They stood there, inches apart, the meadow buzzing around them. His bear was pressing against his skin, wanting closer, wanting more. And for one reckless moment, he almost gave in. Almost closed the distance and kissed her the way he’d been thinking about since the first time he’d seen her.
Instead, he stepped back. Cleared his throat. “We should, uh. Check the processing cabin. Make sure the equipment’s in working order.”
Dahlia blinked, then laughed—a breathless sound that told him she’d felt it too. Whatever this was.
“Right. The cabin. Lead the way.”
TWENTY
CAL
The cabin was small—a single room with processing equipment, storage shelves, and a narrow bed for overnight stays. Dusty from disuse but structurally sound.
Cal busied himself checking the extractor and straining equipment while Dahlia explored, running her fingers over jars and labels and the accumulated history of generations of Ursa beekeepers.
“These labels are dated 1962.” She held up a faded jar, amber honey still visible inside. “This is from your great-grandmother?”
“Great-great-grandmother. Ada Ursa. She started the apiaries when she was sixteen.” Cal wiped down the extractor, not looking at her. “Married into the sleuth from a human family, actually. Didn’t have a shifter bone in her body, but she understood bees better than anyone.”
“A human started your bear family’s most sacred tradition?”
“Magnus would hate that detail.” Cal’s mouth curved. “The Ironwood philosophy is all about purity. Shifters with shifters, bears with bears. The idea that a human woman couldcontribute something valuable to bear culture...” He shook his head. “It would short-circuit his entire worldview.”
Dahlia set the jar back on the shelf. “Tell me about your grandfather.”
The question caught him off-guard. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Anything.” She moved to sit on a storage crate, tucking her legs beneath her. “You light up when you talk about this place. About him. I want to understand why.”
Cal stopped pretending to work on the extractor. Set down his cloth. Leaned against the workbench and looked at her—really looked.
“Bran could have resented me. The reminder of the son who betrayed him. But he didn’t.” Cal’s voice went rough. “He taught me everything. How to be a bear, how to work the land, how to lead. He believed in me when everyone else was waiting for me to turn out like Marcus.”
“And then you left.”
The words should have stung. They didn’t—not the way Dahlia said them. No accusation. Just acknowledgment.
“I had to prove I could be something other than my father’s son. That I could build something, not just inherit it.” He scrubbed a palm over his face.
“And you did well in Seattle.”
“I did.”
Dahlia was silent for a long moment. Then she stood, crossed the small cabin, and sat beside him on the workbench. Her shoulder pressed against his arm. Solid. Present.
“I told myself I was honoring Grandmother’s legacy by staying.” Her voice was soft. “That it was the responsible choice.” Her eyes dropped. “I’m not sure I ever let myself look too closely at whether that was true.”
Cal turned to look at her.
She was quiet. Something moved across her face—surfacing for a moment, then gone.
The recognition landed in Cal’s gut—heavy and true.
“You’re not like them, you know.” Dahlia’s voice was soft, her hand coming up to rest on his forearm. Heat spread where she touched him. “The Ursa men. The ones who left.”
“How do you figure?”
“You came back.” Her fingers tightened on his arm. “You’re here. Standing in your family’s sacred space, teaching a witch to harvest honey, fighting for a town that isn’t sure it wants you. That’s not running, Cal. That’s trying.”
