Page 7 of Claimed by the Grumpy Shifter (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #5)

“Because baggage doesn't scare me as much as being bored for the rest of my life.”

She has no idea what she's saying, no concept of the kind of darkness she's inviting into her sunshine-filled world. But the way she's looking at me, like I'm something worth fighting for instead of something to run from, makes me want to believe her.

"You say that now," I murmur, my thumb still stroking across her knuckles because I can't seem to stop touching her. "But you don't know what my baggage looks like."

"Show me."

She's serious. This woman who arranges flowers and makes babies stop crying, who dreams of white picket fences and Sunday morning pancakes, is sitting across from me asking to see the worst parts of me.

And Christ help me, I want to show her. I want to lay every broken piece of myself at her feet and see if she still thinks I'm worth salvaging.

"You sure about that?" I ask. "Because once you see it, you can't unsee it."

"I'm sure."

The waiter appears with our food, and I must force myself to release her hand so he can set down our plates.

The interruption gives me a moment to collect myself, to remember where we are and what's appropriate for a first date.

But the moment he's gone, Christine leans forward, those blue eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that rivals my own.

"Tell me about Afghanistan," she says quietly.

"That's not first-date conversation."

"What is, then? The weather? Our favorite movies?" She picks up her fork but doesn't actually eat anything, just watches me with that steady gaze that makes me feel stripped bare. "I don't want to talk about the weather, Marc. I want to know what put those shadows in your eyes."

Shadows. Is that what she sees when she looks at me? Not the monster I've been telling myself I am, but just a man with shadows?

"It's not a pretty story," I warn her, cutting into my steak with more force than necessary. The meat is perfectly rare, bloody in the center, and my bear approves even as my human side feels vaguely barbaric eating it in front of her.

"I'm not looking for pretty. I'm looking for real."

Real. When's the last time anyone wanted real from me? The military certainly didn't. They wanted efficient, brutal, unquestioning. My commanding officers wanted results, not truth. My teammates wanted someone who could watch their backs, not someone who could share his feelings.

But Christine is asking for something different. Something I'm not sure I know how to give.

"Two tours," I say finally, taking a bite of steak to buy myself time. "First one was standard infantry stuff. Patrol, security, keeping the peace. Nothing I couldn't handle."

"And the second?"

"Special operations. More dangerous missions, higher stakes." I pause, remembering the weight of gear, the taste of dust and fear, the way everything could go to hell in a heartbeat. "We lost men. Good men. And sometimes..."

I trail off, because how do I explain that sometimes I lost control? That sometimes the bear took over and I did things that kept me awake at night, even when they were necessary for survival?

"Sometimes what?" she prompts gently.

"Sometimes I became something I didn't recognize." The confession tastes like ash in my mouth. "Something that scared the men who were supposed to trust me to have their backs."

She's quiet for a long moment, and I brace myself for the inevitable questions. For her to ask what I did, what I became, what made me so dangerous that my own team feared me.

Instead, she says, "Is that why you left the military?"

"Among other reasons." I take another bite of steak, chewing slowly to avoid having to elaborate. "I wasn't fit for service anymore."

"Says who?"

The question catches me off guard. "What?"

"Says who? Who decided you weren't fit for service? You, or someone else?"

"The Corps." The words come out harsher than I intend. "My commanding officers. They made it clear that my... issues... were becoming a liability."

"And you believed them?"

"I had to. The evidence was pretty damning."

She sets down her fork and leans back in her chair, studying me with an expression I can't read. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you're a man who's been carrying other people's expectations for so long that you've forgotten who you actually are underneath them all."

Her words hit like a sniper's bullet, precise and devastating. I stare at her across the table, this woman who's known me for barely two days but somehow sees straight through every wall I've built around myself.

"You don't know me well enough to make that judgment," I say, but even as I say it, I know she's right.

"Don't I? You've been watching me, Marc.

Since the moment you moved in, you've been watching me like I'm something precious that needs protecting.

You brought me flowers this morning, took me to a nice restaurant, ordered wine that probably costs more than most people spend on groceries.

You opened doors for me, helped me into the truck, made sure I had your jacket when I was cold.

" She pauses, and when she continues, her voice is soft but unwavering.

"Those aren't the actions of a man who's only capable of destruction. "

"You don't understand—"

"Then help me understand." She reaches across the table again, her fingers finding mine. "Tell me what happened over there. Tell me what made you believe you're broken."

The bear stirs restlessly, wanting to claim her, to make her understand that she belongs to us now and we don't have to justify ourselves to anyone. But the human side of me—the part that still remembers what it feels like to be ashamed—resists.

"There were incidents," I say finally. "Times when I... lost control. When I did things that weren't entirely human."

"Things like what?"

I can't tell her about the shifting, about the way my bear would surge to the surface during fights, lending me strength and speed that no human should possess.

Can't explain how I tore through enemy combatants with my bare hands, how I tracked wounded soldiers through the desert using senses that belonged to a different species entirely.

"I was more violent than I should have been," I say instead, which is true enough. "More brutal. I scared people who were supposed to trust me."

"Were you protecting them?"

"What?"

"When you lost control, were you protecting your team? Your fellow soldiers?"

The question stops me cold. Because yes, that's exactly what I was doing. Every time the bear surfaced, every time I let the animal take over, it was because someone I cared about was in danger. It was because human strength wasn't enough to keep them safe.

"Yes," I admit.

"Then you weren't out of control. You were doing what you had to do to keep the people you loved alive."

The simple way she reframes it—not as a loss of control but as a choice, a sacrifice—makes something tight in my chest loosen. "The results were the same."

"Were they? How many of your team made it home?"

"Most of them." The words come out rough, heavy with memory. "Every mission, every fight, every time we went out, I tried my best to bring them all home."

"Then you did your job." Her grip on my hand tightens. "You did what you had to do to protect the people who mattered. That's not something to be ashamed of, Marc. That's something to be proud of."

I stare at her, this woman who's rewriting my entire understanding of myself with a few simple words. She makes it sound so straightforward, so noble, when I've spent years convincing myself I was a monster.

"You really believe that?" I ask.

"I believe that a man who's truly dangerous doesn't worry about whether he's dangerous.

He doesn't seek out isolation to protect others.

He doesn't move to a quiet town and try to build a peaceful life.

" She smiles, and it's like sunrise. "I believe that you're exactly the kind of man who deserves white picket fences and Sunday morning pancakes. "

"Christine..." I start, but she's not finished.

"I also believe that you're not going to let me pay for my own dinner, are you?"

The subject change is so abrupt that it takes me a moment to process it. When I do, I can't help but laugh—actually laugh, maybe for the first time in years.

"Absolutely not."

"I figured. You have that protective, old-fashioned streak a mile wide." She grins at me, and I realize she's been deliberately lightening the mood, giving me space to recover from the emotional intensity of the conversation. "It's actually kind of sweet."

"Sweet?" I raise an eyebrow. "That's not a word most people would use to describe me."

"Most people don't know you like I do."

"You've known me for two days."

"Sometimes that's all it takes." She takes a bite of her salmon, chewing it. "Besides, I'm a good judge of character. It's why I'm so good at my job. I can tell what people need, what will make them happy."

"And what do you think I need?"

The question slips out before I can stop it, more vulnerable than I intended. But I genuinely want to know. This woman who sees past my walls, who looks at me like I'm something worth saving—what does she think I need?

"Someone who believes in you," she says without hesitation. "Someone who sees past the scars to the man underneath. Someone who isn't afraid of a little darkness because they know there's light there too."

"And you think you're that someone?"

"I think I'd like to try."

She's not promising forever, not making grand declarations of love. She's just saying she wants to try, wants to see what we could build together despite the odds stacked against us.

It's more than I dared hope for. More than I deserve.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe deserving has nothing to do with it. Maybe sometimes the universe just gives you exactly what you need, whether you're ready for it or not.

"Okay," I say, and the word feels like a leap off a cliff.

"Okay?"

"Okay, let's try."

"Good. Because I was going to keep trying whether you agreed or not."

"Is that so?"

"I told you. I like a challenge." She winks at me, and the playful gesture is so at odds with the serious conversation we just had that it makes me dizzy. "Besides, someone has to show you how to have fun again."

"I have fun."

"Reading poetry and brooding in your house doesn't count."

"I don't brood."

"You absolutely brood. You have 'tortured hero' written all over your face."

"Tortured hero?" I can't help but smile at that. "You read too many romance novels."

"Guilty as charged. And you, Marc Steel, are straight out of chapter one of every single one of them."

"Great. No pressure there."

"Oh, there's definitely pressure," she says with a grin that's pure mischief. "Romance novel heroes have very high standards to maintain. You'll need to be brooding but tender, dangerous but protective, mysterious but emotionally available when it counts."

"Anything else?"

"Good in bed. That's non-negotiable."

The bear roars. My bulge throbs, and she's blushing furiously, like she can't believe she just said that, but she doesn't take it back. Instead, she holds my gaze with a courage that makes my bear rumble with approval.

"I'll keep that in mind," I manage.

"Good," she says, then takes a sip of wine like she didn't just turn my world upside down with a single sentence.

This woman is going to be the death of me.

And I can't wait to find out how.