Sentinels: Kodiak Chained

In the instant they hesitated, the lady bear spread her hands in a mollifying gesture. “No big deal, fellas. He startled me. Wouldn’t want to turn it into something noticeable, right?” She sent a significant glance at the security guard most definitely headed their way, a man in kilt and hose and arms that no doubt stood him in good stead when it came time for the caber toss. “After all, there’s still whisky to be tasted.”

That did it. They hauled their friend to his feet, brushed him off and dragged him away. One of the women offered a thumbs-up and said, loud enough to be heard over the distance between them, “He’s always an asshole at these things.”

“Could have been worse,” Ruger said, but his eyes were on the lady bear, and the lurking humor in her eye. Not for a moment discomfited; not for a moment concerned. “Someone could have gotten broken.”

They laughed and moved on, not quite taking him seriously. The lady bear did, eyeing him for a long moment, a smile in the corners of her dark eyes. “Mariska Banks,” she told him, and the humor took on a certain gleam. Invitation.

“Ruger James,” he said, and did the little whisky a grave injustice by tossing it back. “But you knew that.”

“My place?” she asked.

Sweet cinnamon bear, full of humor and fire and strength. “Anyplace you like,” he said, rumbling low.

She didn’t respond as she headed toward the parking lot, a ragged asphalt patch crammed full of cars in what had become true dusk. She looked over her shoulder, found him watching her, and smiled—and she didn’t wait. Not playing games, just a matter-of-fact check yes or no.

Ruger took a deep breath of the night air, found it scented with leftover heat and sage and creosote. It tasted like anticipation. The hair of his nape bristled, a tingle on his skin.

He followed her.

Through the musicians, past the collection of Celtic dog breeds on display, past the sheep and even a few Highland cattle. By the time they reached the parking lot, he’d caught up; by the time they walked to the unlit far end where Ruger had parked, evening had found its way into nightfall.

The guy’s friends probably thought they couldn’t be seen in the dark, with their semicircle blocking the way to Ruger’s short-bed Hemi. Sentinel night vision tinged the men blue, but left them crystal clear—along with the crowbar, the baseball bat and the tire iron.

“We thought about it,” one of them said as Ruger and Mariska stopped, backlit by the fair. “And we decided it was a big deal after all.”

Ruger exchanged a glance with Mariska. “This time,” he said, “we share.”

This time, someone got broken.

Mariska jammed her key in the lock of the small house, her brevis accommodations for this Tucson assignment. Like all Sentinel temp homes, it sat right where the city abruptly gave way to desert: a place where a bear—or wolf or javelina or big cat—could roam.

Ruger stood up close against her back, one arm reaching over her shoulder and propped against the stucco house, his breath stirring her hair and his presence stirring her body.

He’d fought with her. Beside her. He’d known her strength; he’d trusted her training. And he’d embraced it, not grown wary with it.

After a lifetime of feeling too bold, too strong, too much, Mariska quite suddenly didn’t quite feel alone anymore.

The brush of his body warmed her from the inside—a ruffled feeling that trilled down her nape and tickled along her skin, gathering heat low in her belly, tightening down along the backs of her thighs. Greedy and unabashed.

Because now she knew—it would end soon enough. She hadn’t intended it when she’d come here; she’d imagined herself needed—wanted—in the field beside him. She’d had only to meet him to understand how personally he’d take her presence—to sense the pride of him.

Maybe he’d understand. Maybe he’d see it had nothing to do with her respect for him—the famous Southwest healer of both brawn and compassion—and everything to do with what she wanted from life, and a little bit about what he deserved.

In any event, it hadn’t been hard this morning to convince Nick Carter to send her out as Ruger’s backup on the coming field op. He hadn’t been proven in the field since the Flagstaff ambush; they couldn’t risk him.

Not that they ever should have been asking so much of him in the first place.

And it was an opportunity—a chance she’d never been afforded on her home turf, where too many had seen her grow up and still thought of her as little Mariska.

The bear in her went after what it wanted.

What she wanted now was one night when it didn’t matter that she was strong and practical, exotic but not beautiful. Different. She was the one the men approached out of curiosity and not because of any true interest; she was the one who looked short and stumpy next to the sleek Sentinel women who shifted to big cat form, the one who embarrassed even Sentinel men with her strength, never mind her vigorous nature in intimacy.

No little wonder she’d come looking for this singular man—the man she’d watched and admired and come to know through reports. A man who would be her physical match, and whose underlying nature might just match hers. If nothing else… just for tonight.

Tomorrow, everything would change. He wouldn’t tolerate what she’d done for the sake of her place in this brevis. No bear would.

As soon as she twisted the doorknob, he pushed the door open—looming over her in a way that made her feel not threatened or crowded, but claimed. And when he moved forward, she pushed back—contact enough to strengthen the lure when she did move away.

She laughed when he growled an undertone of response. “Ruger,” she said, trying out the taste of his name, and tossed the house keys onto the low bowl shelf by the entry.

He pushed the door shut and took her shoulders from behind—an aggressive move not so different from that of the man at the festival. But for Ruger she turned easily, fluidly, enjoying the strength in his hands and the assumption in his touch. She drank in the sight of him, too-wiry sable hair just long enough to grip when the moment called for it, beard trimmed closely enough to guess the shape of his jaw, and no need to wonder about pale brown eyes or strong brow and cheek, the full shape of his mouth. No need to wonder about the breadth of his shoulders, well above hers, or that bit of hair peeking out at the unbuttoned neckline of his shirt.

She ran her hands across the rough nap of the material, absorbing the warmth beneath, the plane of muscle—the hint of nipple.

He inhaled sharply. “Whatever you want of this night, tell me—” he took a deep breath, let it out “—now,” he said. “Tell me now.” While I can still think. The unspoken sounded clearly enough.

She didn’t hesitate. “What I want is tonight. All of it.”

He looked at her long enough to make her doubt—to hold her breath as he searched her gaze. And then he brought his hands up to cup her jaw, tangling his fingers in her hair, tipping her head up to take her mouth in no uncertain terms. No shy attempt to get acquainted, no hesitant questions. He brought her into it strong and hard, holding her right where he wanted her as he slanted his head for a deeper connection.

It took her no time at all to grab him back, hands skimming his ribs, finding his flanks and kneading hard to pull him up against her. She was too short; he was too tall. It didn’t particularly seem to matter. She felt his response all the same, and she stood on her toes to reach his kiss, full of bursting internal exclamations and enthusiasm. When they broke apart to breathe, she tipped her head back and laughed for the pure exhilaration of it.

“Hell, yes,” she told him, and kicked off her leather walking flats, flipping the snap on her pants even as he came back for her, leaving barely enough room for her hands at his zipper, fingers on automatic as she drank up the scent, the touch, the very presence of him—kissing hard and strong and deep, her hair and her nerves already mussed beyond all redemption by his stroking hands.

She stepped out of her pants, right there in her foyer—no lights necessary, with her night vision showing perfect detail. She reached for the jeans now hanging low on his ass—and for the first time he startled her, both with the low and demanding noise in his throat and with his hands as they slid away from her hair, her shoulders, coming to rest at her waist—picking her right up off the floor with no effort at all to flip her around.

She found her balance with her hands braced against the half wall between the foyer and the great room, and she understood right away. Even in the thrill of it—the strength of him, the anticipation—she whirled back around. “No,” she protested. “I want to touch—”

Just like that, she was facing the wall again, his body pressing against her—but he leaned down, the side of his head against hers, the stiff brush of his beard against her jaw and her hair tangling between them. “Next time,” he said, and quivered up against her, restraint in the hands that tightened at her hips and the sudden gust of breath in her ear. And then he waited, no more than a heartbeat—a space for protest.

Next time.

“Hell, yes,” she said, bracing her arms against that wall.

“Protected?” he asked. Sentinels were, as a matter of course—those who couldn’t ward themselves had it done for them.

His hands ran over her belly, up to her breasts, learning them, kneading them—lightly at first, until she arched into his hand and said, “Hell, yes.”

His arm crossed her chest—supporting her, continuing to play her breast; the other dropped back to her belly—splayed there a moment, pressing them together while Mariska tipped her head back and hummed, a low and uninhibited sound. A bear sound. Her legs parted and he took full advantage, cupping her; she cried out in surprise at the sudden rush of pleasure and heat, and again as his fingers pressed into her.

“Ready?” he asked, and this time his voice came strangled, the tremble of him surrounding her.

“Hell—” she breathed, and got no further, for he lifted her hips and found his way home, his exclamation of surprised pleasure in her ear, his legs stiffening until he found his balance again.

“—yes,” she whispered, wanting so badly to touch him in return—but her arms knew better, absorbing the increased weight while she held her breath in expectation, waiting to feel the fullness and size of him in motion.

Except he just stayed there—holding her, fingers tightening around her body, his breath a convulsive gasp in her ear—while she finally realized he was grasping for control.