Page 18 of Grizzly’s Grump (Shifters of Redwood Rise #1)

I stare at the door long after she leaves.

It’s just bread. Just a gathering. But it feels like more.

A door cracked open, the kind I used to walk through without thinking.

Before grief. Before starting over. I don’t know what I’ll find there—but for once, the idea of being seen doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like a choice.

The clearing is lit with strings of old mason jars glowing faintly with candles and a big firepit crackling at its center.

The scent of grilled meat and wild herbs fills the air, blending with laughter and music.

It should feel foreign. Overwhelming. But something inside me softens as I take it all in.

Kids dart between legs. I spot flashes of fur and eyes gleaming in the firelight—animals mingling in ways that are a little too familiar.

Calder said that all the town’s residents are like him—not bear-shifters, but all kinds of animals.

I’m starting to believe him. There’s something about the way they move, the way a wolf pads up and nudges a laughing man’s hip before melting into the shadows, or how a black bear cub nuzzles at someone’s leg like it belongs there.

I can’t always tell who’s who—but the energy thrumming in the air says they’re all part of something older, wilder.

Nobody shifts right in front of me, but I see the aftermath—people wrapped in blankets or oversized shirts that weren't there before. It’s unsettling and mesmerizing, the way it all folds together.

Something primal and wordless twists low in my belly, like awe and unease had a baby and set it loose in my chest.

And then there’s my table. A sturdy fold-out I hauled up with Marcy’s help, now covered in a linen cloth and crowded with offerings—honey-almond bread, peach scones, cinnamon-dusted cookies, and golden tarts filled with blackberry compote.

At first, people hover at the edges, unsure. I catch whispers, curious glances. Then one brave soul steps forward, takes a bite—and everything changes. A ripple of interest rolls through the crowd. Soon, there’s a steady stream of visitors.

Compliments begin in murmurs, hesitant and quiet, but with every bite, they gain confidence and warmth.

Laughter bubbles, questions come about ingredients and recipes, and a woman even asks if I take custom orders.

For the first time since I rolled into this town, it feels like that heavy, unyielding door the town kept between us has eased open.

Not all the way, not yet—but wide enough for light to filter through, wide enough for hope to take root.

"This tastes like something my grandmother made..."

"Is that honey in this?"

"I didn’t know you could even get peaches this good around here."

I smile and chat, heart thudding like a drumbeat echoing through my ribs, each word shared loosening something tight in my chest. Warmth spreads—slow and steady—as faces soften, as laughter rises around my table like steam from a fresh loaf.

This. This is what I came here for. Not just survival, but connection.

A place to root. A chance to be seen—and to stay.

A woman I don’t know presses a hand to my arm. "We’re glad you stayed."

A young boy tugs on his mother’s sleeve, pointing at the almond bread like it’s made of gold.

Even June Kessler, who appears at my elbow like a ghost, murmurs, "That’s the best scone I’ve ever had."

The fire burns lower. The air cools. People shift into their animal forms one by one—some gracefully, some suddenly. Calder is nowhere in sight, but I feel him in the dark. A hum that gets louder. Closer.

Then the quake ripples beneath our feet—gentle at first, like the slow exhale of something vast and ancient stirring deep below.

The vibration hums through the ground, rising like a warning whisper up my spine and knotting unease throughout my system.

I stiffen, breath hitching. The fire crackles louder in the sudden hush.

Murmurs sweep through the clearing. Something primal stirs in my belly, a flutter of fear tangled with awe. This isn’t normal, not even for Redwood Rise. It’s a warning. And I can feel Calder’s presence grow sharper, closer—like the earth itself is calling him.

The low rumble rolls through the clearing, barely louder than a sigh, but it’s enough to startle the youngest kids. Wide eyes snap upward, tiny shoulders stiffen. A hush falls, followed by a ripple of murmured unease.

Every instinct I have bristles. You don't have to be a shifter to know something is definitely wrong.

Those at the gathering scatter quickly and quietly, as if practiced.

Only Calder and his brothers remain. Marcy tries to pull me away, but I break away from her, moving towards Calder.

I move past him and his brothers, toward the edge of the clearing, toward the trees—toward the sense of what's coming that’s grown so strong it feels like a tether.

And then I see it.

Huge, golden-brown. Watching from the shadows. Its eyes catch the moonlight.

My heart slams against my ribs. I take a step.

It doesn’t move.

Another step.

Stillness.

But there’s something darker in the way it watches me. Something deeper than instinct.

Calder takes hold of my arm and gently moves me away. I hear the soft crack of underbrush behind me.

It’s moving, not following, but tracking us. Silently. Closely... It's as if something primal has finally decided it’s time to claim what belongs to it. And I know—whatever that thing is, it isn’t finished. Not with me. Not with any of us.