Alpha's Rescue (Shifter Ops 5)

I can’t stop staring.

She moves along the trail, head high, braids swishing over her swaying backside.

I keep following quietly, keeping my distance. I’m barefoot, in old jeans that have more holes than denim and a shirt so threadbare it’s almost see-through. My beard is reaching Biblical proportions. It’s soft though.

I realize I’m rubbing my face and drop my hand. Why do I care what I look like? It’s not like I’m heading to a date. I don’t date. Not anymore.

Even if I did date, I wouldn’t date a human again. I made that rule when I was eighteen and haven’t broken it once since then. I haven’t even been tempted to break it.

So why is the scent of this little human hitting so hard?

Overhead, a bird lands on a branch and chirps. Then it sees me and falls silent.

The little human whirls around. “Bentley? Is that you?”

I freeze, but like all werebears, I’ve been hunting and tracking since I could walk. What didn’t come naturally, I learned in my special forces unit. There’s a vale of pine trees, three laurel bushes, and a boulder between her and me. The distance and the sun dappled shadows camouflage me, and I’m standing downwind. Not that she can scent me. Humans never can.

“Bentley,” she calls again. “I know you’re there. You’re not funny.”

From the trail above, another human comes crashing through the brush. A male human, pasty pale and smelling sour.

“I’m right here. Jesus, Lana,” he says. “I had to take a leak.”

What an asshole. I hate the way he talks to her.

“Oh,” her voice softens. “Just tell me next time. I thought you were a bear.”

“I’d be so lucky,” the guy mutters, and I have to stifle a growl.

“I heard that,” she retorts, with more fondness than her rude companion warrants. If it were me, I’d bite his head off.

Maybe I still will.

The two continue huffing and puffing their way up the mountain, bickering like a couple on a sitcom. I follow, listening closely. I don’t know why I don’t just move on. They’re two hikers. Nothing special. But my bear doesn’t want me to lose sight of them.

“Mom and Dad would have loved this,” she says. Her voice is smooth and musical as a dove’s, while her companion whines like a circular saw.

So Lana and Bentley are not a couple—they’re brother and sister. Stepsiblings.

He’s munching on overpriced beef jerky and tosses the yellow wrapper on the side of the trail when he finishes his snack. The female whirls on him. “No. Absolutely not. We do not litter.”

He mumbles something but picks it up and thrusts it in his pack. Next he goes to toss away a half eaten granola bar and she chides him again. “We’re not supposed to leave human food, Bentley. Remember? Don't feed the bears.”

“Yeah, yeah…” He waves a hand like he’s swatting a fly.

Disappointment flashes over the woman’s face, and I find myself a few feet closer to the hikers than I should be, half a second from introducing my fist to the asshole’s face.

She flourishes a bright pink canteen. “Do you want some water?”

“No.”

“Trail mix? I made it myself.” She pulls out a bag filled with what looks like almond slivers and M&Ms. “Only the good stuff.” She scoops a handful into her mouth and chomps. “Mmmm, so good. Come on, big bro, have a taste.”

“Let’s just get this over with. How far do we have to go?” He props his boot up on a rock and ties it, glowering at the white flowers blooming at his feet as if they’re a pile of dog poop.

“All the way to the top.”

“They won't know if we just dump their ashes off the side here.” He gestures to a nearby ledge.

She props her hands on her hips. “We're supposed to be remembering them. This is a memorial hike. Just you and me.” She swings a pink and black pack down and pulls out a fancy urn. The gold leaf painted in swirls along the side flashes in the spring sunlight. She holds it up. “Look, I know this is hard…”

The brother crosses his arms, a bored expression on his face. He looks as though he’s waiting for his latte order, not grieving dead parents.

“...but it’s what they wanted,” she forges on. “They cared enough to stipulate this memorial hike in the will.” She presses the urn to her chest. “They wanted us both here, to make memories.”

The guy’s mouth twists like he saw something distasteful. “The only reason I’m doing this is because it’s a requirement in the will. As soon as we’re done, you’ll inherit your half of the money, and I’ll inherit mine. Then we never have to speak again.”

“Look, Bentley. I know we didn’t get along as kids.” She gives a forced laugh. “I know you’re the one who ripped the heads off my Barbie dolls and stuck them on shish kebab skewers when I was six. I’ve forgiven you, by the way.” She waits for him to respond, but he keeps on hiking.