Page 3 of Roaring Heat
She moves as if she’s not afraid of the woods. Her steps are confident, shoulders squared, like she grew up with the wilderness in her blood. No hesitation, no glances over her shoulder. Even the way she lifts a box—precise, efficient, like she's too focused to be uncertain.
My bear locks onto her posture—the quiet confidence, the focus, the way she moves like she belongs here more than most locals. It’s not just her presence that draws us. It’s the steadiness in her. The grounded way she claims space without even realizing it.
That alone should be enough to make her interesting. But it isn’t just that. It’s the way she talks to herself, like she’s in charge of the chaos. The way her brow furrows when she reads assembly instructions like they’re a personal insult. The low, annoyed commentary about missing screws and poor design.
It makes her real. Tangible. Human. But underneath that? There’s something else. A pull I can’t name. Something older than logic, older than instinct. It hums in the air around her like a forgotten song I suddenly remember how to hear. Deep. Innate. And undeniably mine.
I feel it in the marrow of my bones. That bone-deep knowing that doesn't ask permission, doesn't wait for logic to catch up. Anabeth Cole doesn’t belong to Redwood Rise. She doesn’t belong to anyone’s rules or expectations. But she belongs to me. Every instinct says so. Every part of my bear agrees. And that? That could upend everything I’ve spent years keeping in place.
I back away slowly, paws sinking into the moss as I retreat into the trees. Every instinct fights me. My bear doesn’t want toleave her, not even for a second. He paws at the edges of my control, unwilling to turn his back on the woman we both know is ours. I force each step like I’m walking against a current.
My muscles strain with the effort not to stay rooted in place, not to track every move she makes like it means something. The way she alters her weight, brushes a curl behind her ear, glances toward the trees like she knows she’s not alone. She fills the quiet like she belongs in it. Like she’s always belonged here, and I’m just catching up. I want to give her that space—let her settle, let her breathe—but the part of me that’s animal is already circling, already certain, already claiming what it sees as its own.
I don’t look back. Not because I don’t want to—but because if I do, I won’t leave. I’ll stand there like a damn idiot, staring, hovering, making everything harder. I’ll give in to the part of me that wants to charge back across the clearing and keep her in my sights. Instead, I make myself turn away. I need space. I need to breathe air that isn’t threaded with her shape, her heat. I need distance, even if every step away feels like peeling off a part of myself.
I move deeper into the woods, paws silent on the needled floor. The fog thickens here, soft and clinging, wrapping the undergrowth in a quiet hush. Redwood trunks stretch above me like sentinels. The temperature drops, cooler now, laced with the earth-deep pulse of the ley lines running just beneath the soil. My path cuts along the edge of the bluff, following an old game trail that winds toward higher ground. By the time I reach the grove where the cedar stump waits, the beach is long behind me and the pull of her has quieted, but just barely.
I reach the cedar stump where I stashed my clothes. I tell my bear to stand down. The swirling mist rises, curling up from the forest floor. It wraps around me, cool and electric, before it falls away and leaves me standing barefoot, human, and cursing under my breath.
The change isn’t painful—but it’s jarring differently this time. There’s a rawness that clings to my skin, a deep ache that has nothing to do with the shift and everything to do with her. With knowing she’s out there. Close. That I’ve seen her, scented her, felt the way her presence stirs something old and unmapped inside me. I exhale hard, grounding myself, but the hollow tug behind my ribs doesn’t ease. It’s like my body is already mourning the distance I just forced between us.
I dress fast, fingers clumsy. My hoodie clings to damp skin as I shove my arms through the sleeves and try to clear the image of Anabeth from my head. It doesn’t work. She’s there, behind my eyes, burned in like lightning. I don’t want her to be. I didn’t ask for this. The pull isn’t just inconvenient—it’s dangerous. If I let it, it’ll unravel every wall I’ve spent years reinforcing. Despite that, even now, with my hoodie clinging to damp skin and my boots sinking into moss, she’s the only thing I can’t seem to push out.
I grab my toolkit and head toward the southern ley line point. The last pulse I felt near the creek wasn’t normal. It had teeth. The kind that sinks into everything and gnaws from the inside out. The stones shouldn’t be vibrating this far out. The energy shouldn’t feel this... hungry.
When I get there, I crouch low, pressing my palm to the soil. The ley line thrums beneath my palm, twitching like it doesn’t know what direction to flow in. It’s erratic—more than I’ve ever felt before. The pulse falters, then surges again, like a skipped heartbeat trying to catch up.
I’ve worked this ground for years, but this isn’t normal turbulence. This feels sentient. Like the earth itself is flinching from something unseen. I adjust the placement of the grounding stones and mutter a low stream of calming nonsense under my breath.
It helps. Barely.
Then the hair on the back of my neck lifts, a warning shot from instinct before thought can catch up. She’s here. I don’t see her. I can’t hear her. But I can feel her. It's as if there is a change in the air pressure, reminiscent of the static hum before a storm breaks. Not close. Not visible. But present in a way that tugs at something primal in my chest.
The current flares again, sharper this time. A jolt arcs through the ley line, as if the very ground is reacting to her presence. Not with danger, but with recognition. Like the land knows her. Like it remembers something I don't. The pulse deepens, vibrating through the soles of my boots, stirring dust and leaves with a restless energy. It’s not just reacting. It’s responding. Waking up. Because she’s here.
I don’t move. Just stay crouched, steady, until the pulse recedes. I scan the treeline, expecting maybe an animal or an off-duty ranger. But it’s her. Alone. Standing half-shadowed in the trees with a field journal tucked under one arm and a question in her eyes.
"Didn’t mean to sneak up on you," she says, voice careful but not afraid. "You were talking to the rocks," she says, pausing a few feet away. Her arms fold across her chest as if she isn’t sure if she’s intruding or not. Her eyes flick toward the stone arrangement, then back to me, curious but guarded.
I straighten, dusting off my hands. "Technically, I was talking to the land. The rocks just happen to be good listeners."
She lifts an eyebrow as the corners of her mouth tug upwards. "Are they answering back?"
"Only when they’re cranky."
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t smile. She steps forward, each movement unhurried but certain, like she belongs here in ways she doesn’t yet understand. The distance between us narrows, and with it, the pulse at the base of my spine sharpens, low and electric. It’s not just awareness; it’s a pull. A thrumthat knots into muscle and breath and something ancient that’s waking up inside me.
"I followed a bobcat trail out here. Only it wasn’t behaving like a bobcat. The tracks were wide apart, and the gait was uneven. And unless I'm reading the tracks wrong, it was pacing. For hours."
That gets my full attention.
"You saw the animal?"
"No, just the tracks. But something had it riled."
"Could be the ley lines. They affect more than compasses."
Her eyes narrow. “Right. And I suppose next you’ll tell me the redwoods are whispering secrets into the mist.”
