Page 25 of Grizzly's Grump
I let the bear settle before I draw a deep breath and step back into the shadows of myself. The mist lingers a beat longer, glowing faintly at my feet, then slips away into the floorboards like it was never there at all. I grab the sweats I leave folded in a basket by the hearth and tug them on, my breath still ragged from more than just the change.
When I step out onto the porch, Beau is already there, leaning against one of the support beams, arms folded. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, just jerks his chin toward the trees.
"She ran northeast," he says quietly. "Eli’s following her. I take it the whole I’m a bear-shifter discussion didn’t go well?"
CHAPTER 9
CILLA
Iwake up gasping, like my lungs forgot how to work without him. The image of Calder shifting—mist curling, thunder cracking, the impossible weight of what he became—won’t leave me alone. It’s carved into my brain like a brand.
Every time I blink, I see the moment the mist rolled in and swallowed him whole, only to leave something massive and wild in his place. Something that should have sent me running sooner.
I bolted into the trees like a woman possessed, heart hammering as twigs snapped underfoot and brambles tore at my jeans. The sharp scent of the damp earth filled my lungs with every ragged breath. My clogs nearly flew off as they skidded on a patch of moss, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
I ducked beneath a low-hanging alder branch, the rough twigs scraping at my sleeves, and kept running until the trees thinned and I saw the flicker of lights through the haze—soft, familiar, and impossibly welcome. The automated timer for the lights on the food truck must’ve kicked in while I was tearing through the woods, flooding the space with a gentle glow like abeacon calling me home. That’s when I realized where my feet had taken me.
I don’t remember unlocking it, but I must’ve. I don't remember stumbling inside or locking the door behind me. I don’t remember peeling off my sweater or flicking on the wall switch that controls the overhead light. I barely even remember collapsing onto the edge of the over-cab bed, knees drawn to my chest and shaking so hard my teeth knocked together.
I don't remember pulling the blanket from the foot of the bunk and curling into it, trying to shut out the impossible. Maybe no one came after me. Maybe he did—or sent one of his brothers. But no one knocked. No one came inside. No one saw me break.
I don’t remember falling asleep. One minute I was staring at the ceiling; the next I was waking up to the soft whir of the fridge and the faint creak of the food truck settling on its tires. There were dreams, I think—strange ones that left behind a sense of both warmth and shadow. Nothing I can grab onto, just whispers of images that slip through my fingers the moment I try to hold them.
Now, I’m at the counter, sleeves pushed up, apron tied around my waist like it’s some kind of armor, elbows deep in batter I have no intention of serving to anyone. I told Marcy I was testing a new ginger peach scone, a flavor I’d been toying with for weeks but never quite perfected.
This batch isn’t for the food truck—it’s meant to be a sample for her, something exclusive forThe Rusty Forkif she likes it enough to carry. Not a lie—just the easiest way to explain it without diving into the mess I hadn’t sorted out myself. She nodded, eyes warm but unreadable, as if she sensed there was more behind my explanation. Maybe she thought I just needed the distraction, a safe task to keep my hands busy while my mind caught up. Maybe she was right.
The kitchen is warm, comforting. Smells like sugar, cinnamon, and the soft, ripe tang of peaches with a hint of ginger. I cling to it. Pretend that everything makes sense as long as I keep stirring. As long as I don’t stop moving.
I try to keep moving, keep stirring, but my hands betray me. They tremble despite my best efforts, batter clinging to the whisk like it's resisting me.
The air feels... off. Like pressure building before a storm. My skin prickles, hairs rising at my nape like something’s watching—but there’s no one there. Just the steady thrum under my feet, low and pulsing like a second heartbeat. The illusion of control I’d built around myself is cracking, and I feel it in my fingers first—small, shivering fractures that warn of an emotional break I can’t afford.
I slam the whisk down harder than I mean to, muttering a sharp curse under my breath. The bowl wobbles, shifting slightly against the rubber mat beneath it. A dense dollop of batter flops against the rim with a wet, stubborn plop—not a spatter, but thick and clinging like my rising dread. The noise seems louder than it should in the confined space of the food truck, like it’s echoing back my own rising fury.
"Damn it," I hiss, wiping my hands on my apron.
He told me the truth. That should matter. That does matter. He trusted me with something no one else outside his circle knows. That kind of vulnerability—it means something. But instead of feeling steadied by it, all I can feel is this wildfire of want and confusion burning up my insides, licking at the edges of logic and restraint, threatening to consume me whole.
Calder Hayes turned into a bear. And somehow, once the shock settled into something I could name, what rose to the surface wasn’t terror—it was awe. And beneath that? Something deeper. A pull I didn’t understand. A connection that shouldn't exist, but did.
I should still be running . But where would I go? The truck’s got a flat—I couldn’t just drive off the other night, not with the spare already on and no second one to replace it—Troy had used the money for a new one on himself, and I hadn’t been able to afford another yet.
Maybe Calder suspected I’d try to run and just assumed I’d be stuck with the flat—he’d known I already mounted the spare, the original having blown days ago. I’d told him about the spare; that knowledge probably made it easy for Calder to assume I wouldn’t get far.
Or maybe the universe knew I’d run and decided to cage me. Not just with the flat tire, but with this pull I can’t name. Calder. This town. Whatever’s humming beneath the ground. I’m not just stuck here—I’m caught. Anchored. And I don’t know if that terrifies me or makes me want to scream until I’m empty.
Either way, it’s not like I have anywhere to run, even if I wanted to. I’m stuck here, waiting, stewing in a mess of emotions I can’t untangle—stirring batter I have no plans to sell. Every turn of the whisk is an outlet for the turmoil still churning inside me.
I'm waiting for a man who might not show up again and daring him to try.
The door creaks open with a slow groan, but I don’t lift my head. The sound slithers through the thick, charged silence like an unwelcome echo, but I keep my eyes fixed on the bowl in front of me, batter clinging to the whisk as my heart hammers in my chest.
"You’ve got some nerve," I say, voice sharp enough to cut steel.
His silence stretches. And then, "I didn’t come here to fight."
I spin to face him, hands on my hips. He’s filling the doorway like a thundercloud on two legs—broad shoulders, dark eyes, jaw locked tight. His sweatpants are slung low on his hips, and hishoodie looks twisted like he yanked it on without thinking. He looks tired. Tense. Gorgeous. Delicious.
