Page 9 of Grizzly’s Grump (Shifters of Redwood Rise #1)

By the time I make it back to my stone house tucked at the edge of our family compound, my pulse is still too fast and my skin still burns with the echo of her. I parked at the workshop and took the long way on foot, hoping the night air might cool something in me. It didn’t.

Now I lean against the porch rail, jaw tight, staring into the trees like they might offer answers. They don’t. But they do whisper—quiet and knowing—like they saw everything and won’t let me forget it.

The ley line has quieted.

But I haven’t.

Footsteps crunch over gravel, and a beat later, Beau's voice drifts up from the path. "You're radiating like a fault line, brother. Everything okay?"

I don’t turn. “Fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Beau steps onto the porch and leans against the rail opposite me. He smells of oil and pine tar; rust from the railcar he converted into his home dusts his boots. “The lines stirred tonight. I felt it. Even June Kessler had owls flying off schedule."

June’s our ley line archivist—an owl shifter who tracks energy patterns across this stretch of the Northern California Coastal Range. If her birds are acting out of rhythm, it’s never just coincidence. It means the lines are rising and rising fast.

I grunt.

Beau raises an eyebrow. “You gonna give me more than that?”

I push off the railing and rub the back of my neck, knowing that ignoring Beau is a waste of time.

“Cilla got caught in the edge of a flare. Nothing serious. I pulled her out. But it wasn’t just that she was there.

The flare surged when she stepped close.

Like the line saw her coming and reached up to meet her. ”

His eyes sharpen. “Is she okay?”

“Shaken. Drawn to it, though. Like the lines noticed her.”

He nods slowly. “You think she’s attuned?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. But her truck’s lights were flickering earlier. More than they should’ve. I want you to check it out tomorrow, along with the flat tire.”

“Sure,” Beau says. “But flickering lights? You think it’s just a wiring issue?”

“Could be… hopefully.”

“Or the ley lines are bleeding into the system,” he finishes.

We stare at each other. No need to say it out loud. If the lines are stretching further than they should—if they’re reaching for her—it means trouble.

“I’ll look at it first thing,” Beau says. “And Calder?”

“What?”

“She’s not just getting to you,” he says, voice low. “She’s altering your current. Like the ley lines are recalibrating around whatever this is.”

I don’t answer him. Just stand there with my hands braced on the rail, staring out into the dark like it might offer an escape hatch I know damn well isn’t there.

My jaw flexes, but I say nothing. Not because he’s wrong—he never is when it comes to this kind of thing—but because admitting it feels too close to surrender.

He doesn’t wait for a reply. Just claps me once on the shoulder and walks back into the dark.

I stay on the porch long after Beau’s footsteps fade, the quiet settling in around me like a second skin. The moon's climbed higher now, casting long shadows across the gravel and outlining the jagged treetops in silver. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a branch cracks. An owl calls twice.

I don’t move. I just lean into the night, the weight of everything unsaid pressing heavier than it should. Cilla's taste still lingers on my lips, her heat woven into the very air I breathe. The space she left in my arms feels louder than the surrounding silence.

And I hate that I want to go back. That I’m thinking about what it would take to knock on that food truck door and ask for something I’m not sure I’m allowed to want.

I grip the railing until my knuckles go white, the rough grain of the wood biting into my palms. The wind moves through the trees like it’s got secrets to spill, but I stay rooted—locked in place by the ache in my chest and the heat still burning low in my gut.

I close my eyes and breathe her in like she’s still standing in front of me, like her touch is something I could conjure with will alone.

But I don’t move. Not yet.

I can still feel her—her lips bruised against mine, the curve of her hip beneath my hand, the way her breath hitched when I kissed her like I meant it.

The taste of her clings to my tongue, dark and sweet, and the sound of my name on her lips keeps looping in my head like a low-throated moan I can’t outrun.

My body tightens at the memory—hard and aching. I press my palms harder to the rail, grounding myself with splinters and night air. If I go back there tonight, I won’t stop with a kiss. I won’t stop at all.

My bear wants her. Wants to claim her, mark her, pull her so close there’s no space left between us. He doesn’t care about timing. Doesn’t care that we’ve barely scratched the surface of what this thing even is. Doesn’t give a damn about boundaries or regrets.

He just knows she’s ours—already, completely, irrevocably. And the worst part? I’m starting to believe him.

And somewhere deeper in the woods—beyond the reach of firelight and reason—I feel it all unraveling.

The ley lines hum like a distant storm, low and relentless, and I swear they’re not just stirring—they’re listening.

The night exhales wrong, and something beneath the ground shifts, not random but reactive.

Like the earth itself recognized her and braced for the impact.