Chapter 15
ELI
My phone buzzes a second time. Calder.
I answer, already pulling on jeans. "What else?"
"You need to get over here. Now." His voice is tight. "Both of you."
Quinn sits up, clutching the sheet to her chest. I sense her spike of worry. "What's wrong?"
"Calder wants us at his place." I grab her sweater from where it landed on the floor. "Come on."
We dress quickly, the urgency cutting through the afterglow of our bonding. The night air is cold when we step outside, but the ley lines throb warm beneath our feet. Not aggressive. Just... present. Aware.
Calder's place is lit up, every window glowing. Her nervousness travels down the bond, so I take her hand as we climb the porch steps.
"It's okay," I tell her. "Whatever it is, we'll deal with it."
She squeezes my fingers, and I feel her determination replace the worry.
Inside, Calder is bent over his monitoring equipment—a setup that's half scientific instruments, half intuitive magic. Maps spread across the table show the ley line network, glowing threads marking the energy flows beneath Redwood Rise.
Beau's here too, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. He straightens when he sees us. "That was fast."
"You said now." I move to look at Calder's readings. "What's happening?"
"This." Calder points to a spike on one of his graphs. "Right after your bonding ceremony completed. The ley lines surged—stronger than anything I've recorded in months. I thought something was breaking, like with Cilla's arrival, or when Anabeth connected to the convergence point."
Quinn moves closer, studying the readout. "But?"
"But it's settling now." Calder taps another screen showing the real-time feed. "Look. The energy is stabilizing. Not chaotic. Not destructive. Just... adjusting."
I watch the lines smooth out, the wild fluctuations evening into steady pulses. "Adjusting to what?"
Calder looks at Quinn. "To her. The bond didn't just connect you two—it anchored Quinn to the land itself. The ley lines recognize her now as part of Redwood Rise's magic. That surge? That was them accepting her. Integrating her into the network."
"The hungry feeling," Quinn says softly. "That wasn't a threat?"
"No." Calder shakes his head. "It was the magic reaching for you, trying to understand what you are. You're unique, Quinn. Your ability to taste the ley line energy, to sense the magic through food—that's never happened before. The land had to figure out how to incorporate that into its systems."
Relief floods through me so strong my knees nearly buckle. Not a threat. Not danger. Just the magic doing what it's supposed to do.
"What about the readings from the north?" I ask. "Where Jonah disappeared?"
"Still anomalous," Calder admits. "Still stable. Whatever's happening up there, it's not connected to tonight's surge. That's a separate issue." He gives me a meaningful look. "One we'll deal with when we have more information."
Translation: not tonight. Not on my bonding night.
Beau pushes off the doorframe. "So we're good? No immediate crisis?"
"We're good." Calder starts shutting down some of his monitoring programs. "The ley lines are settling into their new normal. By morning, everything should be stable."
Quinn lets out a breath I didn't realize she was holding. Her relief washes over me, mixing with mine, amplifying until we're both nearly giddy with it.
"Can we go back to bed now?" I ask.
Beau snorts. "Please do. Some of us would like to sleep without worrying the world's ending."
Calder waves us off. "Go. I'll keep monitoring, but I don't expect any more surprises tonight."
We make it halfway across the compound before Quinn starts laughing. Soft at first, then harder, until she's bent over with it.
"What?" I can't help grinning at her.
"We just...” She gasps for air. "We bonded, had amazing sex, thought the world was ending, and now we're just going back to bed like it's a normal Tuesday."
"It's Saturday, actually."
She swats my arm, still laughing. "You know what I mean."
I pull her close, kissing the top of her head. "This is pretty much normal around here."
"Magical chaos followed by relief?"
"Every time."
We climb back up to the loft, and this time when we slide under the covers, there's no urgency. Just warmth and contentment and the steady pulse of the bond between us.
Quinn curls into my side, her head on my chest. "Eli?"
"Mm?"
"I'm really happy."
Simple words. But the bond carries everything behind them to me—the joy, the relief, the deep satisfaction of finally being exactly where she's supposed to be.
"Me too," I tell her, kissing her forehead. "So am I."
Three Months Later
I'm pulling a fresh batch of pale ale when Quinn walks into the Bear Claw with her laptop bag and that focused expression she gets when she's working on a story.
"Corner table?" I call over the lunch crowd.
"Please." She waves at Old Tom, who's become one of her regular interview subjects. "And coffee. Strong."
I pour her a mug from the pot I keep going all day and bring it to her usual spot—the table by the window where the afternoon light is best. She's already set up, laptop open, notebook beside it covered in her precise handwriting.
"Working on the brewery piece?" I ask.
"Finishing it." She takes the coffee gratefully. "The Henderson sisters are delivering samples this afternoon for me to taste. I want the article done before they get here so I can focus on the tasting notes."
Small Batch launched two months ago, and it's already making waves.
Quinn's first feature—an in-depth look at the Bear Claw and the craft brewing scene in Redwood Rise—went viral.
Suddenly everyone wants to know about the tiny coastal town where the food tastes different, where small producers are doing something special.
She's been careful not to reveal too much about the ley lines, but she doesn't need to. Her writing captures the essence of what makes this place magical without spelling it out. Readers feel it in her descriptions, taste it through her words.
"You need anything else?" I ask.
She looks up at me with that smile that still makes my heart skip. "Just you. But I'll take that later."
I head back to the bar, watching her work.
She's completely in her element—interviewing locals who stop by, tasting samples they bring, typing furiously when inspiration hits.
Her palate is fully restored now. She can taste everything, not just ley-touched food.
But the connection to the magic is still there—she can sense when ingredients are grown on ley line land, can taste the difference between something made here versus anywhere else in the world.
It makes her reviews devastating and her praise invaluable.
The mail carrier stops by mid-afternoon, dropping off a stack of letters. I sort through them—bills, vendor invoices, a postcard from Beau and Anabeth who are up the coast for a few days. And one addressed to Quinn, from a San Francisco return address I recognize.
Epicurean Monthly.
I walk it over to her table. "This came for you."
She glances at the envelope and her expression shutters. "Thanks."
I expect her to open it, but she just sets it aside and keeps working. An hour later, when the afternoon lull hits, she finally picks it up. From behind the bar, I watch her as she reads it. Her face remains completely neutral.
Then she stands, walks to the fireplace at the far end of the tavern, and tosses the letter in.
The paper curls and blackens, the words turning to ash.
Quinn walks back to her table, sits down, and keeps typing.
I wait until I've finished with a customer, then head over. "Want to talk about it?"
"Vanessa's award got revoked. Anonymous tip revealed the plagiarism." She doesn't look up from her screen. "Mark Ford got fired. They're cleaning house, want me to know my name's been cleared. Offering an apology and compensation."
"And?"
Now she looks at me. "And I burned it. I don't need their apology or their money, Eli. I'm building something better here. Something that's actually mine."
Pride swells in my chest. Three months ago, she would have clung to that letter like a lifeline—proof that she'd been right, validation from the people who hurt her. Now she burns it without a second thought.
"You're amazing," I tell her.
"I know." She grins. "Now go pull me a tasting flight. I need to compare your IPA to the Henderson sisters' when they get here."
"Bossy."
"You love it."
I do. More than I can put into words.
Friday night and the tavern is packed.
Quinn's behind the bar with me, pulling pints and laughing with customers like she's been doing this her whole life. She hasn't—she's still learning, still occasionally mixing up which tap is which. But she's confident now in a way she wasn't when she first arrived.
She belongs here. Everyone can see it.
"Two pale ales and a stout," she calls, already reaching for the glasses.
I grab the IPA a tourist just ordered and slide it across the bar. "Eight-fifty."
The guy—twenty-something, here with friends for a weekend hiking trip—hands over a ten. "You two run this place together?"
"We do," Quinn says, setting the pints on a tray.
"How long have you been together?" the tourist asks.
Quinn and I glance at each other. The bond hums between us, carrying her amusement, her joy, her absolute certainty. We answer together.
"Forever."
The tourist laughs, thinking it's a joke. But it's not. It's the truest thing either of us has ever said.
Later, after closing, after the last customer has gone and the dishes are washed and the money's counted, we sit in the booth in the dim light. Quinn's bare feet are in my lap, her head tilted back against the booth cushion.
"Good day?" I ask.
"Great day." She wiggles her toes and I squeeze her ankle. "The Henderson piece is done. I've got three more interviews lined up for next week. And I sold my first print ad today."
"To who?"
"The Pinecrest Inn. Evelyn wants to sponsor the next issue."
I laugh. "Of course she does."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Then I feel it—a gentle stirring through the floor. The ley lines, humming their contentment beneath us.
Quinn feels it too. She sits up, eyes distant for a second as she tunes into the magic the way only she can.
"They're happy," she says softly.
"How can you tell?"
"I can taste it." She smiles. "Like honey. Warm and golden and sweet. The land knows we're mated. It recognizes us as home."
I pull her closer, and she comes willingly, settling into my lap.
"Good day?" I ask again.
She nods against my shoulder. "The best."
Outside, the night is quiet. The ley lines hum beneath us—steady, content.
Quinn's here. The tavern's here. This life we're building.
It's enough. It's everything.
Want to learn more about Jonah? Mate of the Mountain is coming soon. Click here to preorder.
Lost to the wild. Found by fate.
Several months ago, I vanished into the mountains and never came back.
Everyone thought I was dead.
But I survived, in a shadow realm where time twists and monsters whisper my name. I returned scarred, half-feral, and carrying something dark that followed me home. Now it hunts through the ley lines, and I’m the only one who can stop it… even if it means going back and never returning.
Then Maren Rivers finds me. A forest ranger with fire in her eyes and a scent that wakes the man I thought I’d lost. My bear knows her, my mate, but the bond between us burns and breaks, as if the shadows want to claim us both.
She believes we’re stronger together. I believe I’m too broken to keep her safe.
But when the Hollow rises again, the only thing more dangerous than losing her… is letting her go.