Chapter 7
MAREN
Being watched by monsters is becoming uncomfortably normal.
The shadow creature that tracked us through the forest didn't attack.
Didn't flee. Just observed, calculated, and disappeared like smoke when it had seen enough.
That should terrify me more than it does.
Instead, the experience files itself away like any other data point—violet glow in its eyes, the deliberate movements, the way the ley lines pulsed in response.
Shadow monsters have become something I analyze instead of run from. Not sure when that change happened.
Jonah walks beside me as we return to the compound, his hand warm around mine. He hasn't said much since we left the convergence point, but I feel his tension through the bond. The ritual looms ahead of us like a cliff edge we're about to step off together.
The compound comes into view through the trees. Beyond it, in the forest clearing, torches burn in the stone circle. Jonah's brothers move between the compound and the clearing with purpose, carrying ceremonial items I don't recognize yet. Everything is ready. Everything is waiting.
For us. For tonight.
My stomach knots.
"I need some air," I say. "Just a few minutes to clear my head before—"
"Take your time." Jonah's thumb brushes across my knuckles. "This is huge. You're allowed to process."
I squeeze his hand once, then head toward the edge of the compound where the forest meets the clearing. I just need a moment. I just need to breathe.
That's when I see the rental car.
It's parked near the main road, a silver sedan with California plates that looks wildly out of place among the trucks and SUVs that belong here. Recognition hits before the driver's door even opens.
Derek.
He unfolds from the car like he owns the space, all expensive hiking gear that's never seen actual wilderness and that confident stride that used to make my heart race. Now it just makes me tired.
"Maren!" He spots me immediately, face breaking into that charming smile that photographs so well. "Thank god. I've been driving around this backwoods maze for an hour trying to find you."
I don't move from where I'm standing. "Derek. What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you, obviously." He approaches like there's no reason I wouldn't want to see him, no reason he shouldn't just show up unannounced. "You disappeared. Stopped returning calls. Your editor had no idea where you went."
"I needed space."
"For eight months?" He stops a few feet away, taking in my appearance with an expression I can't quite read. "You look different."
I probably do. Eight months in Redwood Rise has changed me in ways that have nothing to do with becoming a shifter. My hair is longer, sun-streaked. My skin has color from being outdoors. I'm wearing worn jeans and a flannel shirt instead of my usual field gear.
I look like I belong here.
"What do you want, Derek?"
"To finish what we started." He pulls out his phone, swiping through images. "The Pacific Coast documentary. Remember? We had funding. We had distribution. We had everything lined up, and then you just bailed."
"I didn't bail. I told you I needed time."
"Eight months, Maren. The funding is about to expire. If we don't deliver by end of quarter, we lose everything." He pockets the phone, expression shifting to that earnest look he uses when he wants something. "I came to bring you back. To finish this together like we planned."
Together. Like we're still a team. Like he didn't spend most of our partnership taking credit for my work and treating me like an assistant instead of a colleague.
"I'm not going back."
"Don't be ridiculous. This is your career. Our career." He gestures vaguely at the compound behind me. "You can't seriously be thinking about staying in this place. What even is this? Some kind of commune?"
"It's a home."
"It's the middle of nowhere." His voice takes on that condescending edge I'd forgotten about. "Come on, Maren. This isn't you. You're a documentarian. You're supposed to observe the world, not hide in it."
Anger sparks. "I'm not hiding."
"Then what do you call disappearing to some backwoods town no one's ever heard of?
" He steps closer, lowering his voice like we're sharing a secret.
"I get it. The project started to fall apart.
We hit a bump in the road. You needed a break.
But you've had your break. Now it's time to come back to reality. "
"This is reality."
"This?" He laughs, actually laughs, and the sound grates. "Maren, look around. This place is weird. The people here are weird. I passed some guy in town who looked at me like I was trespassing on private property just for asking directions. Very unfriendly vibe."
That guy was probably Sawyer. Jonah's brother doesn't trust outsiders, especially not now.
"They're not weird. They're careful. There's a difference."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night." He shakes his head. "The point is, you don't belong here. You belong out there, making a difference, telling stories that matter. Not playing house in the woods with—"
"With who?" My voice comes out sharp. "Say it."
"I don't know. Whoever you've been spending time with." He waves a dismissive hand. "I saw some guy earlier. Tall, looks like he forgot how to shave. Very lumberjack. Very... local. Please tell me you're not wasting your time on—"
"Careful." The word comes out low, dangerous. "You don't know what you're talking about."
Derek blinks. "Wow. Okay. Defensive much?"
"His name is Jonah. And he's not a waste of anything."
"Jonah." Derek draws out the name like it's proof of something. "Very rustic. Very Paul Bunyan. I'm sure he's very nice, Maren, but come on. You're seriously going to throw away your career for some backwoods romance?"
Every word makes my jaw tighten. A month ago, maybe even a week ago, some of this might have landed. The doubt. The dismissiveness. The implication that I'm making a mistake.
Now it just pisses me off.
"You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" He crosses his arms. "I've known you for three years. You're running. Just like you wanted to run from that last documentary when funding got tight. From San Francisco. From that teaching gig because one student complained."
"That's not fair."
"You're doing it again." He waves toward the compound. "Hiding in the woods. Convincing yourself this is real." His voice drops. "What happens when Lumber-Jonah figures out you're not who he thinks? When this gets hard?"
The accusation lands. Because there's truth in it. I have run before. Left situations before they could leave me. Protected myself by never staying long enough to be hurt.
"Then I deal with it."
"Like you dealt with everything else?" He shakes his head. "I'm trying to help you here. You're making a huge mistake. This place, these people, this guy—none of it is real. It's just another place to hide until you get scared and run again."
My hands curl into fists. "You don't know anything about Jonah. Or this place. Or me, apparently."
"I know you're about to make the biggest mistake of your life." He pulls out his phone again. "Come back with me. Finish the documentary. Get your career back on track. Then if you still want to play hermit in the woods, fine. But at least finish what you started."
"I did finish what I started." The words come out certain, solid. "I found something I've been looking for my whole life without knowing it. I found a place where I fit. People who want me here. Someone who sees me as I actually am instead of who they need me to be."
Derek's expression changes. Surprise, maybe. Or calculation. "This really isn't you. What happened to the woman who wanted to document the world?"
"I found something worth staying for."
"Or something worth hiding behind." He pockets his phone, shaking his head. "I came all this way to give you a chance, Maren. Don't waste it."
"I'm not."
"Then prove it. Come back. Finish the work. Show everyone you're not just running away again."
The challenge sits between us, and for a heartbeat I feel the old pull. The need to prove myself. To show I'm not weak or scared or broken. To demonstrate I can finish what I start.
Then I look past Derek toward the compound where torches burn in the stone circle. Where Jonah's brothers prepare for a ritual that could save him or kill us both. Where a man who fought through six months of hell to get home waits for me to choose him.
"I'm not running away," I say quietly. "I'm choosing to stay. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Derek's voice hardens. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly the same.
" He holds my gaze for another moment, then sighs.
"Fine. Waste your life in the woods if that's what you want.
But when this falls apart—and it will—don't call me.
I'm done trying to save you from yourself. "
He turns toward his rental car, movements sharp with frustration. Pauses with his hand on the door.
"You're better than this, Maren. I thought you knew that."
Then he's in the car, engine starting, pulling away down the dirt road in a spray of gravel and dust.
I stand there watching him go, his words echoing in my head. Running away. Just like you always do when things get hard.
My throat constricts.
Because he's not entirely wrong. I have run before. I've left jobs, relationships, opportunities because staying meant risking being hurt. Staying meant being vulnerable. Staying meant potentially losing something I cared about.
But this time is different.
Isn't it?
I'm not leaving. I'm staying. I'm choosing the bonding ritual even knowing it could kill me. That's not running. That's commitment.
Except Derek's voice whispers in the back of my mind: You're running away from your old life, your career, everything you worked for. Just hiding in the woods with people who don't know the real you.
"No," I say out loud to the empty space where Derek's car was. "That's not what this is."