Page 1 of Mated to the Mountain Bear (Bear Protector #1)

ZARA

S omething stirring in the dead of night wakes me.

It’s not the couple upstairs who sometimes fights until dawn. It’s not their muffled shouts and slammed doors that we all pretend never happened when I meet them on the stairs. Nor is it the sound of a car alarm or sirens blaring out on Pike Street.

It’s something else. Something quieter.

The radiator clanks and groans like it’s dying, which it probably is, but it’s not that, either. It’s something my brain is telling me to pay attention to.

The silence grows louder the harder I listen, but again, there’s nothing. Just the sound of my breathing, and a stillness that makes my senses tingle.

I lie motionless, eyes closed, trying to figure out what’s wrong and how to calm my racing heart.

The faintest kiss of a cool breeze touches my face, carrying with it, the fresh scent of rain.

In the pitch black, I try to make out the lock, the deadbolt I installed three weeks ago, to check that it’s closed. Not that I need to. I always lock my bedroom door now, same with the windows, and I’ve checked them twice a night since the notes started appearing under my door.

Since my sister disappeared without a trace.

There should be no draft disturbing the air, and yet, lying here trying to force my breathing to remain even, I’m convinced I felt one coming under the door.

I close my eyes again, telling myself I’m being ridiculous. There’s nothing there. It’s just a bad dream, lingering, totally understandable with everything that’s been going on.

And I’ve almost convinced myself to just go back to sleep until a floorboard creaks in the living room, shattering any illusion I had of my home being a safe place.

My eyes snap open in the darkness, my heart hammering so hard in my chest, I can feel it in my throat. It’s been three weeks of finding those notes and a constant feeling of being watched.

You belong to me.

As the seconds tick by, I strain to hear over the rush of blood in my ears.

It’s deathly quiet. Then, there’s the soft whisper of a door sliding open over the worn carpet in the guest bedroom and the faintest scratch as a boot scuffs cardboard, both as loud to me as an alarm going off beside my head.

The floor is full of packing boxes, my half-hearted attempt at packing, which left the place a mess; a tricky obstacle course to navigate, even with the lights on.

A surge of adrenaline electrifies my blood, even as a cold dread settles over me.

My body’s preparing me to fight because I’m not alone.

My hand slides slowly across the nightstand until my fingers close around my phone. I debate calling the police, but whoever’s in here will hear me speaking. The number I need, the number I should have called yesterday before packing a bag and fleeing, is already saved.

Lennox Private Security.

I should have pushed down that nagging self-doubt, the one that told me I was imagining things when I found my jewellery box open on the dresser.

Nothing's missing, just rearranged. My grandmother’s ring turned backward.

The white gold necklace Amber gave me for my birthday sitting in the wrong compartment.

I convinced myself I was wrong, that if someone had been in the apartment, they wouldn’t have left so many valuables behind, but I should have trusted my gut.

Carefully, I swivel in the bed, moving oh so slowly, as my brain frantically runs through all of my options, one more unrealistic than the rest.

If I run for it, they’ll catch me before I make it to the front door. I could hide in my bathroom and lock the door, but then I’d be trapped with no way out.

My internal panicking about what to do is disrupted by another sound. Soft footsteps move through the guest room, pausing beside the bed on the other side of the thin wall, before moving on.

They’re so close that I’m afraid to move, afraid to even breathe. My frantic mind conjures up an image of a shadowy figure looking at the picture of our parents that sits on the nightstand there. Just the thought makes me feel ill.

My eyes drift to the shard of light coming in through the gap in the curtains. The bedroom window is right there, just five feet away. It’s three floors down to the alley, but the fire escape is right outside.

The steps pause in the room next door as my mattress creaks, and we both freeze on either side of the wall, waiting to see what the other does next.

Whoever it is, they’re listening for noise the same way I am, deciding what to do.

It feels like I’m stuck in a horrible game of chicken, one that I really don’t want to play.

It’s now or never.

I throw off the covers and lunge for the window. My hip slams into my dresser, and I curse in my mind at the loud thud, but I keep moving. They heard that. There’s no point in trying to stay quiet now.

The window sticks like it always does, and I have to shove with both hands to get it to move. It screams against the frame, shattering the silence, as I push it wide enough for me to fit through.

Everything happens at once.

Fresh air and rain hit me straight in the face as I poke my head outside. Footsteps, not careful anymore, hurry toward my room at speed. The doorknob rattles violently as I squeeze through the window opening.

I crawl out, knowing the lock might slow them down, but it won’t stop them. Not if they’re as determined as I suspect they are.

Icy rain immediately soaks through my thin top as I stand. The fire escape is slick under my bare feet, and I have to grab the railing to keep from slipping.

There’s no time for the ladder. So I swing over the rail and drop to the platform below. The wet metal is treacherous, and my feet slide out from under me. I crash hard onto my knees, and the impact rattles up through my bones. I bite my tongue hard enough to taste blood.

Above me, a shadow fills my bedroom window, big and broad. Not paranoia. Not my imagination. I can feel his eyes on me, and my skin prickles. Dark against dark, but definitely there.

Definitely real.

“Don’t run from me.” The voice isn’t angry, but I’m not stupid enough to listen.

Running is exactly what I do.

Second floor. My palms are already raw from clinging onto the rusted metal railings.

Rain streams into my eyes, making it even harder to see in the near pitch-black alley.

The last platform is still too high to drop safely to the ground below, but I don’t have any other option. I’m not getting caught.

Not tonight.

The old oak tree that grows too close to the building is my only choice.

The landlord keeps threatening to cut it down because it’s a security risk, but tonight, it could be my saviour.

Its thick branches reach toward the fire escape like gnarled fingers.

The leaves droop, heavy with rain, and I swallow hard as I look down at the drop below.

I hate heights.

Metal clangs above me. He’s coming for me. He’s not giving up, either.

I can’t let myself think about the distance to the concrete below. I have to jump.

The branch catches me in the stomach, a knot digging hard into my ribs, driving all the air from my lungs.

I can’t breathe, can’t scream. I can only hold on as rough bark tears into my palms. The branch bends with a sick cracking sound as loud as thunder.

My weight is too much for it. It breaks, and I’m falling. Fast.

I hit the alley hard, rolling through garbage bags that split open on impact. Something wet and rancid soaks through my sleep shorts, and I grimace as I pluck a soggy tissue from my arm.

Everything hurts, but adrenaline gets me moving again. My bare feet splash through puddles as I race down the street, praying there’s someone around at this time of night to help me.

Rosie’s neon pink sign glows at the end of the block like a beacon, one of those diners that’s always full of cops and shift workers, and is always open.

My legs pump harder, cut feet screaming with each step, on the wet pavement.

Soaked hair plasters my hair to my face, and my lungs burn, but I don’t dare stop.

I can feel him hot on my heels, hunting me. It’s like he’s breathing down my neck, chasing me in the shadows.

Expecting him to reach out and grab me any second, I crash through the door, hitting it hard enough to make the bell clang violently.

“Help me. He’s right behind me.”

Slamming the door shut, I press my hands against it, desperately looking for a bolt or lock. When I lift my palm, there's a bloody print on the white wood. I step back once, twice, then scan the windows for anyone following me.

“Jesus, honey.” The server behind the counter spills her coffee, hissing as she shakes the drips off her hand and watches the dark liquid spread across the gleaming white surface.

Two uniforms in the corner booth look up from their meals. The younger one is already on his feet and walking toward me before I can catch my breath enough to get more words out.

“Someone broke into my apartment.” The words tumble out between gasps for air. Water streams from my hair and clothes, pooling at my feet. “He chased me down the fire escape.”

Whoever he is, he's still out there.

The cop ducks his head and looks out through the glass, but being inside with the lights on makes it impossible to see through the massive windows. I feel like a goldfish in a bowl. I can’t see him, but he can see me.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I spin, my skin crawling at the idea that he’s watching me right now. The urge to crawl under a table to hide is strong.

“Show me where,” the younger cop says, already moving toward the door, placing himself between me and the entrance.

“Fifth Street. Two blocks down. The red brick building.” Pointing toward my apartment, I stay well back from the door, my heart still racing. “Number 40.”

“What’s he look like?” he asks, pulling out a notebook and pen, but I shake my head, panic setting in as I realise I don’t know. I feel like an idiot.