Kodiak Chained

by Doranna Durgin

  “Something like that. I think we should haul the computers out of there, too—let’s get them back to brevis for a look.”

  “Be good to take a look right here, if we can,” Ruger said. “If we’re going to understand what’s going on here, even file headers might help give us context.”

  Ian hesitated, an uncharacteristic thing. “I’ll check with Nick. None of us are experts, and there’s no telling what unauthorized access could trigger.”

  Mariska looked down at the underground installation, thinking of the security layers they’d already encountered. “Forakkes doesn’t seem like he’d leave a vulnerable flank.”

  “Dammit,” Ian said. “Now I’m really thinking about steak. Let’s get out of here and into that restaurant before I go all leopard on somebody’s ass.”

  Ruger slipped into his shirt and led the way without comment—at least until they had nearly reached the little cut-through access back to the ATVs. Even as he stopped there, Mariska felt it, too. Undefined, intangible...presence. Obscured but definite, just the hint of a scent and the hint of Core stench.

  She stood there for a silent moment while the others waited, hunting detail...hunting a more accurate impression. Nothing. Whatever had been here since they’d left, it had come protected. She exchanged a frustrated glance with Ruger; he shook his head, no more successful than she.

  They moved on without discussion. As if that moment of accord had been the most natural thing in the world, hardly even worth noting. Only as they reached the ATVs did it hit her—that this was what she’d truly wanted all along. This was what she’d come so close to having, in those initial hours of discovering Ruger, of their accord and instinctive understanding.

  But thanks to how she’d handled things, this was also what she would now experience only in such sweet, fleeting moments as the one that had just passed.

  * * *

  The steak had probably been good. In fact, to judge by the cat-ate-the-ibex expression on Ian’s face, it had been impressively delicious.

  Mariska hadn’t noticed one way or the other. She ate in silence, watching Ruger’s easy camaraderie with the rest of the team. And when they returned to the cabins, she watched Ian take Sandy and his team to their cabin to put their heads together over amulets and wards, and she didn’t fail to notice that Sandy and Heckle—Harrison—fell together in close proximity, their body language all flirt and obvious intent.

  Nothing unusual or untoward in that. The Sentinels as a people were open about their sexuality, nonjudgmental about choice and preference, and happy to give and take pleasure. None of it necessarily meant commitment or even an interest in getting together again.

  She’d thought to have the same with Ruger. A night together without strings. What happens in Tucson, stays in Tucson.

  She’d obviously thought wrong.

  She headed for the cabin, her personal gear pack slung over one shoulder and her eyes gritty in the long desert twilight. Ruger still stood beside the truck, pulling his own gear from the back...taking much longer than necessary.

  I didn’t mean to mess things up, she thought at him, but pressed her lips together on the words as a black wolf ghosted between the cabins, head low and whisky-colored eyes intense. “Jet,” Mariska said. “We’re back for the night. You?”

  Jet merely sat, as tidy and upright as a wolf could be, and regarded Mariska without comment. But she didn’t come any closer, and Mariska took that as clue enough. “Do you need anything? Have you eaten?”

  Jet’s jaw dropped in wolf amusement, and Ruger came up to the porch with Mariska to observe, “I’d say that means yes.” He told Jet, “There wasn’t much to the day—we got in, we took some notes, and we’re going back first thing tomorrow. Forakkes is up to something, no question about it—but so far it’s not making much sense.”

  Mariska found herself bemused to consider this summary of the day. But Jet took his words at face value, stood, tipped her head at them a moment with something sparking behind wild whisky eyes, and then trotted off into the woods.

  “I’m not sure we’ll see any more of her than that,” Ruger said, but he headed into the cabin with a grin tugging his mouth.

  It was first of those she’d seen all day, and it stopped her in her tracks. Surely he’d smiled like this at some point in the previous evening—his face hidden in that neat, full beard. She just hadn’t seen it—or felt the impact of it, the sudden openness of clean and rugged features.

  She felt it now, all right. Right down to her toes.

  Great.

  She shrugged off the moment and followed Ruger into the cabin—her first good look at it since arrival. Kitchenette with eating bar, tiny loft room with a bed, tiny bedroom down below, bathroom, and a tiny common area with a faded couch and a token television set. Several fans sat off to the side, but here in the high altitude temperatures and in the shade, she felt no impulse to pull them out. Braided rug, homemade curtains, big picture window looking out to the woods behind them...

  They weren’t here to be charmed, but she felt the lure of it nonetheless.

  “Top or bottom?” Ruger asked, and then stood still a moment—a long moment—and very carefully rephrased the question. “Do you want the loft, or the first floor?”

  “Loft,” Mariska said, and dropped her bag at the bottom of the steep, narrow stairs. “Listen,” she said, taking a deep breath to do it, turning to face him and finding him waiting with his expression turned neutral—that grin gone, his eyes distant. “About what we felt on the way out of that installation...it was subtle, but I think...” She stopped, her thoughts fractured by impulse—one she gave way to. “Dammit, I’m sorry!”

  His expression opened with surprise; she couldn’t blame him. She hadn’t expected to say those words, and she hadn’t expected to leave the stairs and walk right up to him—close enough so his height and size had an impact. Her body remembered both height and size, not to mention touch and his groaning, whispered response; it teased her with echoes of pleasure.

  His surprise grew wary as she reached him, and then again when she didn’t stop; he took a step back, and another—his legs came to rest against the couch so he abruptly sat. Still she didn’t stop, climbing right up to straddle his lap. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize it would be so difficult for you. I didn’t understand that I would be stepping on your toes so hard. I didn’t want to understand—because I wanted you, and I wanted this chance, too.” She settled against him. He shifted beneath her, his breath catching, his eyes closing.

  He didn’t open them when he spoke. “Just because you’re bear enough to go after what you want doesn’t mean you’re always going to get it.” But the muscles of his neck corded, and his hands had come to rest on her hips, whether he realized it or not.

  “I was wrong, okay?” She moved closer, her breasts brushing his chest and her breath brushing his mouth. “I should have known it wouldn’t be okay, but I didn’t want to see that. I was wrong and I’m really...really sorry.”

  His jaw tightened; he thrust slightly against her as if in spite of himself, and his hands had closed in a bruising grip. She moved in response, her body full of spreading heat—trying to maintain her train of thought when she really just wanted to revel in how he felt beneath her, from hard thighs to muscled torso to the clench of his biceps and what it did to his chest. And his mouth. She wanted to feel his mouth... She whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  A faint tremble ran through his frame, and she felt the hope of his reaction to her. His head tipped back; his breath briefly stuttered.

  But still he shook his head. “I get that,” he said, his voice strained. “I believe that. But you still did what you did, and that means...it’s just the way you—” He gave up, let his head rest back against the couch, his heart beating fast enough so she could see the movement through the shirt he’d only ever half-buttoned into place. He swallowed hard, and started again. “That means...it’s just the way you think.”

>   She stilled, a spear of rejection turning hard in her chest.

  He opened his eyes—light brown gone dark with his response to her, and yet his expression struggling for distance. “I’ve got things to sort out, Mariska. I don’t want this now.”

  “You do,” Mariska said, because in spite of the chilling effect of his words, she couldn’t believe them. Didn’t believe them. Not with the way he’d enjoyed their time together the night before. Not with the way his body moved beneath her even now, his hips flexing ever so slightly in spite of his words. “You do, and you know it. You want this.”

  “Yes,” he said, and the admission seemed to be a relief. “I want to turn you over and cover you and take you—” He took another sharp breath, maybe realizing his words had been a mistake as his body responded once more, aroused and hard enough that he had to be aching as much as she. He finished his sentence with a strangled determination. “Take you hard.”

  But then his hands fell away from her, and he shook his head. “I want. But I don’t need.”

  Mariska pushed herself away from him, swiping thick bangs away from her face. “Oh, God,” she said. “You mean it. I just— I thought... Oh, hell.” Her face grew hotter than she ever thought it could, and she scrambled back to find the floor, horrified to get tangled in his feet. “Oh, hell.”

  “Hey,” Ruger said sharply, grabbing her arm before it was quite out of reach and holding so firmly that she would have to turn to an honest fight in order to disengage—and though she jerked back with that impulse, she instantly subsided. She owed him this much. She’d pushed him and shoved him and moved in on him, and if he chose to respond with the same physical assertion—

  It was only fair.

  “Don’t go there,” he told her, reading her humiliation with an accuracy that only layered in more of it. “Just don’t.”

  “You must be kidding.” She laughed bitterly on those words, looking down at where he sprawled back against the couch, his erection straining his jeans, his eyes still dark and the stubble of his beard making an evening comeback, defining the strong lines of his face—his expression in control again. “How can I not?”

  “Because,” he said—and even though she steeled herself for bear-blunt words, he still took her by surprise, “I don’t want to have to deal with it. There’s already enough going on here, and if you indulge in a wallow of regret or embarrassment or whatever, it’s going to be hard on everyone. Own it and go on.”

  “Own it and go on,” she repeated numbly.

  “And go on,” he confirmed. And then added, “I will.”

  She stepped back, and this time he let her go. “The question is,” she murmured, looking at him somewhat askance, “is that a promise, or a threat?”

  He lifted his shoulders in a languid shrug. “Go ahead and grab the bathroom, if you’re ready to turn in. It’s going to be a few moments before I feel like moving.”

  Own it and go on.

  Mariska squared her shoulders and found her determination, and walked away.

  * * *

  Jet curled up in a hollow between two scruffy, twisted little oaks, tucking her nose over her tail and perfectly happy to be out in the night. She had some curiosities left from the day—wondering what had put that look in Ruger’s eyes, and seeing the faint and atypical worry in Ian as he disembarked, glancing over at Mariska.

  She’d drift in close enough in the morning to catch Ian—to interrogate him with wolfish eyes and whatever persistence she needed. Tonight, she left them alone to absorb whatever it was that they’d found.

  Besides, they still carried the faint stench of Core, whether they knew it or not. She’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

  She flicked her ears forward, moving nothing else but her eyes—looking down on the cabin she could have been sharing with Ruger and Mariska, if she’d wanted. Never mind her own preferences; she’d have been out here regardless, just to give them space.

  Two bears, trying to figure themselves out...she didn’t need to be in the middle of it. No matter the furrow in her brow when she thought of the look on Ruger’s face when he’d seen Mariska at the briefing. There were other things, too, behind that hurt and betrayal. There was longing. There was deep, deep want. And Mariska...what she’d done had been wrong and hard and even stupid, but it hadn’t been done with intent.

  Jet, too, was an outsider. She knew what that felt like. She could give Mariska time; she would give them both space.

  Besides, the more she stayed out of things, the more anyone watching the team would think them complete as they were.

  Chapter 8

  Ruger opened his eyes unto the birdsong of early morning and found himself still on the couch.

  Not that he’d intended it. He’d watched Mariska make her way up the stairs—everything about her rounded and strong, dark hair dragged back into a French braid that brushed her shoulders, teasing him with a glimpse of breast and strong cheekbone before she disappeared into the loft—and he’d thought to wait until the effect of their...conversation...faded before he moved from the couch.

  It had taken longer than expected. And eventually he’d fallen asleep, and now he found himself blinking awake to classic morning wood and the sight of Mariska leaning back against the stair railing, her arms crossed and her brow raised.

  He rubbed his fingers over his eyes, pressing a little harder than he probably should have, and swore.

  “Good morning to you, too,” Mariska said, and something in her voice alerted him. He dropped his hand to look at her more closely, and to see the little furrow between her brows just barely visible behind her bangs.

  “You okay?”

  “Do those cures of yours come with a hangover?” she asked, clearly having decided not to query his sleeping arrangements.

  He centered himself in his damaged healing space and felt it from her—the lingering headache, the touch of malaise. He pulled back just in time, stopping himself from any attempt to soothe her. Dammit.

  She must have seen it—she shook her head with emphasis. “Uh-uh,” she said. “None of that. I just need coffee. Something tall and strong and with plenty of sugar in it.”

  “Whatever you’re feeling isn’t from the restorative,” Ruger said. “More likely it’s from the hit you took in the first place. Be more careful today, huh?”

  “You think?” she asked crossly.

  “You don’t have to go,” Ruger told her. “If you’re not well, it would be best to stay here and recover.”

  The look she sent him was eloquent answer enough, dark temper behind brown eyes. He held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Hey,” he told her. “Believe it or not, it’s my job to look out for the health of the team. When it comes to field fitness, I’ve got last word out here.”

  She narrowed her eyes, understanding that not-so-subtle threat. “You wouldn’t.”

  He stood from the couch, stiffer than he liked from the night on old springs and old stuffing. “I would,” he told her, not rising to her temper. “If I felt it was absolutely necessary. But today...it’s up to you.”

  “Even though you’d rather not have me at your back.” She didn’t quite believe him, that was clear enough. Her voice was flat, her mouth was flat, and for the moment her brewing anger overrode the discomfort showing on her brow.

  “That’s personal,” he said. “Totally different thing.”

  She deflated, rubbing her forehead. “Damn.” She sighed. “If you’re going to be reasonable about it...”

  “Professional,” he said. Except for the part of him that still felt the betrayal, and the part of him that didn’t want her on the team at all—and the part of him that wanted her back on his lap. Right now.

  A bear of conflict. Never a good thing.

  “There’s jerky in my pack,” he said. “That’ll help until we get to breakfast.”

  She snorted. “Is it going to taste like that drink you gave me?”

  “It’s going to taste salty and pr
etty damned hot,” he said. “Annorah makes it.”

  He saw in her expression the moment she let herself think of the tang of tough meat and spices, the salt on her tongue...a certain longing, and all the primal bear showing through. He lost every bit of ground he’d gained—distancing himself from the state in which he’d woken.

  Great. Apparently his body had plenty to say about Mariska, and had no compunction about ignoring his better judgment, or even giving him a break. He reached to the end of the couch and snagged his backpack, tossing it her way even as he headed for the bathroom. “Chow down. I’ll need ten minutes for a shower.”

  Or half an hour.

  But no cold shower would be long enough.

  * * *

  “Nick wants us to grab those computer hard drives,” Ian announced over breakfast—a diner just short of fast food where they piled on the protein and fruit. Ruger dug in as heartily as any of them, but it took a scowl at Mariska to make her reach for anything but the raspberries on the fruit plate. Ian eyed her and went on without comment. “We’ll also set up our satellite connection today—while we’re at it, we’ll see if there are any networks active in the area.”

  Sandy bit a sausage in half. “Sounds like we should have someone from tech support up here with us.”

  Ruger shook his head. “They’re all light-bloods, strictly in-house work. The few who aren’t are out on assignment already.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Ian shrugged. “Any one of us can take out hard drives or find an active network. We don’t have to hack it—we just need to know it’s there.”

  “Right,” Mariska agreed. “If there’s anything within range out there, it’s going to be Core. Do you want me to tackle the hard drives?”

  Ian gave her another hard once-over—seeing what Ruger saw, perhaps—her subdued nature and lackluster expression. “If you don’t mind, I’d really rather have you run another security sweep of the installation.”

  She frowned. “Amulets? But I—”

  Ian grinned. “Amulets, no. I’ll do that—outdoors and in. I don’t want to take any chances after yesterday. I’m just asking for regular security stuff.”