Page 8 of Grizzly’s Grump (Shifters of Redwood Rise #1)

CALDER

T he damn bear won’t settle.

Even after I walk away. Even after I finish stacking firewood beside her truck and disappear into the trees like I was never there. Even though I try to pretend her scent hasn’t soaked into my skin like pine sap and wildfire.

She’s sunshine and sugar. And I’m one wrong move from losing my grip.

I pace the tree line for hours, watching the fog drift between the redwoods. There’s a pulse under the ground tonight—faint but rising. A telltale warning. The ley lines are waking again. I feel them the same way I feel a splinter under my nail: subtle, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

The bear doesn’t care. He prowls just beneath the surface, muscles coiled, breath hot and ready.

All he knows is that she’s close—that the ferns have her scent tangled in them, her warmth still lingers in the air—and every part of him feels certain.

She’s ours. Claimed, chosen, inevitable.

And the lines feel it too. They’ve never flared like this around someone new—not like they’re waking up to her. Not like they’ve been waiting.

I grit my teeth and ignore the urge to circle back. She’s in her truck. She’s fine. Probably curled up with a mug of coffee and that dog-eared recipe book, dreaming of cinnamon rolls and second chances.

But then the pulse surges—hard and sudden, like a drumbeat echoing through bone. The ground hums beneath my boots, a low vibration that climbs my spine and tightens the back of my neck.

The air thickens, heavy and charged. The trees tremble.

Something ancient unfurls beneath the surface, no longer subtle, no longer quiet.

It rises in the soil and bark and blood, calling out like a forgotten name whispered in the dark.

The redwoods sway, their trunks groaning as the flare ripples through them like a warning too old for words.

My head jerks up. The air is wrong—buzzing low, charged like it’s bracing for lightning. The woods go still, sound swallowed by something deeper than silence, like the forest itself is listening for a whisper it dreads. And just like that, I know—she’s not in the truck anymore.

I follow her scent. It cuts through the damp, sharp and familiar, threading between the trees like a trail meant only for me.

I move fast, feet silent on the mossy earth, eyes scanning for any flicker of movement.

And then I see the shimmer—the faint, silver pulse of ley energy flickering through the trees—and I know she’s stepped too close.

I find her half a mile in. She’s standing too close to the break in the line, her hoodie sleeves pushed up, one hand reaching toward the silver strands of the haze drifting between the trees. Her skin glows faintly golden in the ley flare—beautiful and completely vulnerable.

“Cilla,” I bark.

She turns. Her pupils blow wide as she breathes in shallow gulps. Her hand is trembling.

“Calder?” she whispers. “What is this?”

I don’t answer. I scoop her up—arms under her thighs and back—and press her to my chest. Her warmth seeps into me, dangerous and bright. Her heartbeat flutters against my ribs.

“Don’t move,” I growl.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just melts into me like she’s done it a hundred times before.

Her arms slide around my neck, slow and certain, anchoring herself to me without hesitation.

Her cheek brushes my collarbone, warm and trusting, and something in my chest pulls tight—like the part of me that’s always on edge just.. . lets go.

By the time we make it back to the food truck, she has her arms looped around my neck and her body is warm against mine, reluctant to let go. I ease her down gently, but her imprint clings to me.

I crouch beside the little firepit she’s tucked just off the gravel and get it going with dry kindling and pine shavings.

It catches fast, flames curling upward like they’ve been waiting for something to burn.

The crackle cuts through the quiet, and the fire’s warmth spreads slowly between us, pressing back the tension coiled in the air.

The soft orange glow dances across her face, catching in the curve of her jaw and the hollows beneath her eyes.

Her curls are a wild halo around her face—tangled from the wind that’s swept in off the ocean and the charge of the ley line still clinging to her skin.

Her cheeks are flushed, the color high and stubborn.

Maybe it’s from the flare. Maybe it’s from the way I held her.

From the way I haven’t stopped watching her since.

I don’t ask. I just keep looking.

“You could’ve been hurt.”

Her eyes flash. “I didn’t know. I was just... drawn to it. It felt like it was calling me.”

“It was.”

She frowns. “What is it?”

“Ley line. A flare. That kind of energy messes with people—especially ones like you.”

“Ones like me?” she repeats.

“Sensitive. Unshielded. You walk through that kind of power with your heart wide open; it can bend you sideways.”

She stares at me. “And you’re shielded?”

“No,” I say. “But I’ve lived here long enough to brace for it.”

Something flickers in her eyes. Respect, maybe. Or curiosity.

“You carried me,” she says quietly.

“I wasn’t about to let you collapse in the middle of a surge.”

“I’m not made of glass.”

“No,” I admit. “You’re not.”

Her breath stutters, caught between defiance and something far more vulnerable.

She changes position slightly where she’s perched on the edge of the truck’s side ledge, bracing herself with one hand against the metal, as if unsure whether to lean in or pull away.

Her lips part—maybe to speak, maybe to challenge—but no words come.

Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

I’m already moving.

One step closes the gap between us. I plant my hands on either side of her thighs, caging her in—not rough, not forceful, just sure. Her breath ghosts across my cheek. Her scent wraps around me—sweet and sharp and warm—and my control fractures.

I dip my head and kiss her—full, fierce, claiming.

Her lips part beneath mine with a soft gasp, and I take her mouth like I’ve been dying for it, like it’s the only thing that will quiet the maelstrom clawing at my insides.

My fingers tighten against the ledge behind her, holding back the instinct to grab, to press, to devour.

She tastes like heat and wine and temptation, her lips soft but demanding, her body curving into mine with hungry, unspoken need.

The kiss deepens—my tongue sweeping into her mouth, coaxing a moan from her throat that shoots straight to my spine.

Her hands fist in my shirt, dragging me closer until there’s nothing between us but fire and breath.

It’s not much, but it's everything.

She gasps into my mouth, her breath hot and trembling.

Her fingers clutch the front of my shirt, fisting the fabric like she needs something to hold on to or she might come undone.

I drag her closer, one hand splayed across her lower back, the other gripping her thigh as her legs wind around me.

Her hips rise to meet me, slow and sinuous, the press of her body against mine sharp enough to steal my breath.

I groan against her lips, the sound ripped straight from the core of my being. The heat between us spikes—hotter than the fire, hotter than the ley surge—and I lose myself in the way she moves, the way she moans, the way her mouth opens beneath mine like a promise I’m already breaking.

This isn’t gentle. Far from it. It’s everything I’ve been holding back.

She whimpers when I nip at her bottom lip, and I drown in the sound. My hands roam—one curling around the back of her neck, the other gripping her hip. Her pulse beats fast beneath my touch.

“Calder,” she pants. “You’re burning up.”

I am, on the inside.

Every part of me tuned in to her.

I kiss her again, slower this time, sinking into the taste of her like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the earth.

Her mouth opens beneath mine with soft, aching heat—lush and yielding, inviting me in.

My tongue slides against hers, slow and searching, a rhythm that makes her sigh into my mouth like she’s melting from the inside out.

She tastes like ripe berries and wine and something dark I shouldn’t want but do anyway—warm, reckless, addictive.

My fingers tighten at her hip as her nails scrape along my neck, dragging a low growl from deep in my chest. Everything in me pulls toward her—hungry, restless, undone—and I let it. For this moment, I let it.

My hand slides up her thigh.

And then I freeze like someone poured ice water down my spine.

She pulls back, breath ragged. “What—what is it?”

I step back, hard and fast, like distance might undo what I’ve just done.

Her legs drop. Her expression changes.

I rake a hand through my hair and take another step back. “This was a mistake.”

Her lips part. “Wow. That’s... okay. Honest.”

“I didn’t mean...”

“You didn’t mean to kiss me like you meant it?”

“I didn’t mean to lose control.”

Her face hardens. “Maybe I wanted you to.”

The bear growls low inside me, furious at the space between us. At the rejection I just shoved into her hands.

I turn away before I do something worse. "I’m sorry," I mutter over her shoulder.

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “Be consistent.”

That hits harder than it should. I glance over my shoulder. She’s still perched on the edge of her truck’s step rail, hair wild, mouth kiss-swollen and arms folded. Her eyes are shining—but not with tears.

She’s angry... with me... with herself... with whatever this thing is we keep circling but won’t touch.

I walk away because I don’t trust what I’ll do if I stay.

The bear already chose her, and I’m not sure I get a vote.