Page 3 of Falling for My Shifter Guardian (Wild & Forbidden Mates #5)

Olivia

The camera feels steady in my hands. Whispering Pines Park is quiet today, just the way I like it. The sunlight filters through the canopy of trees, casting dappled shadows over the forest floor. Everything here feels untouched, serene. A refuge.

I crouch by the creek, adjusting the settings on my camera to capture the way the light glints off the moss-covered rocks. Photography has become my escape, my way of finding beauty in a world that hasn’t always been kind. After Dad died, it was the only thing that made sense—a way to focus, to slow down, to look for something good in the chaos.

But today, even with the peaceful hum of the park around me, my thoughts keep drifting. No matter how many pictures I take, I can’t stop thinking about Derek.

He’s always been this quiet, looming presence in my life, like a shadow I can’t quite shake. For years, he was just my dad’s friend, the guy who showed up at the funeral with the weight of the world etched into his face. But now… now, I don’t know. Something’s different. Or maybe I’m different.

The way he looks at me sometimes—it’s like he’s holding back, like there’s something he doesn’t want me to see. And last night, when he gave me a ride home, the way his eyes lingered on me—it felt… intense.

Maybe I’m imagining it. Derek Mercer doesn’t do feelings. He’s all stoic glares and clipped words, a fortress with the drawbridge permanently up. Whatever I think I saw, it’s probably just my imagination.

The sharp buzz of my phone snaps me out of my thoughts. I sigh, setting the camera down on a tree stump before pulling the phone from my pocket. It’s Ben. Again.

Where are you?

Why didn’t you tell me you were going to the park?

I could’ve come with you.

I stare at the messages, my jaw tightening. Lately, it feels like Ben always needs to know where I am, what I’m doing, who I’m with. At first, I thought it was just him being protective—he’s always been that way. But now, it’s starting to feel like something else. Something heavier.

I shove the phone back into my pocket without replying.

The sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel path behind me makes me tense. For a moment, I think it’s Ben, come to find me after I ignored his texts.

But it’s not.

It’s Derek.

He’s dressed casually—dark jeans and a gray Henley that stretches over his broad shoulders, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His salt-and-pepper hair is slightly tousled, like he hasn’t bothered to tame it today, and his steel-gray eyes lock onto mine the moment our gazes meet. He looks out of place here, too solid and imposing for the park’s tranquility. But at the same time, he belongs. He always seems to belong, no matter where he is.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

His lips twitch, almost like he’s about to smile but thinks better of it. “I was passing through. Thought I’d take a walk.”

I raise an eyebrow. Whispering Pines Park isn’t exactly a hotspot for casual strolls, but I don’t press him. “Well, you found me. Congratulations.”

He steps closer, his movements unhurried but deliberate. “What are you doing out here?”

I gesture to the camera resting on the stump. “Taking pictures. Trying to, anyway.”

His gaze flicks to the camera, then back to me. “You’re good at it,” he says, and there’s a sincerity in his voice that catches me off guard.

“You’ve seen my pictures?” I ask, surprised.

He nods once. “The ones you’ve posted online. They’re… thoughtful. You see things other people don’t.”

The compliment warms me in a way I didn’t expect, but it also makes me feel exposed, like he’s been watching me more closely than I realized. “Thanks,” I say softly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s just a hobby, really. Something to keep me sane.”

Derek’s eyes linger on mine, steady and unflinching. “Why photography?”

I hesitate, unsure how much to share. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at me—like he genuinely wants to know—that makes me want to answer. “It started after my dad died,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “I needed something to focus on, something that wasn’t… everything else. And I guess it just stuck. It helps me see the world differently, you know? Like, even when everything feels chaotic, there’s still beauty if you look hard enough.”

His expression softens in a way I’ve never seen before. For a moment, the weight he always carries seems to lighten. “Your dad would’ve been proud of you,” he says, his voice low and certain.

The words hit me harder than I expect. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in his tone. “He talked about you all the time. Said you were his greatest pride.”

My throat tightens, and I have to look away, blinking back the sting of tears. “I miss him,” I whisper. “Every day.”

Derek nods, his gaze distant for a moment. “I miss him too. He… saved my life once. More than once.”

I look up at him, surprised. “He never told me that.”

“He wouldn’t have,” Derek says, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That wasn’t his style. But he was a hero, Olivia. To me, and to everyone who served with him.”

The bittersweet ache in my chest deepens. Hearing Derek talk about my dad like this—it’s comforting, but it also reminds me of everything I’ve lost.

The moment stretches, heavy and fragile, until my phone buzzes again. I flinch, breaking the spell.

I pull it out, already knowing it’s Ben.

Why are you ignoring me?

I groan, shoving the phone back into my pocket.

Derek’s eyes narrow. “Everything okay?”

“It’s Ben,” I say, trying to sound casual. “He’s just… being Ben.”

Derek’s expression darkens, his posture shifting slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrug, avoiding his gaze. “He’s been a little… intense lately. It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

There’s a hard edge to his voice, one that sends a shiver down my spine.

I sigh, leaning back against the bench. “He’s just been… controlling, I guess. But it’s fine. I can handle it.”

Derek’s jaw tightens, and his hands clench into fists on his thighs. “You don’t have to put up with that,” he says, his voice low and firm. “You don’t owe anyone your time or your patience, especially if they’re making you feel small.”

His words hit something deep inside me, something I didn’t even realize was there. For a moment, I can’t speak. All I can do is stare at him, wondering how someone who barely talks can say exactly what I need to hear.

“Thanks,” I manage finally, my voice soft.

He nods, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease.

“Well, I’m about done for the day,” I admit with a sigh. I sling my camera bag over one shoulder.

“Let me drive you home,” Derek says.

I hesitate, caught off-guard by the sudden offer. “It’s not far. I can walk.”

“It’s getting late,” he replies, his tone steady, firm. “Humor me.”

There’s no arguing with Derek when he uses that voice. I roll my eyes, but a small smile sneaks across my lips. “Fine. But only because I’m carrying expensive equipment. Not because I think I need a bodyguard.”

I expect him to respond with one of his deadpan quips, but he just gives me that same unreadable look he always does—half intense, half inscrutable—and starts walking toward his truck.

The man is infuriatingly impossible to read.

His truck is parked at the edge of the lot, a sturdy, no-nonsense vehicle that suits him perfectly. As I climb into the passenger seat, the faint smell of cedar and leather surrounds me, and for some inexplicable reason, it feels… safe. Too safe. Like the kind of safe that makes my pulse quicken in all the wrong—or maybe all the right—ways.

Derek settles into the driver’s seat, his broad shoulders making the cab feel smaller than it really is. The low rumble of the engine fills the silence as he pulls onto the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“You don’t have to keep looking out for me, you know,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice sounds braver than I feel. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle there twitching slightly. “I made a promise.”

“To my dad,” I murmur, barely loud enough to hear over the hum of the engine. “You’ve mentioned that before.”

He doesn’t respond, and the silence between us grows heavier, thicker, like it’s pressing against my chest. There’s something about Derek that always feels so weighty, like he’s carrying a world of things he’ll never say.

Before I can push him further, we reach my apartment complex. He pulls into a parking space, cuts the engine, and sits back in his seat, but he doesn’t move to leave.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, hand on the door handle.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, his voice low, almost hesitant.

I glance back at him, my grip on the handle loosening. “Do you want to come in? For coffee or something?”

His brows lift slightly, like the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. For a second, I think he’s going to decline—like always—but then he surprises me.

“Sure,” he says, voice gruff. “Coffee sounds good.”

I blink, momentarily thrown off. Derek Mercer, the king of keeping his distance, just said yes? I nod quickly, not wanting to give him time to change his mind, and lead the way to my apartment.

Inside, the dim lighting makes the space feel warmer, cozier. I set my bag down by the couch, gesturing vaguely toward the living room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the coffee started.”

But of course, Derek doesn’t sit. He lingers near the kitchen table, his sharp, watchful eyes scanning the room like he’s assessing it for threats. I shake my head, half-amused, and step into the kitchen.

As I pull out two mismatched mugs, one of them wobbles, teetering dangerously on the edge of the counter. I lunge to catch it, but it slips through my fingers and shatters on the floor.

“Damn it,” I mutter, crouching to pick up the larger pieces.

“Olivia, wait—” Derek’s voice is sharp, but I’ve already reached for one of the shards. A sharp sting slices through my palm, and I hiss, pulling my hand back to see blood welling up along the cut.

In an instant, Derek is beside me, his movements swift and controlled. “Don’t move,” he orders, his voice firm but not unkind. He grabs a dishcloth from the counter and presses it gently against my hand. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“In the bathroom cabinet,” I mumble, wincing as he applies pressure to the cut.

He disappears for a moment, returning with the kit he insisted I keep after I sliced my finger a few months ago. Kneeling in front of me, he opens it with practiced ease, his big hands working with surprising gentleness as he cleans the wound.

“You’re always prepared, huh?” I joke weakly, trying to lighten the mood.

My eyes linger on him as he works—the way his brow furrows in concentration, the way his strong jaw tightens ever so slightly, like he’s holding something back. My gaze drifts lower, taking in his broad shoulders that seem to fill the entire space around us, the way his forearms flex with every precise movement of his hands. Those hands—rough and calloused from years of labor and battle—move over my skin with a gentleness that feels almost reverent.

“You’re good at this,” I say softly, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He shrugs, his steel-gray eyes flicking to mine for just a second before returning to his work. “Comes with the territory.”

“What territory?” I ask, trying to steady my breathing. “Being a human first aid kit?”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face, but when his eyes meet mine again, the humor is gone, replaced by something deeper. Something that makes my heart stutter and my breath hitch. “Being someone who cares,” he says, his voice low and steady.

The words land with a weight I’m not prepared for. His gaze holds mine, and I can’t look away. There’s something raw, almost vulnerable, in his expression—and it makes my chest tighten, my pulse quicken. The air between us feels charged, and I’m acutely aware of every point of contact between his hands and my skin.

He finishes wrapping the bandage around my hand, his fingers brushing against mine as he secures it with a piece of tape. The touch is fleeting, but it’s enough to send a spark racing up my arm. “There,” he says, his voice rougher now, like he’s fighting to maintain control. “You’re good to go.”

But he doesn’t move away immediately. Instead, he shifts just slightly, his nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly, as if he’s catching a scent in the air. My cheeks flush as I realize what it could be—what he could be smelling. My body betrays me, my breathing uneven, my skin tingling where his hands had been. His gaze lingers on me for just a fraction of a second longer than it should, and I swear his shoulders tense, as if he’s holding himself back.

I swallow hard, the room suddenly feeling too warm, too small. “Thanks,” I manage to say, the word barely audible. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

He grabs the broom from the corner of the kitchen and begins sweeping up the broken mug with swift, practiced movements. “I told you—I made a promise.”

“To my dad,” I say again, my back pressing against the counter for support. “Is that the only reason you’re always taking care of me?”

He freezes mid-sweep, the broom still in his hand. The silence stretches, heavy and taut, as though the air itself is holding its breath. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost too quiet to hear. “You know why.”

My brow furrows. “No, I don’t. That’s the problem. You’re always there when I need you, but then you pull away. It’s… confusing.”

He straightens, turning to face me, his steel-gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. His expression is guarded, his jaw tight, as though he’s holding something back—something heavy, something important. “Olivia…”

He doesn’t say more, but the weight of my name on his lips feels like a confession. For a fleeting moment, I think he might finally tell me, finally let me in. His eyes soften, a crack in his armor, and I hold my breath.

But then, just as quickly, the shutters come down. He shakes his head, stepping back. “I should go,” he says abruptly, finishing the task of sweeping the shards into the dustpan. His movements are mechanical now, his voice distant. “I’ll take this out on my way.”

“Derek—” My voice is barely above a whisper, a plea I’m not sure I want him to hear.

“Goodnight, Olivia,” he says, his tone soft but unyielding, leaving no room for argument. Without another glance, he turns and walks away, the sound of the door closing behind him echoing in the now-empty room.

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me standing in the middle of my kitchen with a bandaged hand and a head full of questions.

I sink into one of the chairs at the table, staring at the now-empty doorway. How can someone take such good care of me and still keep me at arm’s length? How can he make me feel so safe and so unsure at the same time?

I don’t have the answers. All I know is that Derek Mercer is a puzzle I’m not sure I’ll ever figure out.

But damn if I don’t want to try.