Page 33 of Bear Naked Truth
She sat up with a frustrated groan and shoved the blankets aside. Her sweater clung to her skin, damp from the humidity and her restless tossing. She pulled it off and grabbed a fresh one, something too soft for how sharp she felt inside.
The ghost hadn’t made itself known tonight, which made her more nervous than comforted. Spirits didn’t get quiet unless they were plotting—or watching.
Autumn padded barefoot across the room to the window. The glass was cold beneath her fingers. Outside, the fog hugged the garden like it had secrets to keep. She could almost see the outline of Dorian’s greenhouse in the distance, soft light bleeding from within. He probably left it on again.
He was always doing things like that, forgetting to turn off the lights, leaving half-folded laundry on the stairs, baking at unreasonable hours because his hands needed something to do when his thoughts got too loud.
She liked those things about him.
And that terrified her even more.
Autumn pulled her notebook from the dresser, flipped through her sigil sketches until she found the one for psychic shielding. Her charcoal stick felt brittle in her hand as she drew the lines, focusing on the precision of each stroke. Magic needed intent. Purpose. Something she could control.
Unlike her heart.
Halfway through redrawing the symbol, the air in the room took on a change.
It was subtle, barely a whisper against the nape of her neck, but every hair on her body stood up. She turned slowly, notebook forgotten on the floor.
“Not tonight,” she whispered. “I’m not in the mood.”
The spirit didn’t answer, but the temperature dropped. A flicker of movement in the mirror. A shadow just beyond the doorway that shouldn’t have been there.
Autumn stepped into the hall, every nerve in her body singing.
The house was quiet. Too quiet for an old house.
She moved toward the stairwell, her bare feet soundless on the wooden floor. The flickering hallway light buzzed above her. One bulb dimmed completely, casting a jagged slant of darkness across the floor.
Then the whisper came.
Not words. Not really. But emotion. Raw. Enraged.
“You need to stop,” Autumn said firmly, grounding her heels, centering her breath. “I’m not here to threaten you. But Iwillprotect this house. And the people in it.”
Another shift. Like wind through the walls. She reached for the charm at her neck but before she could clasp it, something slammed into her from the side—cold and weightless and furious.
Autumn hit the wall with a grunt, her shoulder slamming into the edge of a bookshelf. Pain bloomed down her right side. She tried to stand, but the air grew thick, pressing down on her like hands she couldn’t see.
A hiss in her ear. A scratch along her ribs.
She gasped, twisting, scrambling backward into the corner.
“Stop it!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “You don’t get to scare me into silence. Not anymore!”
The pressure eased. Just a little.
Enough for her to crawl to the nearest room, one of the empty guest bedrooms, and slam the door behind her. She pressed her back against it, shaking.
Silence.
Slowly, the pain in her side sharpened to something clearer. She lifted the hem of her sweater. Four angry red welts scored across her ribs, still weeping faint blood. Not deep. But deep enough to send a message.
A warning.
She swallowed hard.
The room swam a little as adrenaline started to crash out of her system. Her vision blurred at the edges.
