The Bear's Redemption

Chapter 7

Makini

I wipe a hand across my forehead, sweat slick under my palm. Fresh from the training field, Sasha and Kitari are lying in the grass. They look completely flattened, as if a steamroller had run over them. Groaning. Wheezing. Dramatic as hell.

I cross my arms and grin, letting the breeze cool my face as I take in the sight. It’s glorious.

“How are you so fast?” Sasha groans, half-laughing, half-dying. She’s clutching her side like she’s run a marathon, and maybe she kinda has. Her braid has come undone, a few strands plastered to her temple, and there’s dirt smudged on her cheek.

Kitari mutters something back, her voice muffled because she’s face down in the grass like she’s given up on life. “Try going up against fate-mate-bonded dragon strength,” she mumbles, sounding utterly betrayed.

I smirk, trying not to laugh outright. Tivani, standing beside me, presses a hand over her mouth but can’t hide the snort that escapes.

Stars, it’s perfect. A slayer dragon shifter and a lightning-fast fox, both lying there like wrung-out laundry. This is better than any entertainment I could’ve asked for. I’d pay to see a replay. Maybe frame it.

We’d just come off duty after a long guard shift, and I swear, watching them complain is the best reward I’ve had in weeks.

We’re squeezing in a couple of days of “taking it easy” between ops. In rebellion terms, this means light drills, extra training, and possibly only one emergency alarm each night.

Still. It’s been about three weeks since the big clash with the NNA. The bruises have faded, except for the one I’ve got on my hip, still blooming purple-yellow. The tension? That’s more stubborn. It clings. But this? Sasha laughing and Kitari groaning like a dying woodland sprite, this is the kind of thing that keeps the ghosts quiet at night.

I step closer and nudge Kitari with the toe of my boot. Not hard. But enough to get her attention. “Come on, don’t die yet. We’ve got drills after dinner.”

She lets out a long, theatrical groan like I’ve asked her to march back into battle. “Sarge, I swear on my ancestors... ”

Sasha wheezes a laugh, rolling onto her stomach and propping herself up on one elbow. “If you say the word burpees, I will cry. I’m not kidding.”

“You can cry,” I say sweetly, “as long as you do it in a plank position.”

That earns a strangled noise from Kitari and another snort from Tivani.

I chuckle and let the sound roll through me. It feels good. Real. Like it’s echoing in parts of me I didn’t realize were still aching.

We’re not the same as we were before the fight; we may never be the same again, but we’re alive. Still moving. Still standing.

I watch Sasha and Kitari catching their breath, their laughter soft and unguarded in the late sun. And for a second, for a heartbeat, it feels like the world isn’t on fire. Like we’re not rebels and fugitives and warriors with blood on our hands.

It feels like we’re just… people.

I let myself have that feeling. For a second longer. Because stars, it feels good to smile again.

I’ve tried my utmost best to ignore and avoid Kuma the last couple of days. Real bravery coming from the Master Sergeant, huh? Dodging him like he’s carrying the plague, and I forgot my immunity. Tactical retreat. Strategic avoidance. Whatever helps me sleep at night.

But seriously, what in the stars do I even do? Do I smile? Flirt? Act like a professional adult with dignity and discipline? Or do I snap and tell him to hurry up and kiss me again already, because it’s driving me insane. And then that deeper part of me wonders if he has actually changed, his mistrust of humans. Can he really want me? Would it be stupid to trust him, to open up to him?

Still, that drunken little slip-up? Yeah, it’s on repeat in my head like an annoying pop song. His scent, earthly and warm, like a campfire. His lips, soft as sin. The way he looked at me as if I was the center of the universe before everything went hazy. And then I had to go and be a disastrous human about it.

Ugh. Makini Omari, get a grip.

Of course, Jax couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. The man has zero chill. He immediately spilled to Sasha, before the alcohol even left his bloodstream. I made them both swear, swear, on their undying love for chocolate chip cookies, to never tell another soul.

Apparently, cookie oaths mean nothing to those two.

Their absurd looks. The nudges. The not-so-subtle winks. Or the time Sasha asked at dinner if I needed help with "suppressing primal urges," which nearly made me choke on my rice. I nearly died. Death by public humiliation and chicken stir-fry. Gin had to slap me on the back while howling with laughter.

Yesterday, I walked into the briefing tent. I found someone, let's say their initials are S and J, had drawn a giant heart on the whiteboard. It was marked M + K = mission accomplished, with little sparkles around it.

So, yeah. Super professional around here. Real top-tier military conduct.

I’m trying to stay cool. Calm. Unbothered. Every time Kuma looks at me, my mind goes blank. My stomach flips like I'm a teenager again.

Stars help me. If he smiles at me like that one more time, I might actually combust.

Worse part? I think he knows. And I think he’s enjoying every damn second of it

Kuma

The sharp thud of fists against pads echoes through the training room.

Koda’s punches are brutal, sharp, and controlled, but underneath, I feel it. The simmer. The storm is building. Same in me. We’re quiet, focused, letting all that coiled adrenaline burn through movement. It won’t stay quiet for long. We both know it.

“Again,” I say, voice low, solid.

No answer. Just the rhythmic c***k of his fists slamming into the pads harder than before. I brace, the impact reverberating through my shoulders, grounding me. He’s not holding back. Good. Neither am I.

We need this: sharp reflexes, steady hands, minds like steel traps. We returned yesterday from two successful operations. Tension has been thick in the air since the big NNA attack. The new shifters rescued in the last operation still flinch at footsteps, which doesn’t help either. They still relive the trauma from the atrocities done to them in the name of purifying the world. They still scan the tree line like the ghosts from their cages might follow. It makes everyone edgy.

Koda drives a tight combo. Left. Right. Elbow. Clean. Powerful.

“Faster.”

He doesn’t hesitate; he launches into the next set. His anger’s buried deep, but it’s there. Controlled. Weaponized. It's what makes him good.

I shift with him, pads angled right. Sweat rolls down my back, but I ignore it. This isn't about comfort. It's about staying ready. Pain is part of the process.

Finally, he drops back, chest rising and falling, fists still up, waiting. Always ready.

I lower the pads. “Good,” I say.

He runs a hand through his damp hair, expression unreadable. Across the room, Thale and Myan are a blur of motion, sparring like they’ve got something to prove. Bellamy’s pounding the heavy bag with a rhythm that sounds like war drums. The whole reserve is humming with quiet tension.

I look at the door. Gin checks the ops schedule on the wall, scanning and calculating. Always alert.

After operations, cooling down feels harder than the actual drills. The adrenaline stays, buzzing under my skin like a live wire.

I toss the pads aside and lean against the wall, dragging a towel over my face to wipe the sweat off. Koda drops down next to me, legs out, finally letting himself relax, if only a little.

I smirk, watching him from the corner of my eye. “You look better, mi hermanito. Way more relaxed.”

He huffs a laugh, rubbing his face with both hands. “And you?”

“Yeah…I’m okay. You know I messed up. The way I treated Sasha… It’s going to take a while to make things right.” My voice trails off. “It’s a miracle she even talks to me.”

He grunts, “Yeah, but I get it. After everything…”

I nod, eyes on the floor. Guilt is still constantly tugging at me. And then there is the anger and frustration that come out at the worst time.

“Truth is,” I murmur, voice low, “I still struggle with anger, and sometimes it comes out directed at all humans.”

Koda glances over but doesn’t interrupt. He listens. Like always.

“I know it is wrong, I know I shouldn’t feel this way.” I exhale through my nose. "But it feels outta my control. Seeing them sets something off. Makes me… furious. Not just angry. Like I wanna rip something apart.”

My hand curls into a fist before I even realize it. I stare at it, force it open.

“I should direct this anger at the NNA. At the General. And I am. But sometimes it feels like my bear… it doesn’t differentiate. Human is human.” I pause. “I don’t wanna do what I did to Sasha to anyone else. The SEALs are incredible. In the past few weeks, they have done so much for our cause. We couldn’t have achieved even half of that alone. And in all honesty, dudes are cool. I actually like them. Gin is solid…”

“Give it time, bro,” he says seriously, “You’re not the only one trying to heal.”

I nod once, pressing my shoulder against his. No words. A quiet promise.

Koda’s about to say more when the door creaks open.

I straighten without thinking, instinct snapping sharp like a blade drawn too fast. One second of quiet tension, then I clock him. Not a threat. A kid, no, a young man, maybe eighteen, nineteen, edges inside like he’s waiting to get hit.

Shoulders up around his ears, hands wringing each other like they’ve got nowhere safe to land. His eyes flick across the room, too fast, too wide. He flinches like the air might scold him.

Koda leans in, keeping his voice low. “He’s one of the ones we rescued,” he murmurs. “Poor dude’s always nervous. Bells tried talking to him a few times… not much luck. Trauma, I suppose."

I grunt, low and deep in my chest. I don’t need more than one word. Yeah. I remember.

The cages. The stink of metal and blood. That silence, after we broke through, when the screams faded and the fight ended, let you hear people gasping for breath after years of fear.

The kid, he’s pale, too pale, limbs like they haven’t had food to grow right. Eyes like cracked glass. He hovers by the door, trapped between the choices of fight, flight, or simply vanishing.

“Hey Lionel,” Koda calls out, warm and easy, like this place isn’t pulsing with old ghosts. "Are you looking for someone?”

The boy jumps, deer-in-the-headlights wide, and shakes his head fast, sharp.

“You’re good,” Koda says, nodding toward the bench near the far wall. “You can hang out if you want. No one’s gonna bother you.”

The boy hesitates for a second, then gives a tiny nod, barely visible. He moves stiffly, as if his joints don’t trust him yet. Then he folds onto the bench, ready for it to disappear. He stays for a moment, then gets up.

Arms around his middle. Chin tucked down. Silent.

I keep watching him; he moves slowly at first, then fast. Shifty. He grabs two bottles from the supply table. He tucks them against his side so no one sees. Then, he slips out the door quietly.

I frowned, following his path with my eyes.

Koda shrugs slightly next to me, also looking at the door. "Maybe he just didn’t wanna get yelled at for getting extra water? Who knows what they went through?"

"Maybe," I said, but the tightness in my gut didn’t agree.

It wasn’t the bottles. It was the way he moved, sneaky, guilty. Like he expected someone to stop him. Like he knew he wasn’t supposed to be doing whatever he was about to do. Something about him needles at me, a shape I can’t quite pin down.

Then again, what do I know about trauma? But I’ll keep my eye on him just in case, and maybe get Myan’s tiger intuition to get a read on him.

You can’t be too safe, not with a war going on and a general set on eradicating us all.