and his jaw dropped slack.

  "Need a ride?" she asked. It was meant to be a flippant question, but at the sight of his golden eyes, she felt her heart drop in her chest. She swallowed hard. For a brief moment, she thought that she had made a terrible mistake in coming back here.

  Then a smile broke across his face, and he stepped forward and kissed her.

  Her heart swelled until she thought it would burst in her chest. His lips were on hers, hard and searching. His fingers wrapped around the back of her neck as she placed her hands on his chest, broad and hot and tan.

  His other arm clasped her waist and plucked her from the seat of the motorcycle like she was a daisy on the side of the road. She squealed as he twirled her in his arms. He finally set her down on the ground. Her legs wobbled underneath her, and she leaned against him for support.

  His thumb traced the side of her face, his eyes searching and wondrous. His dark eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, and finally he spoke.

  "You came back."

  "I came back."

  The silence between them was a question and an answer both.

  "You're right," he said. "I do need a ride. Mind if I drive?"

  Wren grinned and handed him the extra helmet.

  "I have to warn you," he said, mounting the motorcycle and adjusting the side mirrors, "I'm awful smelly and covered with sweat. So..."

  "So?"

  "So you'll have to hold on extra tight." He wiped the back of his neck with his shirt.

  "I think I can do that," Wren said.

  Slipping on her helmet, she climbed onto the back of the motorcycle. Dawson revved the motor and the engine thrummed between her legs. She wrapped her arms around him. Her thighs clenched around his legs, and her chest pressed against his back. He smelled, yes, of sun and work and nature. She loved it.

  With a roar, Dawson gunned the bike and tore up onto the road, leaving a trail of dust flying behind them. Wren's heart pounded as they came up on Maugham, but Dawson didn't slow down. Matt and Shawn were standing outside of the gas station, and Shawn waved as they drove past. Wren would have waved back, but all she could do was shriek as Dawson gunned the engine faster, faster, blasting through the small town. In the rearview mirror she saw Matt shaking his head in admonishment.

  Every curve along the coast made Wren press against Dawson's body tighter, until there was nothing at all between them. When he moved, she moved with him, leaning into the curves alongside him, trusting his expertise in handling the sport bike. It was like dancing, almost, with her following his lead.

  She closed her eyes. The sun shone red on the backs of her eyelids, and the heat and thrumming power of the engine soothed her despite the speed. This—this was all she wanted.

  She was sorry when he slowed the bike and pulled off of the highway. He shut the engine off and took off his helmet.

  "This is our stop," he said.

  Wren got off obediently and looked around. There was nothing here. They were between towns, the curve of the coastal highway stretching in both directions for miles and miles with no houses to be seen.

  "Dawson?"

  "Come on. Follow me."

  Wren set her helmet on the bike and set out behind him, following him around the brush to where she discovered him waiting on a hidden trail.

  "Secret beach," he said. "You okay to do some hiking?"

  "Of course," she said, smiling. They made their way down the steep, thin trail, until they came out onto a tiny cove with a quarter mile of sandy beach. The rock outcropping of the cliffs sheltered the cove from the whipping winds, and Wren watched as the waves crashed against the rocks, sending their spray up into the air. The waves that made it into the cove were smaller, lapping against the white sand.

  She breathed in a deep breath of ocean air. As she exhaled, though, she felt strong arms come and clasp her from behind.

  "Dawson!"

  He had her up and was carrying her in his arms, marching down to the edge of the ocean. She shrieked in protest, twisting in his arms.

  "No, Dawson! Dawson! These are my only shoes!"

  "Better kick them off, then," he said with a smile, not stopping for a moment.

  She barely had time to leave her sneakers on the sand before he was splashing forward into the ocean, the small waves cresting against his knees. Then he was thigh deep and the water was splashing up against her back. She wrung her hands around his neck and squealed.

  "Dawson!"

  Without fanfare, he sunk down into the water, taking Wren with him. She gasped. The cold water shocked her to the core, and her entire body seized up in tension. She struggled to find her footing, the water up to her waist.

  "You!" Wren splashed water at Dawson's grinning face. Dawson let himself fall backward into the ocean and came up with wet hair streaked down his cheeks. He came forward and wrapped his arms around Wren. She leaned against him, pressed her cheek against his wet chest. His body was hot and warmed her even as the waves chilled her.

  After a moment, he pulled back slightly and rested his forehead on top of hers, looking down. Wren tilted her head up for a kiss, but he kissed her nose instead and smiled softly.

  "Why are you here?" he asked.

  Gooseb
umps rose on Wren's arms now that he was not holding her closely.

  "You know why I'm here," she said.

  "Not for work?"

  "I quit."

  "For good?"

  "For good. Any more questions?" Wren asked, only half-teasing.

  "You don't have any more secrets, do you? You're not here to kill me?"

  "No," Wren said. "And no more secrets. Did you have any other secrets for me?"

  "Just the big one." Dawson crooked a half-grin at her. "That I'm a part-time bear."

  Wren reached out and touched his chest. The scars that ran across his skin puckered white against his tan.

  "Your scars. Is this..."

  "My brother. When we were young we got into a wrestling match." Dawson took her fingers in his hand and kissed her on the knuckles. "It doesn't matter now."

  "How often does it happen?" Wren asked. "I mean, I have a thousand questions for you about...about shifting."

  "Sure," Dawson said. "But right now I have to take care of you. Look at you, you're shivering!"

  "Well, I'm soaked. And the sun is going to set soon," Wren said, looking out to the ocean where the bright hot coin of a sun was closing in on the horizon.

  "What a terrible predicament," Dawson said. He kissed her forehead, letting one hand drop down to the buttons on her shirt. His fingers deftly unbuttoned her top as his kisses made their way down to her neck.

  Then she felt a tug and his hand was loosening her braid, unwinding her hair.

  "Hey, hey!"

  "What?" Dawson kissed Wren's neck, and the hot ache inside of her burst forth as though it had only been a few hours and not a few weeks since she had last seen him. His hands moved to pull off her blouse completely. "We have to get you out of these wet clothes."

  "Is that right?" Wren said.

  "Like you said, you're soaked. You'll catch a wicked cold. This is the Pacific, after all."

  "The chilly Pacific."

  "The frigid Pacific."

  All the while, his hands pulled down on her pants. She eventually gave in and helped him shuck them off. He balled them up and threw them toward the shore. They landed in the shallows, washed up on the sand.