Page 16 of Grizzly’s Grump (Shifters of Redwood Rise #1)

CALDER

C illa’s breath is still warm on my chest, a gentle reminder she didn’t bolt.

That when I showed up, she didn’t push me away.

I can’t tell if that makes the ache in my chest ease or deepen.

My bear rests deep in my bones, unsettled but oddly satisfied, like the matebond’s claws have dug in just a little deeper.

She’s not ready for forever—at least, that’s what I suspect she's told herself. We haven’t had that conversation, not really.

I haven’t said a word about the matebond to her, haven’t given her a reason to know just how deep this runs for me.

But she didn’t tell me to leave when I showed up.

She let me hold her. That has to mean something.

She’s finally asleep. I must’ve dozed off with her still curled against me.

But once I wake and take stock of where we are, I move her gently—careful not to rouse her—and move us up to the small bed above the cab.

She murmurs in her sleep but doesn’t stir, pressing into the pillow like she belongs there with me.

Like I didn’t just rip her world wide open.

Even so, she still somehow ended up curled against me—so damn sweet it makes my bear pace inside me, restless and possessive.

But my mind won’t settle. I keep going over every word, every look she gave me before she drifted off.

She ran at first—who wouldn’t? But then she let me hold her.

After everything I told her, after everything she saw.

.. she stayed. And that changes everything.

That should bring comfort, but it gnaws at me.

Hope and doubt, tangled together. Does she feel the pull like I do?

Or is she just too shaken to leave yet? Either way, the bond between us is no longer just some quiet instinct in the background.

It’s a roar now, a weight I feel with every breath.

And I don’t know if she’s ready for it. I don’t know if I am.

My bear wants more. He wants everything. Mine, he growls, low and primal inside me.

I press my lips to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of peaches and sugar and something purely Cilla—sunlight and grit and fire wrapped in softness. She’s fire. And my bear? He’s already burning.

I could stay like this forever, but the hum beneath us won’t let me. It’s the ley lines again—subtle at first, but relentless. Beneath the calm, something ancient stirs, and it’s not going away.

It’s not the kind of vibration you feel in your skin or even hear in your ears.

My bear feels it first—a shift in the air, a resonance too deep for human senses.

It reverberates in my bones, a primal warning, as if the earth itself is growling low and long beneath us, pressing against the edge of what I can contain.

This isn't an echo from the truck. It’s something older, something living, and my animal side rises to meet it with wary anticipation in the aftermath of good sex.

This is deeper. Wilder. A pulse that thrums through the bones of the truck and echoes straight into mine.

The same humming that shook us earlier hasn’t stopped—it’s just waiting.

Gathering strength. And I know what it is before the confirmation comes.

The ley lines are flaring again—an invisible storm building under my skin, setting every instinct on edge.

My bear senses it first, that primal tension in the earth like a predator about to pounce, and I swear the pulse syncs with my heartbeat, dragging my thoughts straight back to Cilla and what this might mean for her.

I ease out from under her as gently as I can. She stirs but doesn’t wake, just rolls into the blankets and clutches the pillow to her chest. The sight of her there—bare, beautiful, vulnerable—makes something savage rise in me.

I can’t keep her safe if I don’t know what’s coming. And I sure as hell can’t face it alone. Not with the lines acting up again and the pulse echoing through every inch of this town. I need answers—and my brothers may be the only ones who can help me find them.

I dress quickly, jaw tight, and shove the food truck’s door open.

The air outside is sharp, cooler than it should be, with a tang of static clinging to it like something’s about to break.

The sky’s taken on that strange twilight cast that comes right before a ley flare—the light too dim, too off, like a film overlay.

A flicker in the corner of my vision jerks my head to the left, instinct kicking in before thought can catch up.

Lights along Workshop Row blink once, twice… then go dark.

"Shit."

A sudden chorus of hoots breaks the fragile quiet—eerie in its timing and far too many to be natural.

I turn toward the sound and spot them: owls, at least six, perched unnaturally close on the old fire tower.

Their formation is too rigid, too intentional.

They don’t move. They just watch, silent and unblinking, and every instinct in me knows—it’s wrong. Very wrong.

I glance up at the tower one last time, unsettled by the unwavering stare locked on me.

As I turn away, my thoughts drift to June, the owl-shifter archivist. If anyone might understand what this owl behavior means—or what the ley lines are trying to tell us—it’s her.

Maybe Fen, too. The seer might not always give straight answers, but her instincts are dead-on when it comes to this kind of energy.

I make a mental note to track them down.

Then the ground vibrates—a low, rhythmic thud that pulses through my boots and rattles up my spine. It's not just noise or tremor; it's alive. Each thud feels like the earth is trying to speak in a language older than words, pressing urgency into my bones with every beat.

I follow the sound toward Main, muscles taut and senses flaring.

The deer come first—a blur of brown and white streaking past in a frantic wave.

An entire herd barrels through town, hooves clattering against the pavement in a frenzy of movement, panic-fueled chaos echoing off storefronts and street signs.

They don’t scatter when they see me. They don’t veer or hesitate.

Just keep running, wild-eyed and erratic, as if something bigger than fear is chasing them.

I reach for my phone, glancing up as a pair of foxes dart across the far end of the lot—unnaturally quiet, their movements too smooth, too synchronized.

It sends another ripple of unease down my spine.

The ley lines aren't just stirring; they're calling attention from all corners of the wild. Something is rising—and it’s drawing everything to it.

"Eli, meet me at the workshop," I say, keeping my voice low but urgent. "Bring the others. We need to talk—something’s not right."

There's a beat of silence on the other end, and then Eli grunts. "You seeing the same weirdness we are?"

"Yeah. Owls, deer, foxes—it's like something's calling all the wild to town. And the lines are humming."

"Got it. I’ll wrangle the others. Give us ten."

"Make it five," I mutter, already heading toward the barn. "This isn’t waiting."

He says nothing else. He doesn’t need to.

Ten minutes later, my brothers are there. Eli, stone-faced as always. Sawyer, dragging his work boots, paint still streaked up one arm. Beau, with his hoodie half-zipped and phone still in hand. Jonah, bleary-eyed but alert.

We circle up in the workshop’s main room, the familiar scent of sawdust and machine oil grounding us as much as the walls themselves.

It's not just a place to build furniture—it's where we build plans, where shit gets real. The overhead lights flicker once, like even the space itself is reacting to what’s coming.

, the heavy scent of sawdust grounding us as much as anything can.

"It’s starting again," I say, before turning to Sawyer. "Tanner?"

My brother is a single dad, and Tanner is his son. "I left him with Fen." We all give him a look. "Think what you want, but Fen would die before she'd let the ley lines take him."

He's not wrong about that.

Eli nods. "We're seeing the same surge pattern as three months ago, before the last spike."

"It’s stronger this time," Jonah mutters. "Owls don’t cluster like that. Not unless they’re reacting to a major disruption."

"And the deer," Sawyer adds. "They ran through Main like something was chasing them."

Beau leans against the wall, arms crossed, his brow furrowed like he’s already decided but doesn’t like where this is heading.

"You sure this isn't just a coincidence?

" he mutters, one boot tapping a slow rhythm against the concrete floor. "Seems like we’re reaching for patterns that might not be there. Think it’s tied to Cilla? "

The question slams into me like a blow to the sternum, knocking the air from my lungs and leaving a heaviness I can’t shake. Dread makes it sticky, implication makes it thick in my gut, and it echoes louder than anything else anyone said.

I glance toward the door. “It started when she was in the truck—and it hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s grown stronger.”

"We’re near a convergence," Eli says. "Workshop Row sits on the outer ring of the grid. If the lines are thinning or flaring too frequently..."

"It’s unstable," I finish for him. "It’s not just acting up. It’s splintering apart. And if she’s linked to the lines, then whatever it woke up—it’s not just sensing her now. It’s hunting.”

Beau whistles low. "Then we need to figure out what’s amplifying it."

Jonah frowns. "Could be her. Could be timing. But we’ve had strangers in town before. This is different."

"Because she’s not just a stranger," I say before I can stop myself.

Four heads swivel toward me, each expression landing somewhere between surprise, curiosity, and something sharper I don’t have time to name.

There’s a beat where I brace myself—pride and anxiety locking horns in my chest—I don’t say a word. The truth sizzles through my bloodstream, impossible to ignore. Saying it aloud would change everything, so I let the silence do it for me.

"She’s your mate," Eli says flatly.

I nod once.

Sawyer curses. Beau’s brows shoot up. Jonah just exhales.

"You told her?" Eli asks.

"Not in those words. I told her the truth—about what I am, what we are—and then I shifted. She saw. She ran. But then… she didn’t."

"So she’s still here."

"She’s asleep in that silly pink food truck."

The silence that follows is heavier than it should be.

"We need to stabilize the line," Eli says. "Before the convergence ruptures."

"And keep Cilla safe," I add. "If she’s the amplifier—or if her presence just woke something up—we don’t have time to wait."

Jonah rubs the back of his neck. "There’s one thing we haven’t tried. The old grounding ritual. But it requires someone attuned to the line. Someone open."

My stomach knots, heavy with the weight of certainty. I don't need him to say the name—I already know exactly who he's talking about.

"You think she’s capable of that?" Beau asks.

""I think the ley lines believe she is," Jonah says quietly, eyes distant. "That hum—it followed her. Matched her heartbeat.""

Sawyer sighs. "So we either risk drawing her deeper into this… or let it spiral out of control."

"Neither is acceptable," I say. "She doesn’t even believe in any of this yet. Not fully. She’s trying to go slow..."

"I don't know if we can give her the luxury of easing into this. I can’t simply abandon the responsibility for the ley lines to her.”

"Then you stay close," Eli says, his voice low but certain.

There's no room for argument, no hesitation—just quiet resolve. I glance at him, and for a heartbeat, neither of us speaks. But I know what he means. Keep her close. Keep her safe. It's not just a plan. It's a promise.

"Eli's right," says Jonah. "Keep her grounded while we figure it out. She trusts you. That’s something."

I nod slowly, but my bear's already made the call—silent and immovable. Keep her close. Protect her. Claim her. It's not a whisper or suggestion. It's instinct carved into bone, the unshakable truth that drives every beat of my heart.

The hum of the ley line is back now. Subtle, but steady—a low vibration threading through the air like a pulse I can feel more than hear. It knots in my gut, sets my bear to pacing. Not a roar yet, but a warning. A promise.

I don’t know what the line wants with her. But I know what I have to do. Keep her close. Keep her safe. Whatever's coming, she won't face it alone.

Outside, the wind kicks up, rustling the branches and sending a shiver through the trees.

Another flicker dances along the edge of my vision—a streetlight sputtering, unsure.

Then another pulse ripples through the ground, subtle but steady, like a heartbeat from the earth itself, warning of what’s to come.

Back at the food truck, the glow from the overhead light flickers once—then steadies, casting long, uncertain shadows across the lot.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and my bear bristles, unsettled by the stillness that follows.

Something's shifted again. And just beyond the windows of the food truck, in the half-light, I catch a shape.

An owl... perched right outside her window—its eyes locked on the inside like it knows exactly who lies just beyond the glass. A sentinel. A judge. Maybe even a threat. One thing is clear—it’s watching her. And my bear won’t let that go unanswered.