Loved by The Alpha Bear (Primal Bear Protectors Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  Prologue

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Owned by The Vampire

  Newsletter

  © Copyright 2016 by Persia Publishing- All rights reserved.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  Loved by The Alpha Bear

  The Primal Bear Protectors: Book 1

  K.T Stryker

  © 2017

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  © Copyright 2017 by Persia Publishing - All rights reserved.

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  Prologue

  There’s no time to wash the blood off his hands. They’re coming. He can smell their scent, and if he hesitates, they’ll be on him before he can run.

  Throwing open the door, he leaves his bloody handprints on the metal and breaks into a sprint. He must get out of the neighborhood. Dashing down the street, the man runs into an alley. His heart thumps in his chest, screaming to the beat of his misery.

  Things won’t be the same. The man knows this deep in his being. Skidding off the pavement a bit, he finds himself grateful he’s in running shoes. All his senses throw themselves into a static blur, propelling him both mentally and physically out of the place that hurts and into the numb haven of adrenaline.

  Nathan! Nathanael! Her voice invades the space of his head, distant like a shaky radio signal. The man doesn’t respond—she can’t have the satisfaction. Come back. Talk to us—

  The distance having become too far for her to reach him with her telepathy, her voice cuts out. Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, he makes a break across the highway between the cars, moving toward the trees. The cry of a car horn alerts him to the dark car he didn’t see. Just in time, the man leaps for the railing and barrels over it. There’s nothing but steep, forested terrain here, and he falls head over heels into the underbrush with none of his usual grace.

  Yelping, Nathan crashes into a tree. A pained gasp breaks out of his mouth and he’s stunned for a moment, vision reeling.

  With his body not in movement anymore, there’s no way to get away from the thoughts he’s avoiding. Somewhere deep in his chest, the pain broils. It gets closer to the surface with every moment, threatening to bring tears. Nathan chokes them back, steeling his jaw and forcing himself to his feet. His jeans are ripped now, the brambles having cut both them and his skin open. Blood makes the fabric stick to his skin as it clots.

  He leans against the tree for a moment, looking at his hands. The iron scent of the blood on them, not his, makes him reel. Dizziness overwhelms him as a response to how much the fresh memory hurts. Stumbling away from the tree, he breaks into a run down the hill, jumping and leaping over logs and bushes in the way. Eventually, he reaches the shore.

  Dropping to his knees in the cold water, he shoves his hands into the calm tide. The blood on his hands washes off, staining the water red. Breathing hard, Nathan drops his head and leans on all fours, nails raking through the sand under the water as a gurgling groan of panic and pain rolls out of him.

  It’s not a physical pain. It’s something deeper, something that stings and burns the heart. It’s there, with his hands buried in the sand and clothing getting more drenched with every wave that rolls in, that he makes a decision not to mate again.

  Nathan is cursed. What right does someone forsaken have to love? What other meaning can be drawn from the bruises that mar his skin every time he shifts?

  Slowly, he drags himself to his feet and stares to the horizon. Evening light scatters the waves with glittering orange, and the man wipes all feeling from his expression. From now on, he won’t tolerate weakness. At least, not his.

  The blood clan is coming for him. He can feel it. They’re not close enough for Naomi to get into his brain, not yet, but they’ll sniff him out soon enough through his tracks and scent on land.

  There’s one place they can’t track him as easily, and that’s through the water. Boats won’t do—those are trackable.

  He breathes deeply, taking a few steps back. Readying himself for the pain of transformation, Nathan locks into the primal side of his being and lets him go. The fur, the claws, the beast rips through him, tearing his human form to shreds and leaving only sleek, white fur.

  The water welcomes him like an old friend, and he starts swimming.

  Chapter 1

  “Clara, when are you going to play again?”

  Biting her lip, the woman shifts and taps her pen on the desk in front of her. She shifts a bit, adjusting the angle of the phone pressed against her ear. “We’ve talked about this, Mom.”

  A pause on the other side of the phone and then a small sigh. “I know. It’s just been so long, and I was listening to your old recordings. You didn’t sell the cello, right?”

  Clara shakes her head and then remembers that her mother can’t see the gesture over the phone. “Of course not,” she answers, forcing herself not to get annoyed. A quiet sigh escapes her mouth. “I’ll start playing soon. I’m just busy doing other things. Adjusting.”

  Her mother continues. “You could come adjust back in Vancouver, you know. You don’t need to be on the other side of the country. There are lots of nice young men in Vancouver, too. Maybe a boyfriend would make you happy.”

  It takes a significant amount of effort to keep from scoffing. Clara smiles a little, doodling a tiny flower on the pad of sticky notes next to her computer. “I make myself happy,” she teases. “I’m enjoying being an independent woman. Men in Vancouver would be just as disinteresting as the men here.
I promise.”

  Her mom laughs, but it’s an awkward half laugh. Clara’s face falls a little. She adds a stem and several leaves to the flower and then a pot. Eventually, her mom starts speaking. “I’m sure you like the quiet there—”

  “I do,” Clara adds.

  Her mom sounds deeply irritated. “Well, that’s all well and good, but Port Murmure is so small—” She breathes in sharply, and Clara has to hold the phone a little bit away from her ear to cut the shrill tone of her mom’s voice. “I mean, can you really function on your own? I didn’t think you’d be alone out there. I never thought your aunt would—”

  Clara cuts that one off quick. “It’s been a year, mom. I’ve been living by myself for a while now. I’m not a child. I’ve gotten used to everything. You know that.”

  “Well, honey, I’m sure,” her mother moves on, and Clara starts to zone out. She always does this. “But wouldn’t it help to have a boyfriend to help with your…situation?”

  “Not right now,” Clara replies cheerfully, pretending she doesn’t know what her mom means. “Men would just distract me from my work, and I’m trying to save money so I need to be working.”

  A sigh from the other end. “Clara—”

  Pressing a button on the phone dock to activate a beeping sound on her mom’s end, Clara makes an excuse. “Sorry, mom, gotta run. There’s someone on the other line and it’s probably for work! Love you. Bye!”

  “Oh, love you, hun. Stay sa—”

  Clara hangs up the phone. Breathing a sigh of relief, she leans her forehead into the desk.

  Clara knows her mom tries, of course. Trying, however, sometimes becomes too much.

  Cara’s mother’s worry about her wheelchair-bound daughter isn’t unfounded. Clara knows she has it harder like this, but the idea of a boyfriend toting her around and treating her like porcelain is far worse than the effort of doing everything herself. She finishes up writing her references for her article and rolls back the wheels of her wheelchair. She turns one of them, propelling herself toward the outdoors.

  Once to the screen door, Cara fishes the remote out of her pocket and finds the button for the garden door. Pushing it, the door glides open, and she rolls over the slight bump in the opening and out onto the smooth marble patio. Once out, she rolls to the hose and grabs it off the hook by the wall it’s hanging on. When she turns it on, she rolls around to one half of the garden on the edge of the marble before pulling the handle and starting the flow.

  Rocking her knees back and forth a little, she watches the horizon while absentmindedly watering her plants. Morning sunlight on the water makes everything glow, and she shivers a little under the breeze. When Clara breathes in, the air tastes saltier than usual. The taste of it lingers on her tongue, making her heart swell.

  With this area watered, she wheels back across the patio and waters the honeysuckle. The breeze hits her again, and she rolls down the sleeves of her jacket. Ah, spring. She tilts her head up once more, staring beyond the patio to the small hill beyond and then the sea.

  There’s not much terrain on the hill, just grass and sparse bushes that fall off into sand as they descend into the Northumberland Strait. It’s just the far edge of the strait—it’s mostly Atlantic ocean here. Far off, all the way on the point, Clara can hear kids playing.

  Her mother probably thinks she’s got the mind of an old woman. Clara can’t even deny that, but it’s not because of the muscular sclerosis. It started developing in her late teens. At first, it was just chronic pain that took her supply of Advil down. In the next few years, however, it became harder and harder to walk and function. Eventually, the pain of it became too much, and she switched to a wheelchair. That was in the last semester of graduate school, and she’d put it off far too long before that.

  Being alone makes Clara feel self-sufficient, but she’d be lying if she tried to say it wasn’t at all related to being nervous about how ex-classmates and peers in Montreal would treat her differently with her change in mobility. Being the token friend or the one who drags people down with their disability isn’t a good feeling. In Port Murmure, no one’s really like that. They’re all too busy worrying about their lives and Nova Scotia’s plummeting economy.

  As long as Cara can remember, she’s liked being alone. Sure, interaction is nice. When it comes down to it, however, there’s something valuable about separation. Wheelchair or not, she’ll always prefer staying at home with her plants and cooking for one than going to some big gala.

  Not that people invite her to galas these days, but that’s mostly her fault. She left her peers, most of her career, and her beloved orchestra back in Montreal. Nova Scotia is mostly known for its fishing and shipbuilding, not a thriving music and entertainment industry.

  That’s fine. She doesn’t play these days, anyway. It’s much less stressful to make money writing her articles and reviews of musical scores. Just because her cello is gathering dust doesn’t mean she’s lost the strength of her master’s degree in music theory.

  Returning inside, she uses her remote to close the door. It’s lucky Clara’s aunt left the house to her, as well as a sum to outfit it with accessibility tech. Lauren Summers never really jived with the other members of the family, which is probably why Clara fit in so well with her. Solitary people sometimes seek other loners. Of course, none of this could really be called lucky.

  Her aunt invited her here to stay and then passed away almost immediately. Cara didn’t even know she was sick. Aunt Lauren just told her she could have all her things. After all, she never married or had kids, so there weren’t a lot of people to pass it on to, and Clara’s mother certainly wouldn’t want to live all the way out here.

  Clara cooks breakfast and rolls back to her room to get dressed. Shakily standing and sitting on the bed when needed, she gets dressed. It’s not like her legs don’t work at all—she just can’t stand on them for any significant amount of time without weakness or severe pain, confining her to her wheelchair. Staring into the bathroom mirror, she pulls at her cheek.

  Her skin is rosy, warm-toned with a soft, orange glow. She grabs the comb, pulling it gently through shoulder-length, hazelnut locks. Combing the straight hair to one side of her shoulders, she sighs.

  Cara’s not unattractive. However, not all men can see past her mobility issues, and if they do, it’s usually because they want to exploit what they see as weakness for their sort of protective fantasy. It’s fetishization of her disability. But even those cases aren’t popular. Most guys are just worried she can’t have sex right and don’t even bother to ask her if that assumption is true.

  Around mid-morning, the doorbell rings. Rolling to the front entryway, Cara taps the unlocking code on the inside of the door and presses a remote button. This door opens on its. Outside the door stands Alice, a thin, stick-like woman.

  Blond hair pulled into a messy braid and tossed over one shoulder, Alice shifts from foot to foot nervously.

  “Hey,” Clara says warmly as she rolls back, welcoming her in. Alice steps inside, cautiously drifting her hand over the polished doorframe as she enters. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I just turned in a piece for a deadline,” Alice murmurs, smiling. She closes the door and leans against it. “I was craving of company after all that typing.”

  Clara’s eyes brighten. “Oh, that’s fantastic! What was this one about?”

  Biting her lip, Alice grins. Her expression relaxes quickly as she speaks passionately. “This one was an intense western romance. A cowboy on the run from the law visits his childhood sweetheart. She’s hesitant at first, but the two grow together—the cops are still chasing him, and she gets all roped up in it.”

  “That sounds fantastic. You have to let me read it when it’s published,” Clara demands. “I want a copy.”

  Alice smiles. “You always want a copy.”

  “Why are you really here?” Clara asks, raising an eyebrow. “Do you want to get coffee in town?”


  Sighing in relief, Alice nods. “Yes. I didn’t want to go on my, so—”

  “I know you well enough to know that.” Clara smiles and wheels herself out the door. Once Alice follows, she closes and locks it. “You drive, though. I’m not in good shape to stand today and get myself into the front seat.”

  Alice helps Clara into the car and they travel downtown. They get out at a coffee shop, and Alice holds the door open as Clara rolls her wheelchair in. At the counter, the male barista is looking at a TV screen on the wall. Clara follows his stare.

  The video is of an apartment filmed from below. In the apartment, police look out from an open window. “—two weeks ago in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. The victim in question was a female shifter, age twenty-four. The information has been kept to the investigation until now. The police are identifying her boyfriend, twenty-five-year-old Mr. Walker, as a primary suspect, but as of now, his whereabouts are unknown. Individuals in the areas of New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, and northern Maine area are advised to practice caution around individuals of unknown shifting status—”

  The barista turns off the TV, shaking his head. “Enough of that. Much too depressing to dwell on this fine day.” He turns to Clara and Alice. “What would you young ladies like?”

  Snapping back to reality, Clara blinks her eyes back to him after reluctantly pulling them from the darkened television screen. “I’ll have an Americano with hazelnut flavoring, please.” She smiles politely. “Don’t bother leaving room for cream.”