Page 13 of Roaring Heat (Shifters of Redwood Rise #2)

ANABETH

T he silence after Beau walks away is louder than the crash of the waves outside my cottage.

It presses in from all sides, heavy and suffocating, making the familiar sounds of the ocean seem impossibly far away.

It reminds me of the day my mother left without saying goodbye, the moment I realized silence can hurt more than words.

That same ache rises now, not just in my chest, but deeper, settling in places I didn’t know could bruise.

I shouldn’t feel this way about a man I barely know.

Yet everything about Beau unsettles me. The intensity in his eyes, the restraint in his words, and the truths he refuses to admit pull me closer, until I feel as if I am standing on the edge of something I cannot turn away from.

It settles over me like a weighted blanket, smothering and still, dragging up a swell of emotion I don’t want to name.

Part of me wants to scream after him, demand answers, throw something at the wall just to hear it shatter.

Another part aches for him to turn back around, to come storming in and kiss me like he did last night, like the world outside us didn’t exist. I hate how badly I want both.

I hate how much I don’t understand what’s happening.

With him. With me. With this entire place.

The not-knowing claws at my insides, a slow, aching unraveling I can’t stop no matter how hard I try.

And beneath it all, there’s a glimmer of something fierce and defiant, a sliver of steel threading through the ache.

If he thinks he can shut me out and I’ll just slink away, he doesn’t know me at all.

The silence outside my cottage fills every corner of the room like fog off the sea, thick and damp and hard to breathe through.

I stare at the door for a long minute, then back at the recorder still lying on the counter.

It blinked red once before dying entirely.

Whatever it picked up last night, it burned the battery clean out.

My fingers itch for data, for something measurable.

I grab my notebook, swipe the half-charged solar sensor from the windowsill, and head out before I can talk myself into waiting.

If I stay in this house any longer, I’ll go insane imagining the heat of his mouth on mine, the feel of his hands wrapped around my hips, the storm behind his eyes that looked like it was ready to devour me.

The sky hangs low, overcast but not threatening rain yet.

I follow the narrow trail that winds between my cottage and the edge of town.

It’s early, but I’m not alone. A man leans against the café’s porch rail, broom frozen mid-sweep, his eyes lock on me like I’ve sprouted fangs.

Inside, the conversation drops off the second I step within view.

I lift my chin and keep walking. I didn’t move across the country to be intimidated by nosy neighbors with secrets tucked behind their polite smiles. Still, my boots hit the pavement faster than usual, and I don’t breathe normally again until I reach the treeline.

The forest receives me differently today.

The hush feels more like a warning than a welcome.

Still, I press forward. I want answers. My body hums with leftover adrenaline, my thoughts pulled in too many directions.

I stop just past the grove where the energy readings spiked last night, drop my bag, and set up the solar sensors first, followed by the EM field monitor.

The needles quiver almost the instant I power the device, delicate metal arms jerking toward one side before falling back.

I hold my breath, watching as they twitch again, this time more sharply, like they’ve sensed something beneath the surface that I haven’t yet named.

It’s not random. There’s a cadence to it, a pulse just out of sync with the earth’s usual rhythms. My chest tightens as I lean closer, heart thudding in time with the subtle, restless dance of the instruments.

"No way," I mutter.

I tap the monitor again and watch as the needle flicks, a small shiver in the metal arm that shouldn’t be happening.

Not constant. Not predictable. Just a strange, rhythmic pulse rising and falling like breath.

I flip open my field journal, jot down the readings with quick, practiced strokes, then pause.

A prickle of unease slides down my spine as my gaze drops to the soft soil a few feet away, where something catches the light.

A strange shimmer breaks the even texture of the dirt, forming a ripple or depression that doesn’t belong, like the ground has been tampered with or disturbed by something unseen.

Tracks, but they are wrong.

They curve in unnatural arcs, crossing and overlaying one another in chaotic patterns that spike my pulse. The depth and width are unlike anything I have studied. Each mark feels like a wound in the forest’s natural order. I crouch low and brush my fingertips across the nearest impression.

The soil is pressed flat and worn, as if something walked the same line again and again, grinding it down through a relentless rhythm.

Whatever passed here was not moving with purpose but circling compulsively, trapped in a loop it could not escape.

The earth itself remembers the repetition, every indentation layered upon the last.

Predator tracks, massive and uneven, ring the clearing. I set my hand against one print and draw a sharp breath. The shape is unmistakably ursine, yet the size dwarfs my palm. The depth suggests a weight no ordinary bear could carry. Even the grizzlies I studied in Alaska left lighter impressions.

The spacing between prints shifts erratically, wide in one place and tight in another, as if the creature paced in agitation. The sight calls to mind animals in too-small cages, moving in endless circles from desperation. A chill prickles my skin. Nothing about this feels natural.

A memory rises without permission. Beau outside my door. The unrelenting intensity in his gaze. The tension in his body, held tight as though he was containing something dangerous. My breath stutters. The connection should be impossible, yet a deeper instinct answers before logic can intervene.

The tracks seem more than physical signs.

They carry an echo that ripples through me, a pulse of agitation and obsession pressed into the earth.

The prints double back, grind into the soil, layer over themselves as if the creature could not stop.

It feels pulled by something unseen, caught in an endless cycle it could not break.

I trace one depression with my fingers. The outline is broad, powerful, unmistakably that of a bear, but far too large and heavy for any I know.

This was made by something built for force and destruction, a predator that leaves no room for hesitation.

My throat tightens, and my heart jolts painfully, as though my body recognizes a truth my mind is not ready to face.

"Beau," I whisper without meaning to. Because I remember how he moved. How he looked at me like he was caught between protecting me and making me his.

I shake the thought off and return to the data, even though the echo of his name still lingers on my lips.

Linking Beau to whatever left these monstrous prints doesn't make logical sense.

I know that. He's a man, a mechanic, not some wild predator clawing through the forest floor.

But the way he moved that night outside my door was tense, primal, and dangerous, and it etched itself into my bones in a way I can't shake, like some instinctual warning my body refuses to forget.

It's irrational, maybe even ridiculous, and yet the boundary between what I know and what I feel has grown thinner with every moment I’ve spent in Redwood Rise.

The EM meter dips again, then pulses higher, as if reacting to me.

I watch the needle twitch and rise again, and for a moment, it feels as if the forest itself is aware of my presence, answering in its own strange language.

It’s not steady, not like the geothermal maps would suggest. There’s a rhythm to it, but it doesn’t match any known faultline or seismic trend I’ve seen.

This isn’t tectonic. It’s responsive. Almost like it’s alive.

A shiver runs up my spine, and a sharp tingle prickles along my arms, the fine hairs lifting in reaction to something I can’t yet hear. It’s as if my body senses the disturbance before my ears catch up, an ancient warning system stirring to life.

A whisper of something behind me. A faint burst of sound, sharp and erratic, like interference on an old speaker.

I spin, but there’s no one there—only the hushed presence of the trees.

I grip the recorder in one hand and flick it on, resisting the urge to make a sarcastic comment about starring in my own paranormal documentary.

But I have a lot of nervous energy that makes me twitchy, and if I don't laugh at the fear simmering beneath my skin, it'll start running the show. I extend the mic in front of me, as if it might protect me from whatever’s out there, the gesture both instinctive and absurd.

"If something’s out here, you’ll want to make yourself known," I say, trying to keep my voice even. It wobbles anyway. "I’m armed with science and sarcasm. You don’t stand a chance."

Nothing.

I set the device down and turn back to the tracks. When I press my palm to the ground beside them, the faintest vibration crawls up my wrist.

Like a heartbeat, deep and deliberate, vibrating through the ground and into my bones.

Something beneath the forest floor moves, deep and deliberate.

The pulse climbs into my fingertips, a slow, relentless thrum like a buried drumbeat echoing from the roots.

My skin tingles against the damp earth, coolness fading into a strange, barely-there warmth.

I can't tell if the air around me has grown heavier or if it's my own body reacting, but my chest tightens under invisible weight.

It's not quite panic. Not yet. But something old and aware seems to stir just beneath the surface of my skin, urging me to move.

To run. To stay utterly still and listen.

The sensation is electric, crawling along my nerves like static caught in my bloodstream, and I can’t shake the feeling that the forest is holding its breath with me.

I stare at my hand, feeling the pulse quicken. It’s not seismic. It’s not natural. Or maybe it is. Maybe this place follows rules I haven’t figured out yet.

A twig cracks behind me.

I rise fast, spinning again, heart hammering against my ribs. But there’s no one. Not that I can see. But I feel it. That same sensation I had the night before. Eyes. Watching.

"You don’t scare me," I lie to the woods. My voice doesn’t carry far.

Something rustles to my left. I whirl to face it, breath sharp, ready to bolt, but a raccoon scampers out from the underbrush and disappears up a tree. My laugh is too high, too thin, and I press a hand to my chest.

"Okay. Maybe a little."

I pack my gear in a rush, nerves shot. I need to review the data somewhere with walls. And maybe coffee. Definitely coffee. My boots hit the trail back harder than they should.

But as I pass the last tree, I stop.

The air behind me shifts. A ripple of pressure brushes across my back, subtle but distinct, like stepping into the wake of something massive that moved just out of sight.

The sensation spreads across my shoulders, sinking into my spine.

It's not wind, not temperature. It's a disturbance, like the forest itself inhaled and is holding that breath, waiting for something I can’t name. My pulse stutters in response. I turn slowly, a growing awareness blooming in my chest that whatever presence I felt before hasn’t left.

It has drawn closer. It feels like I stepped through an invisible curtain.

The EM meter in my pocket flares to life, chirping wildly.

Whatever I’m studying out here isn’t just geological or biological.

It’s as if it's something more. Something alive with purpose all its own, thrumming with an energy that feels too deliberate, too tuned to me to be random. My chest tightens with a mix of awe and dread, the kind that roots you in place even as your instincts scream to run. I don’t know why I’m drawn to it.

I only know that I am, helplessly and completely.

It feels as if the forest has cracked open some hidden threshold I never meant to approach, and now something ancient is staring back through the veil.

This isn’t just erratic wildlife behavior.

It’s something larger, more deliberate. Something that hums beneath my skin and whispers that I’ve stumbled into a truth I’m not yet equipped to face.

I turn away, but glance back over my shoulder one last time. The forest feels thick with presence, like it’s waiting for something to happen. I know I’m not alone. Not anymore. Not in this place.