Page 24 of Bear Naked Truth
Silence fell again, thick and almost tender.
He could smell her magic now, unfurling like smoke from a slow-burning ember. Not flashy. Not showy. But wrapping around him like itknewhim.
His bear responded with a slow, aching growl deep in his chest.
He pressed his other hand flat against the bench trying to quiet it. He wanted—needed—to shift. To brush his muzzle against her neck and scent-mark her. To leave a scratch that saidmine.
But he wouldn’t. Not tonight. Not when she still flinched from the idea of being seen, let alonewanted.
So instead, he leaned back just enough to let air settle between them again.
“You hungry?” he asked, his voice warm but easy now. “Markus makes moon-pie shortbread when he’s feeling smug.”
Autumn blinked like he’d just switched languages. “What?”
“Food,” he said, tilting his head toward the counter. “Neutral territory. No soul-shattering revelations required.”
She stared at him. Then, slowly, cautiously, she nodded.
“Shortbread sounds... less intense.”
He stood, offering his hand. She hesitated only half a second before slipping hers into his.
And they walked toward the counter like any other maybe-couple in a too-magical bookstore, surrounded by quiet truths and starlit bookshelves.
The only difference was Dorian had already decided.
He wasn’t letting her go.
13
AUTUMN
Autumn was beginning to understand the danger of softness.
It wasn't spells or hauntings or whatever that book back atPines & Needleshad decided to air out like dirty laundry. It was Dorian, quiet, steady Dorian with those golden eyes that saw too much and touched like he knew what pieces you’d glued back together yourself.
Back at Briar Hollow, the silence felt different than usual. Less oppressive. Less haunted. More like the house itself had settled, too, as if even the spirits knew something had shifted between them in the candlelit hush of the bookshop.
Dorian headed to his room first and Autumn took a second to have a moment to think about what happened at the bookstore. But Autumn wasn’t ready to name it. Not the moment, not the feeling blooming somewhere behind her ribs like an out-of-season blossom.
She tugged off her coat and boots in the front hallway while Dorian moved toward the kitchen to put on tea, because of course he did. He always had tea. It was like his love language was warm drinks and gently looming nearby.
“I’ll grab the mugs,” she called, heading toward the cabinet just beyond the dining room.
“No worries,” he called from the pantry. “I’ve got ‘em.”
She turned the corner and stopped short.
Dorian stood at the sink with his back to her, barefoot on the hardwood floor, wearing only a pair of sweatpants that slung low on his hips and a hand towel tossed over one shoulder. The rest of him? Bare.
She froze. Not because he was shirtless. Well. Okay.Partiallybecause he was shirtless. But mostly because she hadn’t expected the sight to feel like an incantation.
His back was strong, broad, freckled across the shoulder blades like constellations she didn’t know the names of. His arms were thick with muscle, tensed slightly as he reached for the kettle. And his chest—when he turned slightly, smiling without looking—was just… a lot. Smooth and golden-toned and dusted with just enough dark hair to make her pulse stutter.
“Need something?” he asked, casually, like he didn’t just exist in a way that scrambled her nervous system.
“Just—” she waved a hand vaguely, stepping around him to reach for a spoon in the drawer. “Getting out of your way.”
