Chapter 9 #2
She turns the phone toward me. The screen shows a graph with jagged peaks and valleys, the most recent spike shooting up dramatically—nearly double the baseline. Red warning indicators flash at the edges. "That's not normal fluctuation. The lines are responding to something specific… or someone."
My bear knows before my brain catches up. The ley lines responded to Cilla when she came to town. They responded to Anabeth. And now they're responding to Quinn.
"She's my mate," I hear myself say. "Quinn. She's mine."
Anabeth's expression softens immediately. "I figured as much. I've seen the way you look at her. Does she know?"
"How could she? She doesn't even know shifters exist." I run a hand through my hair, fear and frustration tangled in my chest. "How do I tell her?
How do I explain that the land itself is pulling her toward me, that we're meant to be together, when she's spent the last few days learning not to trust anyone? "
"You start with the truth," Anabeth says. "About shifters, about this town, about what you are. The mate bond can come later, after she's had time to process."
Another surge of energy rolls through the compound, even stronger. The lights flicker, and from the dining room I hear Calder swear.
"Whatever you're going to do," Anabeth says, gripping my arm, "do it soon. The lines are getting stronger, and if they keep reacting to her like this, she's going to notice. Better she hears it from you than figures it out when something she can't explain happens."
The kitchen door opens and Calder sticks his head in. "Everything okay? That surge just…" He sees our faces and stops. "Eli?"
"Anabeth is lecturing…”
“I don’t lecture…”
Calder and I exchange a look, but then his expression switches to surprise, then understanding, then concern. "She isn’t wrong. You need to tell her. Soon. Before the lines pull her into something dangerous."
Before she wanders into the forest again at night, drawn by energy she doesn't understand. Before she gets hurt because I was too afraid to be honest.
"Tomorrow." The words solidify into certainty. "I'll tell her tomorrow."
"Good." Anabeth releases my arm and steps back. "Now can we please eat? That roast is getting cold and Calder's going to blame me if it's overcooked."
We return to the dining room where my brothers are pretending they weren't listening through the door.
Beau's examining the label on a beer bottle with intense focus.
Sawyer's suddenly very interested in his phone.
Calder's carved the roast with surgical precision, each slice exactly the same thickness.
"Everything okay?" Sawyer asks, his tone too casual.
"Fine," Anabeth says sweetly. "Just girl talk."
"You're not a girl, you're a terrifying scientist who tracks magical energy for fun," Beau mutters, but he's smiling.
The meal is excellent—Calder's cooking always is, even if it's not quite up to Cilla's standards.
The roast is perfectly medium-rare, the vegetables roasted with just the right amount of char.
But the food might as well be cardboard.
I'm too busy rehearsing words I don't have yet.
How do you explain the unexplainable? How do you tell someone that the land itself has claimed them, that ancient power flows through the earth beneath this town, that you're not entirely human?
My bear stirs every time I think about Quinn, restless and impatient. Mine, it insists. Tell her. Claim her.
Not yet. Not like that.
The energy spikes twice more during dinner, each pulse a little stronger.
The second one makes the lights flicker.
The third rattles the windows in their frames.
Anabeth takes readings after each one, her frown deepening.
By the time we're clearing plates, she's pulled Beau aside for a whispered conversation that has him looking at me with worry.
His jaw tightens, and he glances toward the forest, then back at me.
I help with cleanup because it's expected, scraping plates and loading the dishwasher while my mind races.
My thoughts are in town, at the Pinecrest Inn.
Quinn and Cilla are probably finishing up dinner by now.
Is Quinn telling Cilla about this morning?
About the cellar, the almost-kiss, the way the earth seemed to hum beneath us?
Does Quinn feel the pull even now, sitting miles away?
Does she sense the way the land responds to her, or does she just think it's stress, exhaustion, the aftermath of trauma?
"Stop overthinking it," Beau says quietly, appearing at my elbow with a dish towel. Water drips from his hands, leaving dark spots on the floor. "You'll know what to say when the time comes."
"What if she runs?" The words come out rougher than I intend, raw with fear I can't quite hide.
"Then you give her space and wait. But Eli?
" He grips my shoulder, his hand heavy and warm.
"I don't think she's going to run. Quinn strikes me as someone who faces things head-on, even when she's scared.
Especially when she's scared. She drove five hours to escape her problems, but she's not hiding.
She's here, asking questions, trying to understand. That's not running. That's fighting."
I want to believe him. But the memory of her backing away from me in the cellar, the fear mixed with want in her eyes, the way she fled without looking back—that suggests otherwise.
She wanted me to kiss her. I could see it, feel it, taste it in the air between us.
And then she ran anyway, because wanting and trusting aren't the same thing.
Not yet. Maybe not ever, if I tell her the truth.
Another wave of energy rolls through as I'm leaving, strong enough that I have to grip the truck door to stay steady.
The metal is cold under my palm, grounding.
Through Calder's window, I see Anabeth watching me, concern clear on her face.
She lifts her phone slightly, shows me the screen even from here—another spike, higher than before.
I nod once. I understand. The lines are escalating. Quinn is calling to them, or they're calling to her, and time is running out before something happens that neither of us can control.
I have until tomorrow to figure out how to tell her. One day to find the words that won't send her running. Twenty-four hours to prepare for the moment that could give me everything or cost me the one thing I've been waiting for my entire life.
The walk from my truck to my A-frame feels endless.
My bear paces inside me, restless and impatient, clawing at my control.
The October night has turned cold, my breath fogging in front of me.
The compound is quiet except for the wind in the trees and the distant sound of the ocean.
Stars wheel overhead, bright and indifferent.
When I finally step inside, the ley lines hum beneath my feet—steady, certain, utterly confident in what's coming.
The A-frame is dark. I don't bother turning on lights.
Just stand in my too-large kitchen, surrounded by restaurant-grade equipment I barely use, and stare out the massive windows at the forest beyond.
Somewhere out there, the ley lines converge.
Somewhere out there, my youngest brother is lost or dead or something I can't let myself think about.
And somewhere in town, fifteen minutes away but feeling like miles, Quinn is finishing dinner with Cilla, completely unaware that tomorrow everything changes.
For both of us.
I wish I felt the same certainty the ley lines do. Instead, all I feel is fear—not of telling her the truth, but of what comes after. Of watching her look at me differently. Of seeing trust turn to horror, want turn to fear, possibility turn to loss.
My bear growls softly, disagreeing. She won't run, it insists. She's ours. She'll understand.
I hope to god he’s right.