Page 11 of Roaring Heat
Running has been easy at other times in other places. I could put boots on my feet and be in the Jeep before the clock shifts by a single minute. I could chase cell service and streetlights and a room with thin hotel walls and a desk that has seen a thousand guests.
Yet, I stay. The decision does not feel brave. It feels exact.
“I'm not running this time,” I say to the quiet, and the room accepts the fact without argument.
I open the journal and write the words because writing makes them real. The pen drags a little, then finds its line. Eyes in fog. Too low for a man standing. Not Beau. The ink looks darker than usual. I underline the last statement, and the pressure I felt earlier lifts a fraction, as if the house approves of a correct note in the right ledger.
I add detail because detail keeps memory from editing itself into comfort. Height relative to the porch rail. Distance from steps. Duration of observation. The letters get messy, and my hand cramps, and that is the part of the process no one tells you about when they say science is clean. I draw a small map of the yard and mark the place where the eyes had held before they withdrew.
Still here? Still watching? I write the words and do not flinch from them.
The fog presses against the windows, and the walls answer with the faintest sound, wood speaking to weather. I lift my head and listen. The cottage feels awake. Not threatened. Not safe. Alert in the way of living things that have learned to survive by paying attention.
I slide the recorder beside the journal and press the button. The red light blinks. My voice is steady enough to make a record.I note the time, the conditions, the sequence of sounds, the physical symptoms that coincided with the approach. I say the words I will want to hear if the night tries to wear them away by morning. I say them once and then again more simply.
I end the record and sit with the things that have held the worst parts of other nights for me. The clock moves forward. The embers cool to faint ash. The compressor hums and stops. The rug scratches at my heels, and I press my toes into it because the body needs anchors when the mind wants to walk out the door.
I write one more line because it feels like a promise I can keep. Let it watch. I'm not going anywhere.
CHAPTER 5
BEAU
The sound of her voice stays with me longer than I like. That quiet, fierce declaration she made to the empty room presses against something deep inside me. 'I'm not running this time.'
The words weren’t just brave. They were intimate, as if she’d been speaking them directly to me. They carry louder than the wind through the trees, louder than the waves crashing against the rocky shoreline, louder than the restless energy pulsing beneath the soil. That kind of resolve sparks something primal inside me. A surge of protectiveness rises, fierce and immediate. I feel it lock tight across my chest, that instinct to claim, to shield, to remain close.
She doesn’t even know she’s mine yet.
But I do, and so does my bear. Hearing that strength in her voice? It just makes the pull stronger. I heard it as I was moving back through the woods, every syllable sticking like a burr in my fur. It's not just the words. It's how she said them. Certain, not reckless, as if she'd decided that whatever comes next, she plans to meet it head-on.
Dammit. I didn’t want to leave her.
Not because she can’t take care of herself. She’s strong, smart, sharp as hell. But the air around her has changed. And it’s not just the eyes in the fog. I saw them too—not at her cottage, but in other places in the fog.
The ley lines are flaring. Something’s coming, not just coming, it's already here. The beast inside me surges, demanding I stay rooted outside her cottage until daylight claws over the ridge. Every instinct urges me to become the barrier between her and whatever might be waiting beyond the trees. I want to hold vigil beneath her window, to stand guard while she sleeps, completely unaware of how close danger could be. The pull to protect tightens across my shoulders, an ache as fierce as it is unrelenting.
But I can't—not like this. Not in human skin, not when there's ground to cover and threats to track. There's more to guard than just the woman behind that window, even if she is my fated mate.
I step off the trail and into the dense cover of undergrowth. The redwoods rise overhead, their massive trunks vanishing into the starlit canopy. Damp earth yields beneath my boots, the forest floor softened by layers of moss and fallen needles. The silence isn't empty; it breathes around me, heavy with unseen life and quiet intention. My skin prickles as that hush draws close, cloaking me in its stillness. Each step forward presses deeper into the woods that have long known my presence in both forms, the weight of that bond settling into my chest with every slow stride.
I find the hollowed-out stump I’ve used a dozen times before and strip off my clothes and boots quickly, the chill brushing over my skin as I fold my clothes and tuck them deep inside, placing my boots on top of them. I press my hand to the bark, more out of habit than need, grounding myself in the living heart of the forest.
The ground responds.
Ley energy hums beneath my feet, rising with a low, steady vibration. It pulses through the soil like the land itself is holding its breath, waiting, watching. The thrum moves through my bones, not just beneath them. I let it in. Let it rattle through my chest, tug at the muscles in my back. The pull of it coils low in my gut, a tether not just to the land, but to her.
It feels ancient. Unrelenting. And it isn’t just energy now; it’s intent. Like the earth has made up its mind and she’s the reason it’s come awake. It's stronger here. Thicker. And I know why... her.
The thought of her stirs my blood. Not just because she's my fated mate, though that truth sinks deeper every minute I spend near her. It’s more than that. Anabeth’s presence sharpens things that have been dormant for too long. Not just in me. In the land. In the air. Even the damn animals are stirred up.
I kneel, palm flat against the earth, and close my eyes. The ground is cool beneath my skin, firm and alive, humming with the weight of everything it's holding. I breathe in the silence, the tension vibrating just beneath the surface like a tightly coiled wire. A beat passes. Then another. My fingers press deeper into the soil, as if I can anchor myself there, feel something that makes sense. My pulse slows, just a little. My mind doesn’t. Thoughts of her crowd in, uninvited and unshakable. Her strength. Her fire. The way she looked tonight, not afraid, not exactly. Determined. That look has burrowed under my skin, and I can’t seem to shake it.
The mist surges up fast, thick and alive, curling from the forest floor with purpose. It wraps around my legs, climbs my torso, swirls over my chest and shoulders like a living current. The air turns cooler now, brimming with electricity. The sky grumbles in the distance, low and ominous.
I draw in a breath, steady and deliberate, letting the forest's stillness fill my lungs. Tension ebbs as I exhale slowly, grounding myself in the moment. My body loosens, mind sharpening, every part of me bracing for the shift that’s not just physical. It’s elemental, profound, and grounding in a way that reaches deeper than thought. The anticipation vibrates through muscle and marrow, each breath syncing with something older than language. I welcome it, open to the raw power that rises within me, ready to become the creature this land remembers.
The mist folds over my head, thick and cool, falling like a veil drawn shut, sealing me inside the silence and power of the forest's will.
