Page 49 of Mated to the Mountain Bear (Bear Protector #1)

BEN

T his apartment is suffocating. Even with every window open, the air sits heavy and stale, tasting of exhaust from the street below. Sweat coats my skin and pools at the base of my throat, making the sheets stick to my skin.

My cabin never gets like this. Mountain nights stay cool, even in summer, and I can open every door if I want.

Bears aren’t built for city living.

Zara shifts beside me, her hair damp at the temples. The thin cotton of her tank top clings to her skin. I want to pull her against me, but we’re already too hot in this cramped space.

I give up on sleep and ease out of bed. The floorboards are warm under my feet as I make my way to the window. Leaning out, I search for cooler air but only find more of the same. Exhaust and garbage and the sour smell of too many people.

Looking up, I search for stars. Nothing. Just orange haze from the streetlights blocking out the sky. A siren wails past, rattling the window frame.

“Can’t sleep?”

Zara watches me from the bed, her green eyes concerned in the dim light. She’s so beautiful, it takes my breath away.

“Just warm.”

She sits up, pushing her hair from her face. “I’ll turn on the fan.”

I shake my head. “Go back to sleep.”

But she’s already padding across the room, her bare feet silent on the wood. The ancient box fan rattles to life, pushing hot air in circles. Jerry lifts his head from his spot by the door, tags jingling, then settles back with a huff.

“I need to book those flights today.” She says, not meeting my eyes. “To Vancouver.”

“Two tickets.”

She pauses, fingers twisting in the sheets, as she slides back into bed. Just for a second, but I caught it.

“Of course. Two tickets.” She turns, attempting a smile. “Though it’s going to be incredibly boring. Just picking up boxes and dealing with production assistants.”

I cross to her, needing to touch her, despite the heat. “I’m not letting you go alone. They’re Amber’s things. You shouldn’t have to do it on your own.”

“Ben...” She places her hand on my chest, fingers splaying over my racing heart. “You hate it here.”

I don’t lie. “I’ll survive.”

“Yes, you’re putting up with it for me, but you still hate it. And eventually, you won’t be fine.” Her declaration sits heavy between us, mainly, because she’s right.

“Come back to bed,” she says softly. “We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

The mattress dips as I settle back in beside her. She curls against me, her breath warm on my chest. The fan rattles. Someone’s car alarm goes off two blocks away. A couple argues in the apartment above us, their voices carrying through the thin ceiling.

As the hours tick by, and my bear paces inside my head like a caged animal, I admit to myself that I do fucking hate it here.

Morning comes with pale light through dirty windows. Zara’s already on the phone, pacing the small kitchen while she talks to airlines. I watch her navigate around the table, the counter, the trash can. Eight steps to the wall, turn, eight steps back.

“Friday morning,” she says, ending the call. Her fingers drum against her thigh. “We fly out Friday morning.”

My chest tightens. Three more days in this concrete box. Three more days of breathing recycled air and pretending my skin doesn’t crawl every time someone walks too close on the sidewalk.

“Ben.” She sets the phone on the counter with careful precision. “What if you went home for a few days first? Before Vancouver?”

My coffee mug stops halfway to my mouth. “What?”

She’s sending us away. My bear is devastated. What did we do wrong?

“You could let your bear run. Get some fresh air.” She’s looking up at me with sympathy, like I’m the one this is hard for, and not my mate, who’s dealing with the fallout from her sister’s disappearance. “Then meet me for the flight on Friday.”

She wants me gone.

“I’m fine,” I insist through gritted teeth.

“You’re not.” She touches my face, thumb brushing my tense jaw. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “You need trees and dirt and space. There’s no sense in you watching me shuffle papers all week. I want you to be comfortable.” She leans in and gives me a kiss. “For me.”

God, she’s perfect. But this feels so wrong.

“One week.” Her fingers tighten on my face. “Friday morning at the airport. I promise.”

An hour later, I’m shoving clothes into my duffel bag. The zipper sticks, and I force it harder than necessary. Jerry follows me from the bedroom to the door and back, whining low in his throat.

“Jerry stays,” I tell her at the door. My keys dig into my palm.

She nods, one hand on his collar. He’ll watch over her while I run away.

“Friday,” she says. The word sounds fragile in the narrow hallway. There’s a wobble in her voice. It’s killing me to hear it.

“I can stay,” I whisper against her lips, but she’s shaking her head.

“Friday.”

I kiss her goodbye, and her fingers clutch my shirt for just a moment, before letting go.

The stairwell echoes with my footsteps. My truck protests when I turn the key, engine sluggish from sitting in the city heat.

Traffic crawls. Red light. Green light. More concrete and glass. But when I finally hit the mountain road, when pine trees replace buildings and the air clears, my shoulders finally drop.

She didn’t mention the job. For all I know, after Vancouver, it’ll be LA, and I’ll get left behind again. Because I’m a big baby who can’t cope with people and noise.

I thump the steering wheel, doubt gnawing at my insides, and an ache in my chest from being apart.

Friday feels like a long way off.