The Bear’s Home
Emilia Hartley
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NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
The Bear’s Home
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Thank you!
Mated to the Dragon
Freed by the Dragon
Seduced by the Dragon
Adored by the Alpha Bear
Saved by the Alpha Bear
Loved by the Alpha Bear
Protected by the Mountain Wolf
Adored by the Mountain Wolf
Mated to the Mountain Wolf
Alpha Wolf Protector
Alpha Wolf Guardian
Alpha Wolf Champion
The Timeless Curse of Lord Dabney
AUTHORS NOTES
The Bear’s Home
Emilia Hartley
Chapter One
The noise of conversation inside the Squirrels Nuts Tavern roused Thorn’s inner beast with a snarl. Thorn didn’t like crowds. The Kodiak bear that shared his body liked them even less. Crowds were like herds. Herds were only good for thinning. His favorite table was in the corner, with the shortest walk to the bar and the john. He strode over to it and dropped his chainsaw on top.
The power tool made the table rock and knocked over a couple pint glasses. Two of the four men occupying the table yelped and jumped up to avoid a lapful of cold suds. Thorn grabbed one of the vacated chairs and sat down.
“Thanks.” He eyed each of the four men in turn. “Y’know, I think Elton John was wrong. Friday night’s just as good for fighting.”
One of the men was young, probably just twenty-one, a farm boy with thick shoulders and meaty fists. Face red, teeth bared, he faced Thorn. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Thorn smiled and lifted the full pitcher of beer. He drained it in a few huge gulps. Large as the kid was, Thorn knew he was good for about three seconds’ worth of fight. Even if the other three backed him up, there wasn’t more than three, four minutes entertainment in it, tops.
“We were just leaving, Thorn.” The two other sitters rose.
The angry kid shot each of them a look. “Are you kidding me? We just got here. That asshole drank all our beer.”
One of them put a hand on the farm boy’s shoulder and turned him toward the door. “We don’t want no trouble. Night, Thorn.”
Stretching out his long legs, Thorn watched them go. Another table of locals shot a few glances his way, and followed suit. And then another. His eyes fell on a table of four guys in the corner. The Marino brothers, or in-laws, or cousins, or whatever, each shared their essence with an inner animal like Thorn. But these guys were wolves. Even if you couldn’t tell from their human forms, they were wolf-shifters. The constant side-eyes from their close huddle told the tale of pack hunters. Pack hunters were pussies.
“Don’t go scaring off all my customers, Thorn.”
He dragged his eyes from the sulky predators. Sally inherited the Squirrels Nuts from her father, and tended bar just about all the time. Although she wore loose flannel shirts, Thorn’s instinct told him she had huge knockers. She swiped a rag over the spilled beer. “They were sitting at my table.”
“Your table?” She chided him, but the blue eyes behind her thick plastic hexagonal glasses looked soft and a little dreamy. Even though she leaned close, her baggy shirt concealed her fun stuff.
The wary bear in him surveyed the bar, as if expecting to see someone. Most of the locals made a mass exodus for the parking lot.
Now, aside from the Marinos, the only people left in the bar were people Thorn didn’t know. From their pressed LL Bean duds, he figured them for tourists. His heightened senses detected campfire smoke, gunpowder, and un-washed-ness. Also, a lot of new car smell. Idiots taking their new high-performance whatevers through the curving country roads of East County.
He spotted a woman sitting at the bar, pointedly ignoring the guys on either side of her. The beast inside him sensed her first, but it had taken his eyes a while to spot her. Legs ran half a mile to a heart-shaped ass perched on a barstool in a snug pinstriped skirt.
“Did you want your usual pitcher of beer?” Sally leaned in close despite the jukebox stopping and most of the crowd dispersing. Her voice was a little raspy, and she practically breathed in his ear. He glanced into her far-away eyes.
“Yep.”
Then he tilted a little, looking past Sally to get a better look at the hottie at the bar.
Her jacket hung on one of those little clamp hooks that nobody ever used, revealing a tight white blouse. It hugged the curved, hourglass shape of her. Thorn’s eyes took in those curves slowly. Honey blonde hair was pinned up, naughty librarian style, revealing a long neck. The skin there was flawless; a sort of smooth, tan that just made you want to stroke her. He imagined how soft that neck must be, and how it would feel to kiss it. Thorn went a little stiff. He definitely wanted to do this chick. At least from behind.
“Did you hear anything I just said?”
Thorn came back to himself, blinking at the bar owner. “Um. Nope.”
She threw her head back and stomped away back behind the bar. What the hell was that all about?
His eyes returned to their trip around the pretty patron. If Thorn had any friends, he’d make a wager the chick was wearing stockings. Not nylons. From this angle, she definitely seemed to be a stockings chick. Nylons looked good, but they were just another layer of underwear—a frustrating, long-legged layer. Stockings, now… The thought made him even harder.
Sally worked behind the bar, banging glasses and pitchers around with a scowl. While he waited for his beer, he watched as the slinky chick beckoned her over. He caught a little side-boob. There was more than a handful there, and Thorn had pretty big mitts. He wondered what she was drinking. The hot blonde seemed a little too sophisticated for domestic-on-tap. Not from around here; that was for sure.
Ripple, Oregon, population less than a thousand, sat on the intersection of Highway 224 and Ripple Road, which eventually turned into a
national forest road. As far as Thorn was concerned, the town should be called Intersection, because that’s all it was. A gas station, this bar, a general store, a barber/beauty shop and a bed and breakfast a half mile down the road. Ripple didn’t even have a stoplight. Hotties in stockings didn’t hang out much in Ripple.
Thorn stared at the full pitcher just sitting on the bar, trying not to overhear the idiotic conversation and unfunny jokes. He waved at Sally, who frowned at him. This was getting boring in a hurry. Thorn couldn’t do boring.
He watched as the smoking hot blonde chatted with Sally. She pushed something across the bar toward her. Sally looked at the something as if it were a turd. The bar owner gave Thorn a desperate look that he could not interpret. The curvy chick angled her head at Sally. She then turned.
In profile, her face seemed like a sculpture, perfect, smooth and a little cool. Her eyes were an unusual color, somewhere between gold and green. Cheekbones were high. She pouted out very full lips in a thoughtful frown. Was she studying him? If she was, he seemed to come up short as she spoke with Sally again. He considered getting up and grabbing the pitcher. Before he could, Sally’s face beseeched him.
Her eyes were bright, and blinking a lot. When she brought the pitcher to him, he could see her lips trembling. It looked like Sally was going to puke. Or maybe cry. Holy fuck, he couldn’t think which was worse. Thorn needed to escape.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hottie get up and sling on her jacket. As she moved toward the door, the two guys in flannel flanking her tossed looks over their shoulders. A third guy nodded back and snagged a backpack from the floor beneath his table. The three of them followed the blonde into the night.
Thorn could practically smell their bad intentions. The beast within reared up.
Sally set the pitcher on the table. Her breaths were short, hitched. Her hands trembled so that she spilled half a pint before settling the beer. “Thorn, do you know what that woman said to me?”
Avoiding her eyes, he held up a hand. “Hold that thought.”
He hurried from the table, thinking that the night just might have gotten interesting.
***
Thorn’s first thought at seeing the woman backed up against her little sporty car was that he wanted to do this chick from the front, too. Apparently, the three guys from the bar had the same idea. From the flush on her cheeks and the flash in her eyes, Thorn got the idea that she wasn’t interested in a gang-bang.
There were only a few trucks in the gravel lot, the nearest street light on the opposite corner. Bathed in the neon red of beer signs, the three pressed in on the woman.
“C’mon, baby, the way you’re dressed it’s obvious you’re begging for it.” This one had been sitting on the left. He had shaggy blond hair.
The one from her right wore a hipster beard and stocking cap. “Look, if it’s a financial thing, we got you covered.”
The third one, who had been sitting alone, reached into his backpack.
Thorn grabbed him by the collar of his new Grecian blue puffy vest with his left hand and the backpack with his right. “S’up, bitches?”
“Hey, motherfucker, let go of my stuff!”
Whirling around, the two dudes grabbing the hottie craned their necks up at him. Thorn stood about six-eight in his boots, and weighted around two-seventy. Faces went slack.
“This is a private party.” Struggling in his grip, the third guy tried to dig into the pack.
Thorn held the bag away. “Whatcha got in here? Party favors for your private party?”
Despite the pale face and the quiver in his voice, the blond guy spoke up. “There’s three of us, motherfucker.”
In one quick motion, Thorn dropped the pack and caught it by the top loop. Not knowing what was inside, he slammed it into the face of the man he held. When it made a satisfying impact, Thorn dropped both the unconscious man and the bag. “One down.”
“What the fuck, dude, this isn’t any of your business,” blonde guy whined.
Thorn ignored him, taking in the blonde. Those crazy, bright eyes, those lips again pouted in thoughtful analysis. Despite the morons roughing her up, she didn’t have a hair out of place. Plus, cleavage. He knew it was impolite to stare so he hauled his eyes up to hers. “Hey, do you want me to pound the shit out of these guys for you? It would be my pleasure.”
He leaned on the word pleasure. Thorn was no good at talking to women. For now, he was going with innuendo. Smooth.
The woman laughed, showing white teeth and throwing her head back in a way that made his crotch twitch. “I got this covered. You can go back to getting shit-faced, Lumberjack.”
“Damn. I was looking for trouble.”
She beeped open her car door. When she slid inside, her skirt rode up. Thorn’s eyes were magnetized to the dark, lacy band around her upper thigh. Stockings. And a shiny little clip. His vocabulary of lingerie was limited, but he came up with garters. Thorn had never heard of a woman wearing stockings and garters for any other reason than recreation.
Without another word, she slammed the door and started the engine. Thorn watched her toss gravel as she headed out to the highway. She turned left. Civilization was to the right, to the west. So she must be staying at the B&B. Thorn watched until her taillights disappeared, the urge to follow her flaring for a second. He then turned his attention to the men standing there looking stupid.
Through some psychic link, the both of them sprinted off in separate directions at the same time. That left only the idiot on the ground. The guy in the blue vest stirred with a moan. Thorn kicked him in the head. Crouching, he snagged the backpack and walked over to the dumpster. Thorn considered putting Mr. Blue Vest in the dumpster as well, but he had beer to drink. Plus his chainsaw was still in the bar.
***
Thorn had a weird thought that, despite all the curvy goodness, there was a lot more to the gorgeous blonde than just bangability. Her confidence, even in the face of three creeps and a bag of stun-guns and ropes and shit, inspired the thought that maybe she could’ve taken care of herself.
The sight of a wet, red face at his table flushed away his hottie thoughts. Thorn didn’t think he could make it past Sally and into the john to wait her out. Especially since this was her bar, and she’d be closing. Crying. Fucking swell. Puking might be better—or at least quicker. Since she held his chainsaw hostage, he sat down across from her.
“Can you knock off the fucking tears?” he comforted her.
Sorrow dragged down her features in a way that made him want to run the fuck away, chainsaw or not. “She said—she said I’d have to sell the bar to her. If I didn’t she’d just build a—a—”
What the fuck was Sally talking about?
“Gastropub!” she wailed.
Shit. He hadn’t even had a second pitcher yet. “What the hell is a gastropub?”
“Fuh-fuh-fuh fancy bar! She’ll steal all my tourist business!” The wailing and sobbing continued. She blew her nose in her bar rag.
Thorn didn’t know what she was talking about. Didn’t want to know, really. Sally buried her face in her snotty bar towel and pushed a business card toward him.
Not sure if the card was mucous-covered, Thorn pulled it closer with a fingernail.
Felicity Malkin
Real Estate Development
Felicity Malkin, even the name made his dick a little hard. Once again, he thought about driving over to the bed-and-breakfast. What would he say to her? Hey, baby, you are so fine that even your name gives me a hard-on.
Smooth.
“So this—” Thorn stopped himself from saying hottie. He had the feeling it might bring on a fresh round of blubbering. “Felicity wants to buy this dump? Why? There isn’t even an apostrophe after Squirrels. Or would it be Squirrel, apostrophe ess?”
Sally’s eyes burned when she looked at him. “How about double-u tee eff, Thorn? This was my dad’s place—it’s how I make a living.”
Thorn glanced around
and saw the few remaining patrons staring back, empty glasses lifted. He opted not to comment.
“She wants to build apartments, a hotel, maybe a resort. It’s just going to eff-up this whole place.”
In his brain, the fact that Sally used letters to swear vied with the idea that anyone would build anything around here, each idea equally bizarre. A more immediate thought buried both of these concepts—long legs, wide hips, slender waist, big tits, stockings and sass, just a half mile down the road. Thorn would definitely pay this Felicity Malkin a visit.
Thorn lifted the pitcher and drained it before quietly picking up his chainsaw and leaving the bawling Sally for last calls.
Chapter Two
Felicity rose from the four-poster bed, staring out the window at the gray morning. In this hick outpost, she would no doubt have to drive for half an hour to find a decent latte. Well, she would fix that soon enough. Houses out here were cheap, and so was land. Although Portland, an hour or so away, was booming, people hadn’t flocked this far out just yet. Or, rather, hadn’t been priced out this far yet. She had to get in on the game early. Eventually, people would get priced out of their current living situation, and come running east.
She’d spent the week scouting the area, and already had a place picked out for a shopping center. Nothing too big, just an anchor supermarket and a bunch of little businesses—a decent café among them. If she could swing the financing, she would build it at the same time as the apartments went up. Ripple, Oregon, a damp little nothing village in the middle of the woods would work its way onto the map.
Hopping in the shower, she thought of the mess she’d made of the bar offer. The place was horrible, and didn’t even have a proper apostrophe in its name. Still, her proposition was more than fair. Couldn’t that weepy bar owner see that?
As she soaped up her body, she thought about how the night nearly ended in utter disaster. Felicity should have paid more attention to her animal senses. The two morons hitting on her were as much predators as she was—although those creeps were hunters on only a human level. A sick and evil level, but they didn’t have the beast within to back their play.
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