Page 82 of Grin and Bear It

SEVENTY-TWO

Morning sunlight streamed through the windows of the Maxen cabin, bathing the reading nook in golden warmth. Thora sat with her legs tucked beneath her, slowly rotating her shoulder through the exercises Willow had prescribed. Each movement came easier than the day before, the stiffness gradually receding.

She paused, listening to Artair moving about in the kitchen—the soft clink of mugs, the rich aroma of coffee brewing. Her sabertooth stirred, not with the wariness she’d once considered normal, but with a contented awareness that surprised her with its intensity.

The brush with death had shifted something fundamental inside her. Every sensation seemed heightened—the sunlight on her skin, the texture of the blanket across her lap, the distant sounds of birds in the forest beyond the cabin. Where once she’d have maintained careful distance from anyone, now her body craved Artair’s nearness like oxygen.

“Testing the limits again?”

Thora looked up to find Artair standing in the doorway, two steaming mugs in his hands, hair still damp from his shower.The sight of him—strong, solid, present—sent a ripple of warmth through her core.

“Willow says I need to rebuild strength.” She accepted the coffee he offered, deliberately letting her fingers brush against his. The small contact sparked awareness across her skin. “Your grandmother thinks I should be back to hunting rogue shifters by now.”

“Eira expects everyone to have bear resilience.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he settled beside her. The couch dipped under his weight, naturally bringing them closer together. “Even badass sabertooth shifters who threw themselves in front of poisoned arrows.”

“A strategic decision I stand by.” Thora sipped her coffee, savoring both the rich flavor and the way his thigh pressed against hers. “You’d have been unconscious for a week.”

“While you only needed, what, three days?” His arm settled around her shoulders, the casual intimacy of the gesture no longer setting off her internal alarms. “Stubborn cat.”

“Strategic cat,” she corrected, leaning into his solid warmth. The contact satisfied some primal need inside her, her sabertooth purring with contentment at his proximity.

His thumb traced lazy circles on her upper arm as they sat in comfortable silence. Three weeks ago, such casual touching would have sent her bolting for the door. Now she found herself melting into it, turning her face to nuzzle against his neck, inhaling his cedar-and-honey scent.

“You smell good,” she murmured against his skin.

She felt more than heard his sharp intake of breath. “That’s new.”

“What is?”

“You initiating contact.” His voice dropped lower, rumbling in his chest. “You never used to do that.”

Thora pulled back slightly, studying his face. The wonder in his dark eyes made her heart skip. “I guess near-death experiences change your perspective.” She traced her fingers along his jaw, enjoying the slight roughness of morning stubble. “Makes you realize what matters.”

His hand covered hers, pressing her palm more firmly against his cheek. “And what matters to Thora Halliwell?”

The question hung between them, weighted with implications. Six months ago, she would have answered with something about independence or professional success. Now...

“This,” she said simply, leaning forward to press her lips against his.

The kiss began gentle but quickly deepened as Artair responded, his coffee forgotten on the side table. His hands cradled her face with exquisite tenderness, as though she might shatter if he pressed too hard. The care in his touch melted something inside her chest—the last frozen remnant of self-protection she’d carried for so long.

Ignoring the twinge in her healing shoulder, she moved to straddle his lap. Her hands tangled in his damp hair, pulling him closer, wanting to eliminate any space between them. His response was immediate—arms encircling her waist, holding her against him with careful strength.

“Your shoulder,” he murmured against her lips.

“Is fine.” She nipped at his lower lip. “Stop treating me like I’ll break.”

A growl rumbled through his chest, his bear responding to her challenge. His hands tightened on her hips, no longer quite so careful. “You nearly died in my arms,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “I’m allowed to be cautious.”

The pain in his eyes sobered her. She pressed her forehead against his, their breath mingling in the small space betweenthem. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” The vulnerability in that single word undid her.

Thora pulled back, cupping his face between her palms, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I promise. You’re stuck with me.”

The kiss that followed sealed her vow more effectively than any formal oath. Her sabertooth stretched beneath her skin, purring with satisfaction at their closeness, at the rightness of being in his arms. This—this man, this connection, this feeling of belonging—had become essential to her in ways she’d never imagined possible.

Their moment of intimacy was interrupted by Artair’s phone vibrating on the table. With obvious reluctance, he checked the screen.

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