Page 12 of Panther Heart's Secret Passion
I exhaled, my knees weak with relief, and Allen pulled me close, his voice low. “You were amazing. I thought they would skin me alive.”
I grinned, nudging his side. “Told you I am good at spinning a story. Now let us get out of here before they change their minds.” We left the chamber, the crystal lights fading behind us, and I felt lighter than I had in weeks, the weight of the fight finally lifting.
Back in Mistvale, I sat at the newspaper office, the smell of ink and coffee grounding me as I typed my story. The headline read, “Logging CEO Linked to Equipment Sabotage Scandal,” and the article laid out the CEO’s crimes, fraud, environmental violations, and shady deals, backed by my photos and notes. Not a word about shifters or Esoterra. Trisha, my editor, slapped the desk, her raspy voice full of pride. “Phelps, this is your best work yet. You are gonna get offers from every big paper in Seattle after this.”
I smiled, but my heart was not in it. “Thanks, Trisha, but I am staying local for now. Got something better than fame waiting for me.” She raised an eyebrow but did not push, and I left the office, my story sent to print, knowing it would bring the CEO down without exposing Allen’s world.
Allen and I settled in a cabin on Esoterra’s border, its wooden porch creaking under our weight as we watched the sunrise, the sky painted in pink and gold. The forest stretched out below, alive with the hum of life, and I leaned against him, his arm around my shoulders. “Not a bad view,” I said, my voice soft. “Beats my motel room any day.”
He chuckled, his green eyes warm. “You sure about this? You could be out there, chasing big stories, living the city life. Do not want you feeling stuck with me.”
I turned to face him, my hand resting on his chest. “I am exactly where I want to be, Allen. You are my story now, and I am not trading that for anything.” I kissed him, soft at first, but the bond pulsed between us, a faint light shimmering where our skin touched, like the magic of Esoterra itself. My fear of his shifter nature was gone, replaced by trust, by love.
We moved inside, the bedroom warmed by a crackling fire, its light dancing on the wooden walls. I pushed him toward the bed, my hands bold as I tugged at his shirt, my lips finding his in a kiss that deepened, hungry and sure. “You are not getting out of this one,” I teased, my voice low as I pulled his shirt off, my fingers tracing the scars on his chest, each one a story I wanted to know. I unbuttoned his jeans, my hands steady, my lips brushing his jaw, his throat, feeling his pulse race under my touch.
He grinned, his hands sliding under my sweater, his fingers warm as they traced the curve of my ribs, lifting the fabric over my head. “Would not dream of it,” he said, his voice rough, his lips trailing down my neck, slow and deliberate, drawing a soft gasp from me. His thumbs brushed the sensitive skin beneath my bra, sending shivers through me, and I unhooked it, letting it fall, my skin bare in the firelight. His eyes darkened, his hands exploring my curves, his lips kissing along my collarbone, his teeth grazing just enough to make me arch into him. I pushed his jeans down, my fingers tracing the hard lines of his hips, my touch bold as I pulled him closer, the bond’s light pulsing faintly between us.
I straddled him on the soft furs of the bed, my hands roaming his chest, feeling the scars under my fingertips, my lips teasing his ear, my breath warm against his skin. “You are mine,shifter,” I whispered, my voice playful but thick with need. He growled softly, his hands gripping my hips, his touch tender but possessive as he peeled my jeans off, his fingers lingering on my thighs, the firelight glowing on our skin. I kissed him deeply, my tongue sliding against his, my breath hitching as he lifted me slightly, his lips trailing down my chest, kissing the curve of my breast, his tongue teasing until I moaned, my hands tangling in his hair.
He entered me slowly, his eyes locked on mine, watching every flicker of my expression as I adjusted, my hands tight on his shoulders. “Allen,” I gasped, my voice breaking as he moved deeper, his shifter strength gentle but firm, each thrust sending heat through me. The fire crackled, its snap mixing with my soft moans as his lips found my neck again, kissing the sensitive spot behind my ear, his teeth grazing gently. I moved with him, my hips matching his rhythm, my nails grazing his back, drawing a low growl from him as we pushed each other higher. His hands slid to my thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to make me tremble, and I kissed him hard, my tongue teasing his, the bond making every touch electric. The furs were soft beneath us, the firelight casting shadows as we moved faster, our connection raw and consuming. I cried out, my body shuddering as I reached my peak, the bond pulling him with me in a rush of heat and release, our gasps mingling with the fire’s crackle.
We collapsed onto the furs, our bodies entwined, the fire’s warmth wrapping around us. I rested my head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear, my fingers tracing his scars lazily. “You ever gonna tell me about all these?” I teased, my voice warm. “Or do I have to keep guessing?”
He chuckled, his hand brushing my hair. “One day, I will tell you every story. But you might get bored, they are mostly me being dumb and getting scratched up.”
I laughed, propping myself up to look at him. “Bored? With you? Never. Though I am gonna have to get used to your cat naps. You were out cold on the porch yesterday, purring like a lawnmower.”
He grinned, his eyes crinkling. “Purring, huh? That is your fault, keeping me up all night.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a carved wooden ring etched with a panther, its lines smooth and intricate. “Got something for you, though. Figured it is time to make this official.” He slid the ring onto my finger, his voice soft but sure. “Marry me, Adrienne. Let us build a life, bridge our worlds together.”
I stared at the ring, my throat tight, then kissed him, hard and deep, the bond glowing faintly between us. “Yes,” I whispered against his lips. “Let us do it, Allen. You, me, Esoterra, Mistvale, all of it.” We kissed again, our laughter warm, planning a future filled with hope, unity, and love.
~ END ~
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Isabella
I pushed open the door to my Seattle apartment, kicking off my boots and dropping my keys on the counter. The place was small, cluttered with books and maps, my desk a mess of coffee mugs and half-finished research notes. I was exhausted from a long day at the university, where I had been chasing leads on a forgotten Sumerian trade route for my latest paper. Archaeology was not glamorous, but it was my life, digging up truths nobody else cared about. As I shrugged off my jacket, I noticed a package on the kitchen table, one I did not remember seeing when I left that morning. It was a plain brown box, about the size of a shoebox, with a crisp white envelope taped to the top. My name, Isabella Washington, was typed neatly across it.
I frowned, tearing open the envelope first. The letter inside was from a law firm I had never heard of, based out of a small town in Oregon. The words hit me hard: my grandfather, Edgar Washington, had passed away two weeks ago. I had not seen him since I was a kid, back when he would show up once a year with a gruff nod and a story about some far-off place. We were not close, he was more myth than family, but the news still hurt. The letter said he had left me one personal item, nothing else. No explanation, no inheritance, just this box. I set the letter down and pried open the wooden lid, the hinges creaking like they had not been touched in years.
Inside was a leather-bound journal, its cover worn soft, the edges frayed. I ran my fingers over it, feeling the weight of something old, something important. Flipping it open, I found pages filled with tight, slanted handwriting, sketches of maps, and drawings of strange, animal-like figures, half-human, half-beast. Symbols I did not recognize were scattered across thepages, not matching any culture I had studied, and I had studied plenty. The ink was faded in places, like it had been written decades ago, but when I reached the last page, my breath caught. My full name was scrawled in bold, fresh ink, like it had been written yesterday. Below it, coordinates pointed to a place called Fir Hollow, somewhere deep in the Pacific Northwest. I had never heard of it.
"Who writes their granddaughter’s name in a creepy old book?" I muttered, grabbing my laptop. A quick search pulled up Fir Hollow, a tiny town nestled in Washington’s Olympic Peninsula, surrounded by ancient forests and not much else. The coordinates lined up with a spot called Devil’s Backbone Ridge, a name that sounded like it belonged in a ghost story. I leaned back in my chair, the journal open in my lap. Part of me wanted to toss it in a drawer and forget it. I had papers to grade, a lecture to prep. But the other part, the part that spent years chasing obscure truths, could not let it go. My grandfather had left this for me, and that pull in my chest, the one that always drove me to dig deeper, was already humming.
By noon the next day, I was in my beat-up Jeep, driving north with the journal tucked into my backpack. The city faded into endless evergreens, the air growing sharp with pine and damp earth. My phone’s GPS gave up an hour outside Fir Hollow, leaving me with just the journal’s hand-drawn map and a vague sense of direction. The town itself was barely a blip, two streets, a gas station, and a diner called Mabel’s that looked like it had not changed since the 1950s. I parked outside the diner, figuring I would grab some coffee and ask about the ridge. The bell above the door jangled as I stepped inside, and every head turned to stare. A dozen pairs of eyes followed me to a booth, their whispers sharp in the quiet.
"New face," a guy in a flannel muttered to his buddy, not even trying to be subtle.
I slid into the booth, pretending not to notice. A waitress, maybe in her fifties, with a name tag reading "Doris" sauntered over, coffee pot in hand. "What can I get you, hon?" she asked, her smile tight.
"Coffee, black," I said, pulling out the journal. "And maybe some directions. I’m looking for Devil’s Backbone Ridge."
Her hand froze mid-pour, coffee sloshing onto the table. "Devil’s Backbone?" she said, her voice dropping. "Nobody goes up there. It’s all cliffs and brambles. What’s a city girl like you want with that place?"
I opened the journal to the map, tapping the coordinates. "It’s for work. I’m an archaeologist. Got a lead on something up there."
