Page 26 of The Alpha's Runaway Mate
He laughs, a real, deep sound that makes my stomach flip. “Fair point.”
“Speaking of that,” I say, leaning back against the couch. “What’s it actually like? Being a bear.”
His brow quirks. “You sure you want the honest answer?”
“Always.”
“It’s balance,” he says finally. “He’s not a separate thing. The bear is me. Every instinct I have, protect, fight, keep, claim, it all comes from him. When I shift, it’s not some costume. It’s just me… without the walls.”
I study him. “And being Alpha?”
He shifts, the movement drawing my attention to the way his muscles tighten beneath his shirt. “Being Alpha means I lead. I make the hard calls. I keep the peace when tempers rise. If someone threatens my people, I handle it. If someone threatens you…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I can feel the weight of it hanging between us.
“You’d end it,” I say quietly.
He nods once. “Every time.”
My stomach does a strange flip, not fear, exactly. More like awareness. “That’s… intense.”
His lips curve faintly. “So am I.”
I roll my eyes. “And humble too.”
He chuckles low. “You’ll learn that about me.”
“Oh, I’m learning plenty,” I murmur, swirling the last of my hot chocolate. “You said I’m your mate. What does that mean, exactly? For me, I mean.”
He leans back, gaze steady. “It means your soul recognizes mine. The bond connects us. The more time we spend together, the stronger it gets. It’s why you feel calm around me. Why you can’t quite walk away, even when you tell yourself you should.”
“That sounds a little like hypnosis,” I tease, trying to cover how hard my pulse is pounding.
“It’s not.” His tone softens. “It’s nature. Instinct. You were made for me, and I was made for you.”
My throat goes dry. “And if I… don’t want that?”
He studies me for a long moment. “Then I wait.”
“You sound so sure I’ll come around.”
“I am.” He grins, slow and confident. “You’re already halfway there.”
“Wow. Cocky much?”
“Not cocky,” he says. “Certain.”
The quiet stretches again, but it’s a good kind of quiet. Safe. He’s watching the fire, his profile bathed in amber light, and I catch myself memorizing the shape of his mouth, the curve of his jaw.
I take a breath. “You know, I think I liked it better when I thought you were just a grumpy bar owner.”
“You know, I think I liked it better when I thought you were just a grumpy bar owner.”
“Iama grumpy bar owner,” he says with a smirk. “Just one who occasionally turns into a bear and gets stuck rescuing stubborn women who think living in tents counts as a life plan.”
I laugh, nudging his arm. “I was not stubborn.”
He arches a brow. “You glared at me for telling you to pack up and acted like I’d kicked your favorite puppy.”
