Page 4 of Easy, Tiger

"That's why I'm here. Need you to take the northern quadrant tonight while I cover the eastern routes. One more thing—the Whitmore cabin's got a renter. Some artist, come to sketch the valley for a field guide. If you cross her trail out there, keep your distance."

The familiar burden of responsibility presses across my shoulders. Protecting the enclave means balancing human obligations with shifter duties, but tonight the furniture can wait.

"Give me twenty minutes to clean up."

Owen nods and disappears into the evening. I'm left alone with the sting of fresh varnish and a growing conviction that this hunter poses a threat unlike any we've faced.

After washing the polyurethane from my hands, I lock the workshop and head into the forest behind my house. The familiar pull of the change builds in my chest as I strip and fold my clothes, leaving them in the hollow of an old oak where they'll stay dry.

The shift takes unfolds naturally—bones lengthening, muscles expanding, fur growing, and senses sharpening until the world explodes into layers of scent and sound invisible to human perception. My tiger form stretches, powerful shoulders rolling as I test the night air.

A lifetime of practice grants me a fluid silence as I move through the forest. My paws find sure purchase on moss-covered stones and fallen logs. Every scent tells a story, teeming with the musky undertone of a fox den alongside a lingering deer trail and the sharp green bite of fresh pine sap.

But halfway through the northern quadrant, something new threads through the familiar tapestry of forest scents, introducing the distinct, recent presence of a human female.

Freezing beside a towering hemlock, my nostrils flare as I analyze the trail. She passed this way within the hour, moving steadily downhill toward the valley. The trace carries notes of wildflowers and paper, blending with something warmer underneath, a presence that feels entirely unmistakable.

A wave of understanding washes over me, sparking a recognition that entirely defies logic.

The mating bond hits like lightning, splitting an oak tree, sudden and absolute. Every instinct I possess screams that this woman—this human—belongs to me as surely as the forest belongs to the mountain.

Something compels me forward, and I don't fight it. My form ghosts between the trees as her scent grows stronger, thick and warm and unlike anything the forest has offered me before. Through the branches ahead, movement catches my attention.

Picking her way down the overlook trail, she navigates the loose gravel, a messenger bag slung across one shoulder and a sketchbook clutched against her chest. Flannel hangs loose over a lean, athletic frame built for miles on uneven ground. Dark curls have slipped free of whatever knot she tied that morning, framing warm brown skin dusted with freckles across her nose and cheeks. Even from this distance, I can tell she devours the world before she commits it to paper, pausing every few steps to peer at something only she seems to perceive.

Coming to a halt, she turns her head toward the forest where I stand frozen in shadow. For a heartbeat, our gazes almost meet across the distance. Her hazel eyes survey the treeline, sharp enough to catch details most people miss.

The bond pulses stronger, an ache that reaches bone-deep. This woman—this stranger who smells of art and determination—is my mate. The other half of my soul, the missing piece I never knew I was searching for.

And she's completely, utterly human.

Movement returns to her stride, quickening slightly as if some primal instinct warns of spying eyes. While my mind reels at the impossibility of what I've discovered, I keep to the dense undergrowth, far enough back to avoid detection.

Fated mates among shifters are rare. Humans have married into the enclave before, chosen as partners over time, but a cross-species fated bond? That is the stuff of legend, whispered stories passed down through generations but never witnessed firsthand.

Yet here she walks, unaware that her very presence has rewritten the fundamental assumptions of my existence.

Staying back in the shadows of the tree line, I trail her unhurried pace as she navigates the gravel path winding away from the clearing. Every step she takes draws her closer to the edge of the property until she finally vanishes through the front door of the Whitmore cabin. The porch light clicks on behind her, spilling warm light across the weathered deck. The rental property sits nestled against a grove of towering pines, isolated enough for privacy but close enough to town for convenience. Perfect for someone seeking solitude.

So she's the artist Owen mentioned—the one commissioned for the wildlife guide. The irony of the realization settles uncomfortably over me. My fated mate has come to Red Pine to document the very creatures I'm sworn to protect.

Retreating deeper into the forest takes rigid discipline, especially with my thoughts spiraling around the impossible woman living mere miles from my workshop. The hunter's snares demand attention, but every step leads me further from her scent, and the bond protests, persistently aching.

Dawn finds me transforming back to human form, exhausted and distracted. Dressing quickly, I return home, but sleep proves elusive. Every time I close my eyes, I see her hazel eyes checking the treeline, missing nothing.

The morning after a couple of hours of sleep, I abandon any pretense of maintaining distance.

From the cover of dense undergrowth, I watch her work. Cross-legged on a fallen log beside Willow Creek, she balances her sketchbook on her knees while a red-winged blackbird perches on a cattail stalk twenty feet away. Her pencil moves with confident strokes, capturing the exact angle of the bird's head as it calls to its mate.

The blackbird startles at some unseen movement, but she remains perfectly still until it roots itself again. Patience radiates from her like heat from stone, a trained discipline forged through years of earning wild creatures' trust.

"Easy, beautiful," she coos to the bird, voice barely above a whisper. "Give me a few more minutes."

The endearment hits me unexpectedly forcefully. Her communication with wildlife shows the genuine affection and respect others reserve for beloved pets. When the blackbird finally flies away, she sets down her pencil and flexes her fingers.

"Thank you," she calls after the retreating bird.

Over the following three days, I establish a routine of vigilant observation. Each morning she hikes the mountain trails, always towing her sketchbook and a thermos of cinnamon-laced coffee. Along the way, she documents wildflowers growing in rocky crevices, alongside deer tracks imprinted into muddy stream banks and the intricate patterns of bark on century-old oaks.