Page 4 of Roaring Heat (Shifters of Redwood Rise #2)

ANABETH

T he forest holds its breath after I turn and walk back toward the trees, leaving Beau behind and my journal pressed tight to my chest. The quiet feels too heavy, like the woods themselves are watching me go.

A subtle pressure builds in my ears, the kind that comes before a thunderclap, but the sky holds no storm.

I force my legs to move, each step taking me farther from the stones and the strange heat that still tingles through my palm.

It's almost as if I can hear the wind whispering my name, and not in a cheerful Disney-like way.

By the time I reach the clearing near my cottage, I’ve convinced myself that thinking that the land is whispering my name is just exhaustion mixed with too much caffeine.

Only it doesn’t feel like imagination. It feels like being measured... and nauseated. I wonder what kind of after-shave Beau uses, as it seems every time I'm in his presence I feel dizzy and everything inside me seems to be roiling around.

I shake off the last residual feelings from the encounter and make my way toward the porch. My Jeep looks out of place in this landscape, the turquoise metal and glass too modern against a backdrop of towering redwoods and fog that curls low to the ground.

The trees stretch into the sky like sentinels, and I can’t decide if they’re protecting me or warning me off.

Either way, the view is staggering. Even through the drizzle, the coastline opens wide, rocky cliffs bracing against the Pacific, waves slamming themselves against the stone in a rhythm older than anything I’ve ever studied.

I set my journal down on the porch railing and breathe deeply, filling my lungs with something more than just the ocean.

It's damp, rich, and thick with moss and salt.

If I could bottle it, I would. No Wi-Fi, no cell service, but the trade-off is this: raw, wild beauty that refuses to be tamed. Freedom. Purpose.

My ex never understood it—why I needed this kind of space. Out here, I don’t have to explain myself.

The tread of approaching footsteps pulls me back to the present.

I spin, heart pounding, only to find Beau striding down the path from the trees.

The dizziness and nausea return. Maybe I need a checkup.

He looks nothing like a mechanic who just finished an afternoon’s work.

He looks like the forest built him. Broad shoulders rolling easy, boots sure-footed on the damp ground, eyes steady in a way that makes me forget how to breathe for a second.

"You shouldn’t be out here alone," he says, voice carrying low authority.

No hello. No small talk. Just straight into protective mode, like he thinks I need guarding from every tree and shadow.

As if Redwood Rise, this charming little community perched at the foot of the mountains with its hand-painted signs and ocean views, is some kind of war zone.

I may be new, but I’m not helpless—and I didn’t come all this way to be treated like something fragile.

I cross my arms. "Last I checked, this was my cottage. At least, that's what the lease says. So unless you’re secretly law enforcement, the check from my department bounced and you're here to evict me, you don’t get to tell me what to do."

He should feel a little insulted, but he doesn't. That grin—the one that made my knees go weak back at the store—returns, sharp at the edges. "I don’t need a badge to know when someone’s pushing their luck."

"And what makes you the expert?"

He steps onto the porch as if he belongs there, like the creaking boards are his personal invitation.

His gaze flicks toward the treeline, then back to me, sharp and searching.

His voice drops slightly, the edges roughened with something older than simple concern.

"Because I’ve lived here my whole life. I know the difference between quiet woods and dangerous woods.

And right now, these woods aren’t quiet—they're unsettled at best, and probably headed to dangerous. "

The way he says it makes goosebumps crawl up my arms. Not because I believe in mystical currents of energy or whatever, but because he does. His certainty is unnerving. "Maybe the bobcat tracks I saw belong to a sick animal. Nothing supernatural about that."

"Maybe," he allows, but his tone suggests otherwise. "But you didn’t see the claw marks near the Talbot house. And you didn’t smell what I did near the ridge."

"Smell?" I echo, arching a brow. "Now you’re just trying to spook me."

He leans against the porch railing beside my journal, crossing his arms so his shirt pulls tight across his chest. "Not trying. Just giving you the facts. Redwood Rise doesn’t play by the same rules as other places. The sooner you accept that, the safer you’ll be."

I pick up my journal and hug it like armor, letting the weight of it press into my chest like a challenge.

"You sound like a man trying to scare off the outsider before she even unpacks. But I don’t spook easy, and I sure as hell didn’t trade my entire life for a research posting in paradise just to be warned off by cryptic half-truths, local folklore, and a good jawline. "

For a moment, his eyes soften, and the corner of his mouth tugs up like he’s filed away my jab about the jawline for future use. "If I wanted to scare you off, I wouldn’t be here. I’d let the woods do it for me."

I blink, thrown off balance by the honesty in his voice. There’s no smirk, no deflection, just unwavering certainty in the way he says it. It rattles something loose in me, something that wants to scoff and something else that leans in. "Then why are you here?"

He tilts his head, studying me with that quiet intensity that makes my chest tighten. A flicker of something cold and primal brushes the back of my neck, like the air just thickened. My stomach twists in response, a low ripple of unease threading through the curiosity.

"Because something’s coming," he says, "and whether or not you believe me, I’d rather be close if it finds you."

Heat flares low in my belly, uninvited and entirely unwelcome. I force a laugh. "Wow. Do all the local men introduce themselves with ominous warnings, or am I just special?"

"Special," he says without hesitation.

The word lands between us, heavy and charged, like a line drawn in the damp air between what’s said and what’s felt. It carries a weight I wasn’t ready for, thick as the mist rolling in off the coast and just as impossible to ignore.

I clear my throat and step past him, heading for the door before I forget what personal space is. "Well, thanks for the concern. I’ll be fine. I have a PhD in wildlife biology and a very loud air horn."

His chuckle follows me, warm and rough. "An air horn won’t stop everything."

I pause with my hand on the doorframe, glancing back at him. "And you would?"

Our eyes lock, and the silence stretches, charged. Finally, he answers, low and certain: "Yes."

Something inside me trips over itself, an unsteady tumble of nerves and want.

I don’t know whether it’s the heat in his voice or the certainty in his eyes, but it knocks something off balance inside me.

Before I say something I can’t take back—or give away how badly he’s getting under my skin—I turn and walk into the cottage, letting the door close between us like a boundary I desperately need.

Inside, the air is cooler than expected.

I flip on the single overhead light, which hums reluctantly to life.

The space is small but serviceable. There's a main room with an antique brass bed, a kitchen area along the opposite wall with a island and barstools dividing it from the rest of the room.

There's an enormous wood-burning fireplace and a small but charming bathroom. One of those split systems supplies heat and air conditioning and seems to be more than adequate. The furniture’s mismatched but in an eclectic, solid way

I set my bag down and begin to unpack in earnest. Essentials first: field gear, notebooks, my kettle. I place a small photo of my grandfather on the windowsill—him in his ranger uniform, a grin on his face and binoculars around his neck. He’d have loved this place.

Grabbing a notepad, I scribble a quick list: heavier blanket, a reading lamp that doesn’t buzz, hooks for my gear, maybe some string lights if the hardware store has them. Nothing extravagant, just touches to make it feel less like a temporary posting and more like a life I chose.

I open the windows and let the sound of the surf roll in—distant but steady, grounding me.

For the first time in a long while, I feel the pull of something that isn’t obligation or regret.

It’s a possibility. And despite everything Beau said—or maybe because of it—I know I’m exactly where I need to be.

The cottage smells faintly of cedar and damp earth, like it’s been waiting for someone to live in it again.

I set my journal on the table and busy myself with unpacking the essentials—mugs, tea bags, a skillet that’s seen better days.

Through the window, I catch sight of Beau still leaning against the railing, arms crossed, gaze on the treeline as if daring the forest to make good on his warnings.

By the time I open the door to tell him I don’t need a babysitter, he’s already gone.

No sound of footsteps, no trail in the dirt.

Just vanished into the mist. The empty porch feels colder without him, and I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed.

There’s a hollowness under my ribs, like I missed something important and don’t yet know what it was.