Page 23 of Grizzly’s Grump (Shifters of Redwood Rise #1)

And those words—those simple, impossible words—settle somewhere deep in my chest, anchoring everything that nearly flew apart.

The compound is silent when we arrive. The truck’s engine cuts out, and for a beat, neither of us moves.

The quiet here isn’t still—it’s expectant, as if the land is suspended on the edge of something.

I carry her through the front gate and past the totems carved into the posts, relics from generations of shifters who’ve walked this same path.

The scent of cedar and old stone greets us—familiar, grounding. But tonight, it feels different.

The thought of bringing her here—into this space—isn’t something I take lightly.

Only a handful of outsiders have ever stood where she does now, and never like this—not as part of us.

This place is a sanctuary. History. A sacred reminder that ley energy and claw carved our kind and that oath and blood forged it.

I cross the threshold barefoot, heart thrumming.

As I move through the door toward the hearth, every footfall echoes softly, grounding me in the weight of tradition.

Those who came before carved the walls from old stone, cool beneath my fingertips, and etched them with ancient symbols that only awaken under ley pulses—faintly glowing now, as if aware of what’s coming.

The scent of earth and iron clings to the stones, dense and grounding, like the breath of something ancient that has waited centuries to be disturbed.

Somewhere deeper inside, the fire waits to be lit.

A tangle of memories prickles at the edges of my mind—my first shift, Beau’s near-death trial in this very space, the way Fen once collapsed here after a vision left her bleeding from the nose.

This place has seen everything that matters.

And now Cilla’s here. The wind hasn’t followed us. Neither has the mist.

We’re already inside, and though she’s been here before, something about the space feels altered—weightier, pulsing faintly with the energy still lingering from the storm outside. Stone walls echo with memory, the hearth cold but waiting. This time, it isn’t just a visit. It’s a crossing over.

She turns to face me in the golden light from the hallway. “You okay?”

“No,” I say honestly. “But I will be. If you’ll let me claim you.”

Her breath catches. “You mean… the real way?”

I nod, my throat thick. “The sacred way. Not just sex. A bond. Blood. Spirit. It’ll tie you to me. It’ll make you mine in the eyes of every shifter who’s ever walked these woods—and in the eyes of the ley lines themselves.”

She steps closer, and I see it—that spark of fear, not of me, but of what this means. Of how big it is. But I also see resolve.

“I’ve never belonged anywhere, Calder. Never felt like I could trust something enough to surrender to it.”

“And now?” I ask.

She lifts her chin. “Now I want to belong to you.”

I close the space between us, fingers grazing her cheek. “Then come with me.”

We leave my cottage and make our way to a sacred clearing at the edge of our compound. The stone walls pulse faintly with ley energy. Old marks, carved by claw and blood, flicker to life as we step inside.

My brothers and my nephew stand with me in a wide circle, their expressions solemn, the weight of the moment etched into every line of their faces.

They light the candles from memory—each flame a thread tying us back to the first of our kind—and mark the ground with salt and ash.

No words are spoken beyond the rites. The silence hums with old power.

Cilla stands at the center, her eyes glowing in the dim light, shoulders squared, her breath steady.

She meets this moment on her feet, proud and unflinching, as the sacred wind stirs the edge of her sweater and the cling of her leggings.

She's not just becoming part of my life. She's claiming her place in it.

“You sure?” I murmur. "There's no going back."

“I'm sure.”

I slice a shallow X into my palm, and the sting is sharp, grounding.

My blood wells up, hot and thick, and when I press the blade gently to her skin, she doesn’t flinch.

Something primal rises in my chest. When our hands join, palm to palm, blood mingling, the warmth rushes through us like fire feeding fire.

The air smells of iron and pine resin, rich and old as the mountain. My heart slams behind my ribs, but my voice is steady as I speak. When we bind our hands together, the heat that rushes between us is undeniable.

The stones and trees in the clearing seem to lean in—the ancient markings flaring to life with a pulse that echoes in my bones. Energy curls around us, humming low, as if the ley lines are bearing witness to this rite.

“Blood of my blood,” I say. “Bone of my bone. Soul of my soul.”

She repeats the words, voice trembling but strong.

The ley lines pulse once. Just once. As if in acknowledgment.

I lean forward, pressing my mouth to the space where her neck meets her shoulder. I scent her there, kiss her once, and then rest my forehead briefly against her skin, anchoring us both in the moment.

She exhales sharply, body swaying toward mine as if drawn by gravity.

I wrap my arms around her and pull her against my chest. The heat between us deepens—feral, tender, unshakable—as our blood mingles and the bond sinks into our bones like wildfire.

The connection hums with something ancient, vibrating through every inch of skin and soul.

When our foreheads touch, we stay there—silent, suspended in the sacred—and I feel the shift inside her. Not the kind that turns skin to fur, but the one that changes everything else. The bond is real. She’s mine now. And I’m hers.

She blinks up at me, lips parted. “So what now?”

I brush her hair back. “Now we live as if we belong to each other. And pray the ley lines don’t have other ideas.”

Just as the words leave my mouth, the stones all around us tremble. For a breathless moment, the sacred marks along the stones blaze brighter—warping, flickering like fire catching wind. I stare, chest tight, as the lines distort into something new: not letters, not runes, but a spiral.

It's a pattern I’ve only seen once—sketched by Fen in charcoal after one of her visions, her hands shaking, her voice hollow. She called it a harbinger. Said it meant change. Said it meant the lines were watching.

The ley lines pulse again.

Once.

Twice.

A low hum fills the air, thick and vibrating, and the flickering light takes on a reddish-gold tint. Not dangerous. Not hostile. But not neutral either.

Cilla grips my hand. “Was that approval?”

I look toward the glowing symbols on the wall, then back at her.

“Maybe,” I say, voice low. “Or maybe it was a warning.”

The ground beneath our feet feels too still—like the calm after a scream, or the moment a predator holds its breath. The bond is sealed, but the ley lines aren’t done. I feel them watching, waiting, as if what just happened wasn’t an end at all, but a beginning.

And somewhere far beyond the clearing, the forest breathes again.