Page 11 of Grizzly's Grump
Something’s off. It’s not just the ache beneath my ribs or the hum in my bones—it’s the ground itself. The pulse of the ley lines feels warped, tugging sideways, as if the whole ridge is caught in a hush too deep to be natural. Energy that once moved like a steady river current now loops and buckles in on itself, stuttering through the earth like a circuit gone wrong.
The ley lines were never meant to be touched by humans. They’re wild—meant to carry memory and instinct, not curiosity or greed. But lately they’ve been… responding. Not just pulsing. Reacting. Like something—or someone—woke them up. And they don’t like it. They’ve become twisted, unpredictable, unnatural. It’s like the forest is bracing for something it can’t name—and so am I.
I reach the old cairn at the ridge’s edge and stop, chest heaving. The cairn is a stack of weathered stones, shaped by hand and balanced with purpose—an old trail marker, maybe, or a boundary line from before the town ever had roads. No one remembers who built it, only that it’s always been here, watching the horizon. The ley lines hum beneath it louder than anywhere else, like the earth itself placed the stones and dares anyone to move them.
A flock of birds lifts suddenly from the trees below, screeching into the clouds. The bear rocks from paw to paw,uneasy in a way that makes the forest feel smaller, tighter around us.
Danger.
Change.
I stay until the tension bleeds back into the earth. I go back to where I left my clothes, and only then do I let the shift unravel. I’m human again, naked in the mist with my back pressed against a tree to ground me.
I dress slowly. My hands shake.
This isn’t just about Cilla. It’s not even just about the ley lines. Something ancient is shifting just beneath the surface—deep and slow and full of teeth. It isn’t just the magic contained within the ley lines. It’s more than that. More than memory. It's hunger. The kind of power that doesn’t announce itself, only waits until the right moment to rise.
And I’ve got a damn pastry truck parked right on top of it.
By the time I make it back to the workshop, I’ve spent the better part of an hour arguing with myself—logic versus instinct, control versus craving. I tell myself I’m fine. That I can keep my distance. That I’m stronger than whatever this thing is pulling me toward her. But it’s not just want—it’s inevitability. Like something ancient in my blood already knows how this ends. And no matter how many rules I break to stop it, the bond keeps threading tighter. She doesn’t even realize it yet. That’s what terrifies me most.
But then I see her.
Bent over that tiny counter, humming to herself, hips swaying just a little as she pipes frosting onto something I can’t even name. There’s flour on her cheek and sunlight catching inher hair, and suddenly I’m not fine at all. I’m rooted. Ravenous. And absolutely screwed.
She’s bent over her tiny truck counter, frosting something with delicate, practiced swirls, her brow furrowed in concentration. A smudge of something white streaks her cheek. She’s humming under her breath. The back of her hoodie rides up just enough to show the curve of her hip, and my mouth goes dry.
I should turn around. Leave her to her sugar and sass and the sunlight warming her cheeks. But I don’t. My boots stay rooted to the gravel as if the earth itself is holding me there. Every cell in my body is strung tight, focusing on her. The rise of her shoulder. The smudge of flour on her jaw. The gentle sway of her hips that sends heat pooling low in my gut.
I don’t turn around. I watch her.
Because some part of me—some dangerous, hungry part—has already decided she’s mine, and is only waiting for the tiniest part of me to weaken.
She glances up and catches me watching. Her eyes widen for a breath—just a flash—but she doesn’t flinch. She smiles. A real one this time. Slow, sweet, and a little dangerous.
“Back for seconds?” she asks.
My voice is gravel. “You always this nosy?”
She shrugs and chuckles. “Only when I’m right.”
I should shut it down. Snarl something sharp, cold enough to remind her who I am and why she shouldn’t flirt with grizzly bears she doesn’t even know exist, much less understand.
I need to push her back behind the line I’ve drawn—hell, behind every wall I’ve built just to stay sane. But my mouth won’t move. My bear is too close to the surface, too curious, too damned pleased she’s smiling at us. And some reckless part of me wants to see what she’ll do if I take one step closer instead of backing away.
Instead, I walk up to the counter—drawn in, pulled like a magnet I never agreed to carry. And that’s when I see it. One of my wooden-handled spatulas, the kind I carve myself from maple scraps, is resting beside her mixing bowl. She’s using my tools. The ones I left out yesterday.
It shouldn’t matter. But it does.
Something about her hands wrapped around something I made—something that still carries the shape of my palm—sends a bolt of heat straight to my groin. Like she’s already made herself at home in my world without asking. And I don’t hate it.
I hate that I don’t hate it.
“You left your tools out,” she says, sliding another tray of pastries to the side.
“I know.”
“You know I always say that the writer Tolkien believed, why use one word when a thousand would do just as well. You're his polar opposite. A man for whom one word is often one word too many.”
