Page 19 of Grizzly’s Grump (Shifters of Redwood Rise #1)

CALDER

C illa doesn’t say a word as I guide her away from the clearing. Her silence says more than any words could—heavy, layered, and echoing the strangeness of what we just witnessed.

My thoughts churn with what it means, what the others might have seen.

I keep glancing down at her hand in mine, needing the anchor, needing the contact.

There’s something fragile between us now—new, uncertain, but real.

Her fingers are tight in mine, her steps steady, but the air hums with tension.

I glance at her profile, at the set of her jaw and the way she keeps her gaze forward like she's trying not to give anything away. The silence between us stretches taut. It’s heavier, tangled with everything unsaid and everything that’s changed.

My gut knots with the need to say something, but I don't trust my voice not to betray the maelstrom inside me.

She's not pulling away, but she’s not leaning in either, and it leaves me suspended somewhere between hope and dread.

Not fear—not exactly. Something deeper, older.

The kind of charged silence that settles just before a storm.

I don’t speak until we’re back at the compound.

The walk is quiet. She keeps her gaze on the woods, eyes tracking every flicker of shadow between the trees.

I want to reach for her, but my bear is pacing too close to the surface.

The shift simmers beneath my skin, coiling hot and urgent inside me—a pressure building behind my ribs, growing tighter, heavier, impossible to ignore

When we get inside, I make sure to close the front door behind us.

Not that a door would stop anything determined, but it gives the illusion of safety.

Cilla heads straight for the primary bedroom without asking, her bare feet silent on the hardwood.

I hear the bathroom door shut and the shower start a few seconds later.

The scent of her wafts into the open space of the great room, warm skin and soap and something spiced.

It guts me I can’t follow her. That I have to let her go instead of chasing after her, wrapping her in my arms, and telling her I won’t let the world—ley lines, angry bears, or the ghosts of my past—come near her.

The need to follow, to protect, claws at me, but so does the fear that if I push too hard, I’ll lose whatever fragile trust we’ve begun to build.

So I stay rooted here, aching with restraint and hating every second.

That I can’t sink into that warmth and pretend like the world outside isn’t unraveling.

A soft creak of the floorboards cuts through the quiet, drawing my attention. I don’t have to look to know it’s Beau, his presence as familiar as the worn wood beneath our feet.

"You sure about her?" His voice is low, rough. No accusation. Just a brother being a brother.

I don’t answer.

"You remember what happened last time."

Of course I remember. I don’t need him dragging that ghost into the light.

"It’s not the same," I say.

Beau leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, his brow furrowed and one foot tapping an uneven rhythm against the floor.

His jaw flexes like he's biting back the words he really wants to say, tension radiating off him in waves.

"You sure? Because it feels the same. Ley lines spiking.

Animals going weird. Storms rolling in without warning. "

I grit my teeth. "She’s not her."

"No. But the energy… it's similar."

I scrub a hand down my face. "I don’t know what she is. I only know I can’t stay away from her."

Beau nods slowly. "And what if that’s the problem? Sawyer lost his mate. You remember that? You remember what it did to him?"

"Don’t." The word comes out low, almost a growl.

"I’m just saying—maybe we’re cursed. Maybe whatever runs under this town doesn’t like us loving anyone."

His words hit harder than I expect. Not because I believe in curses—but because, sometimes, in the quiet moments when the ley lines hum and the air feels too heavy, I wonder if they believe in us. If they sense our hopes and fears, and twist fate around them just to watch us break.

Footsteps echo from the far end of the open room.

Sawyer steps into view, his son trailing close behind.

My jaw ticks as he watches the boy—a flash of guilt and something softer tightening in his chest. Then Tanner’s wide eyes scan the room before he presses himself closer to Sawyer, fingers fisting in his dad’s flannel.

My bear settles slightly, sensing the vulnerability in the boy, the delicate thread of fear and innocence.

I don’t speak; just adjust my stance—shoulders loosening, posture settling into something less rigid, fists unclenching.

I give Tanner a small nod, a silent offering of acknowledgment, before his gaze locks with Sawyer’s.

Tanner stays quiet, half-hidden behind his father’s leg, clearly picking up on the tension hanging in the room even if he doesn’t understand the cause.

"Fen thinks the ley lines are angry," Sawyer says without preamble. "That Cilla might make it worse."

That lands like a gut punch.

"She’s not doing anything on purpose," I snap.

Sawyer holds up his hands. "Didn’t say she was. Just relaying what Fen told me."

"Cilla belongs here."

Beau snorts. "You decided that already?"

"Yeah. I did."

Silence falls. Tanner tugs at his father’s hand, and Sawyer murmurs something quiet before he sends him toward the far corner of the great room, where two leather wingback chairs are tucked near the fireplace.

"I could build something," I say after a minute, voice low and gritty with the weight of the choice clawing at me. "A shelter. Out near Workshop Row."

Beau frowns. "You think you’ll have time for that? Wouldn’t it be smarter just to get her out of here?"

I shake my head. "Run where? The ley lines stretch beyond this town. If they’re reacting to her, it could follow. At least here, we know the ground. We can prepare."

Sawyer crosses his arms, studying me. "You really think a building will stop what’s coming?"

"No," I admit. "But it gives us a chance. Gives her something stable to hold on to when everything else is falling out of balance. It’s not just about walls. It’s about control. About trying."

I look toward the darkened windows, the image of a shelter forming clearer with every breath—timber and stone, old as the mountain itself. Not just walls and roof, but a foundation rooted in the ridge’s bones. Something human-built and wild-proof. Something that says: 'you’re not alone here.'

"I can’t protect her from everything," I murmur, my voice rough. "But damn it, I have to try."

The vision sharpens: iron brackets hammered into thick beams, rock fitted by hand into the timber frame, every joint whispering intent.

It’s not just protection—it’s defiance. A place close to the convergence, grounded and real, a tether between this world and the one she’s trying to understand.

A haven not just for her body, but for her spirit.

A place that holds when the rest breaks wide open.

Even if I’m gone. Even if this all burns down around her, that place will still stand.

I clench my jaw, the thought digging deep. No matter what the ley lines bring... she has to survive it.

Sawyer arches a brow. "You gonna tell her that’s what you’re doing?"

I shrug. "Eventually."

The pressure in my chest builds again. I can’t sit here. I can’t keep having the same conversation when my bear is pulling at something primal, deeper than instinct and older than memory.

I step outside without a word. The air is sharp; the night is thick with mist. My body knows what comes next. The pull is too strong.

The mist rolls up from the ground, swirling with thunder and lightning. It wraps around me, engulfing me in color and heat. The moment it clears, I’m on all fours, paws sinking into damp earth.

The shift is clean. Whole. Instant.

I charge into the woods, fury and confusion driving my limbs.

The scents of damp earth and distant pine slam into me, raw and wild.

My paws churn up soil, scattering leaves and twigs as I push deeper into the trees.

Every sound sharpens—owl wings above, the skitter of small prey beneath ferns, the thud of my own pulse pounding in my ears.

My bear isn’t just running—he’s hunting for clarity, for control, for the piece of me that feels like it's slipping.

The deeper I go, the more I feel the ley line's energy threading through the forest, not just humming, but thrashing like a thing alive. The vibration doesn't just brush against my senses—it barrels through them, a primal force pushing upward like it wants to rip free from the soil. It doesn’t guide me—it hunts me, wild, chaotic pulses claw at my instincts, daring me to control what can’t be tamed.

I can’t master it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The not knowing drives me faster, harder, until my lungs burn and my claws gouge deep, ragged trenches through the soft forest floor.

The ley lines don’t just hum now—they writhe, coiling and twisting beneath the surface like living serpents, surging with energy that wants out.

It feels like they’re trying to escape the earth itself, pushing upward with frantic urgency, clawing at the roots and stones, scraping toward the air as if the ground can no longer contain them.

I swear I can feel them reaching for me—not just beneath my feet but inside my chest, invisible fingers dragging across nerves and instinct, primal and relentless.

But no matter how far I run, her scent lingers in my awareness.

Cinnamon and honey. Warmth and storm. It roots in my chest like a brand.

And nothing—not the trees, not the pain, not the wild pull of my bear—can chase it away.

Branches whip past. The trees blur. I run until the burn in my muscles pushes back the storm in my chest.

It doesn't work. Not completely. Not this time. The gnawing restlessness still clings to my skin, threaded tight through muscle and bone, refusing to loosen its grip.

I can still feel her—every part of her echoing through me. The lingering trace of her scent, the warmth of her body against mine, the imprint of her smile. And the look she gives me—steady, unwavering—as if she sees something in me worth keeping. Worth fighting for.

I want to shield her from every threat, carve out a space where only we exist—where nothing and no one can get to her. I want to be the barrier between her and the chaos, the steady heat she can fall into when the world turns cold.

But the ley lines are humming again. And the past has not finished with me.

By the time I circle back, the mist is rising again. I step through it, shift back, drag on the clothes I left tucked behind a tree near the back porch.

The light's on in the kitchen. She’s standing at the window, looking out, with her arms folded across her chest and her expression unreadable.

The soft glow of the overhead light frames her in gold, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.

I catch the way her fingers tighten slightly on her arms, the smallest tell that she’s not as calm as she wants to appear.

Her presence is like gravity—I feel it before she turns, before her eyes meet mine.

And in that instant, the wildness in me settles just a little.

She’s waiting for me.