Page 77 of Grin and Bear It

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said, voice rough with emotion.

Her lips curved into a weak smile. “Seems only fair. You’ve been terrifying me with feelings for weeks.”

The unexpected admission made him smile against her skin, hope blooming in his chest. His bear rumbled with satisfaction, recognizing the first verbal acknowledgment of what they had both been circling.

“How long?” Thora asked, her voice scratchy from disuse.

“Three days.” Artair reached for the water cup on the bedside table, helping her take careful sips. “The toxin targeted bears but adapted when it hit your system.”

“Creative,” she muttered. “Your brother has quite the imagination.”

Artair froze, cup midair. “How did you?—”

“Scents don’t lie.” Her amber eyes studied him. “Same base notes as yours, but sharper. Colder.”

Of course, she’d picked up on that detail even while fighting. The bounty hunter missed nothing.

“Your grandfather’s here,” Artair said. “Aleksander Tiikeri. He brought pride healers.”

Thora’s eyes widened. “And your grandmother allowed it?”

“For you?” Artair’s thumb traced her knuckles. “She’d have invited dragons if it helped.”

A ghost of a smile touched Thora’s lips before her eyelids fluttered, exhaustion reclaiming her. “Don’t leave?”

“Never,” he promised as she drifted back to sleep.

SIXTY-EIGHT

One week later, Thora moved carefully around Artair’s cabin, each day bringing noticeable improvement. The hospital had released her to his care after the combined Tiikeri-Maxen healing protocols accelerated her recovery beyond medical explanation.

Artair watched her from the kitchen doorway, admiring the determination in every step she took. Her movements lacked their usual fluid grace, but she improved visibly each day. His bear still paced close to the surface, protective instincts heightened by the lingering scent of illness.

“Quit hovering,” Thora said without turning around. “Your bear anxiety is making my sabertooth twitchy.”

“I’m not hovering.” He moved closer, his hand automatically raising to support her elbow. “I’m supervising.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Is that what you call it?”

“Strategic monitoring.”

“Hovering,” she repeated, but leaned into his touch. That small acceptance sent warmth spreading through his chest. Each day brought new progress in her physical recovery, but also in the way she allowed him closer—small surrenders that meant everything.

A knock interrupted their moment.

“Delivery service!” Bryn’s cheerful voice called through the door.

Artair opened it to find his sister laden with bags, accompanied by Jash, Kalyna, and Rust. The group bustled in like they owned the place, arms filled with containers and packages.

“Rescue mission,” Bryn explained, kissing Artair’s cheek before making a beeline for the kitchen. “We’ve come to save Thora from your cooking.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my cooking,” Artair protested, helping Jash with a particularly precarious stack of containers.

“The Great Pancake Disaster of 2017 suggests otherwise,” Jash replied, adjusting his glasses.

“One time?—”

“The kitchen smelled like burning sadness for a week,” Bryn called over her shoulder.

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