As I drift off, one thought circles in my mind: how do I protect her from the storm that's coming? Not just the one outside, but the one within me?
Next Day
Morning light filters through the cabin windows when I wake, my bear instantly alert to the sound of movement in the kitchen. Ruby.
I sit up, running a hand through my hair, and check the time. 6:18 AM. The storm has passed, leaving behind a washed-clean world and the scent of rain-soaked earth.
I pull on a fresh shirt and make my way to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to watch her. She’s dressed in jeans and a soft sweater, her hair twisted up in that messy bun. Two mugsof coffee sit on the counter, and she's examining my sparse refrigerator contents with a critical eye.
"Morning," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
She startles slightly, turning to face me. "Oh! Good morning. Hope you don't mind. I made coffee."
"Never mind coffee." I step into the kitchen, drawn to her like gravity. "But you should have slept longer. It's early."
"Early is normal for me." She hands me a mug, careful not to let our fingers touch. Has she sensed something? Is she afraid of me? The thought makes my bear growl internally. "Besides, we have less than 36 hours until the IRS arrives. Sleep is a luxury."
I take a sip of the coffee. Stronger than I usually make it, but good. "Did you eat?"
"Not yet. I was just looking for—"
"Sit." I gesture to the kitchen island. "I'll make breakfast."
She raises an eyebrow but takes a seat on one of the wooden stools. "Do you always order guests around, or am I special?"
My bear preens at the word 'special,' and I have to turn away to hide my reaction. "Force of habit. Construction site mentality."
I busy myself with breakfast preparations, pulling eggs, bacon, and vegetables from the refrigerator. Cooking gives me something to focus on besides her scent, her heartbeat, the way her eyes follow my movements.
"I organized about a third of your paperwork last night," she says, opening her laptop. "I've started categorizing expenses by quarter, but I need to ask you about some of these receipts."
I nod, cracking eggs into a bowl. "Ask away."
"There are several large cash withdrawals—five to ten thousand each—with no corresponding receipts or explanations."
My hands pause for a fraction of a second. Those are the months I've needed to disappear deep into the national forest for the full moon. When my bear is too restless to be contained near town. I book remote cabins under different names, pay cash.
"Emergency funds," I say, keeping my voice even. "For jobs that need immediate materials or labor. Construction can be unpredictable."
She makes a note, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "We'll need to document that better. The IRS doesn't like unexplained cash movements."
"Noted."
"And these medical supplies? They're consistent monthly purchases."
My first aid supplies. Shifter healing is accelerated but not instantaneous. Wounds from the forest, from my bear's adventures, need tending.
"Job site safety requirements," I answer, which isn't entirely untrue. "OSHA compliance."
She nods, accepting this. "Smart. That's deductible as a business expense."
I slide a veggie-packed omelet onto a plate, add bacon, and set it before her. Her eyes widen.
"This looks amazing. You didn't have to go to all this trouble."
"Not trouble." I turn back to make my own, larger portion. "Need to eat properly when you're working hard."
When I join her at the island with my plate, I notice her watching me with a curious expression.
