Page 3 of Bear Naked Truth
She nodded. “Yeah. Just… a lot to take in.”
“I’ll give you some space,” he said, but didn’t move. His gaze lingered, not in a way that made her feel exposed, but like he was trying to memorize something soft and fleeting.
“Dorian?”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t spook easy,” she said quietly, still facing the window. “But this place… it wants something.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “It wants to be heard.”
She turned back to him, studying the man who should’ve felt like a walking contradiction—too open, too earnest for a place like this. And yet, somehow, he fit.
He finally pushed off the frame, flashing her a smile. “I’ll let you unpack. Holler if the bed tries to eat you or the curtains whisper secrets.”
“Noted,” she said, voice wry.
As the door clicked shut behind him, the room fell quiet.
She crossed to her bag, unzipped it, and pulled out her cleansing kit. Vials of black salt. Charcoal. Candles etched with runes. She lined them on the dresser in practiced motion, but her hands weren’t as steady as she wanted them to be.
The room wasn’t oppressive. But it wasn’t at peace either. And somewhere beneath the floorboards, or maybe deeper than that, something was watching. Waiting.
Autumn closed her eyes, taking a long breath.
She’d come to banish ghosts. But it was the living man with the golden eyes and smile like sunlight that was already haunting her.
2
DORIAN
Dorian Hawthorne had never been particularly superstitious, but he had to admit—when the wind whistled just right through Briar Hollow’s broken eaves, it sounded like the house was holding its breath.
He stood at the base of the wide staircase, arms crossed, shoulder leaned against the bannister post worn smooth by time and memory. The inn creaked softly above him, a shiver in the bones of old wood. Not a bad shiver. Not malevolent. But aware.
The house was always listening.
He rubbed the back of his neck, letting his golden-hazel gaze wander the front parlor. Light filtered through the tall windows in slanted shafts, catching the dust like slow-falling stars. The fireplace was quiet for now. He hadn’t lit it since last week, after the logs hissed with whispering voices instead of smoke.
"Not today, thanks," he muttered to the room like it might respond. Which, given the week he'd had, wasn’t entirely out of the question.
The soft patter of steps on the stairs pulled his attention up. Autumn.
She moved like someone trained to be invisible, even when she was the only one around—quiet, cautious, wrapped in that oversized sweater that looked like it had seen better decades. She stopped halfway down, scanning the space like she was expecting something to jump out from under the rug.
Her eyes found him. Violet-blue. Startling in this light.
“You always lurk in corners, or is that a new innkeeper hobby?”
Dorian let a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. “Only when I’m trying to look mysterious.”
“Mission accomplished,” she said, descending the last few steps. “This place has a definite vibe.”
He chuckled, straightening. “That’s the polite way of sayin’ it feels haunted.”
“I try to be polite.” She gave him a once-over. “Sometimes.”
He liked her voice—calm but clipped, like she didn’t waste syllables. It had a rhythm that was hard to ignore. And that scent… gods, it was driving him insane. Clean soap, cinnamon, and something wild he couldn’t place. His bear stirred low in his chest, that instinctual buzz thrumming beneath his skin since he first caught her scent as she passed him entering the inn.
