Page 40 of Grizzly's Grump
Cilla stands at the center, her eyes glowing in the dim light, shoulders squared, her breath steady. She meets this moment on her feet, proud and unflinching, as the sacred wind stirs the edge of her sweater and the cling of her leggings. She's not just becoming part of my life. She's claiming her place in it.
“You sure?” I murmur. "There's no going back."
“I'm sure.”
I slice a shallow X into my palm, and the sting is sharp, grounding. My blood wells up, hot and thick, and when I press the blade gently to her skin, she doesn’t flinch. Something primal rises in my chest. When our hands join, palm to palm, blood mingling, the warmth rushes through us like fire feeding fire.
The air smells of iron and pine resin, rich and old as the mountain. My heart slams behind my ribs, but my voice is steady as I speak. When we bind our hands together, the heat that rushes between us is undeniable.
The stones and trees in the clearing seem to lean in—the ancient markings flaring to life with a pulse that echoes in my bones. Energy curls around us, humming low, as if the ley lines are bearing witness to this rite.
“Blood of my blood,” I say. “Bone of my bone. Soul of my soul.”
She repeats the words, voice trembling but strong.
The ley lines pulse once. Just once. As if in acknowledgment.
I lean forward, pressing my mouth to the space where her neck meets her shoulder. I scent her there, kiss her once, and then rest my forehead briefly against her skin, anchoring us both in the moment.
She exhales sharply, body swaying toward mine as if drawn by gravity. I wrap my arms around her and pull her against my chest. The heat between us deepens—feral, tender, unshakable—as our blood mingles and the bond sinks into our bones like wildfire. The connection hums with something ancient, vibrating through every inch of skin and soul.
When our foreheads touch, we stay there—silent, suspended in the sacred—and I feel the shift inside her. Not the kind that turns skin to fur, but the one that changes everything else. The bond is real. She’s mine now. And I’m hers.
She blinks up at me, lips parted. “So what now?”
I brush her hair back. “Now we live as if we belong to each other. And pray the ley lines don’t have other ideas.”
Just as the words leave my mouth, the stones all around us tremble. For a breathless moment, the sacred marks along the stones blaze brighter—warping, flickering like fire catching wind. I stare, chest tight, as the lines distort into something new: not letters, not runes, but a spiral.
It's a pattern I’ve only seen once—sketched by Fen in charcoal after one of her visions, her hands shaking, her voicehollow. She called it a harbinger. Said it meant change. Said it meant the lines were watching.
The ley lines pulse again.
Once.
Twice.
A low hum fills the air, thick and vibrating, and the flickering light takes on a reddish-gold tint. Not dangerous. Not hostile. But not neutral either.
Cilla grips my hand. “Was that approval?”
I look toward the glowing symbols on the wall, then back at her.
“Maybe,” I say, voice low. “Or maybe it was a warning.”
The ground beneath our feet feels too still—like the calm after a scream, or the moment a predator holds its breath. The bond is sealed, but the ley lines aren’t done. I feel them watching, waiting, as if what just happened wasn’t an end at all, but a beginning.
And somewhere far beyond the clearing, the forest breathes again.
CHAPTER 15
CILLA
The scent of sugar and cinnamon wafts through the crisp mountain air as I crank open the service window on the food truck for the first time since everything changed.Sweet On Youis officially back in business, parked in its permanent spot just outside Calder’s workshop. This is the first time someone has hooked up water and electricity for me —a small thing, maybe, but it feels like belonging carved in copper and wire. The cedar-slab counter is now propped up, and fresh chalkboard signs dangle from hand-tied twine.
Each clink of a spoon, each creak of the truck’s frame feels louder than it should, echoing like heartbeats in the still morning. The brisk morning air carries a sharp bite, laced with the mingled scent of cinnamon, browned sugar, and the rich, yeasty pull of freshly baked bread. The warmth from the ovens spills out into the chill, wrapping me in comfort and memory—something familiar that steadies the static snap of unease coiling along my spine. It reminds me of home, of belonging, and of why I’m still here. Not courage, exactly, but something solid enough to keep me from running.
Calder’s gaze—steady, searing—cuts straight through me, raw and unyielding, stirring something deep and unspoken in my chest. It settles on me like a weight and a shelter all at once, a magnetic pull that sinks into my core, sparking something molten that curls low and deep in every look he gives me. I can almost taste the air between us—sweet, charged, thick with want, like a spark hovering just before the strike.
