“Sheriff?” Cassia was watching him with an expression he didn’t like. Too knowing. Too perceptive. Storm witches read atmospheric pressure; apparently, they also read emotional tension. “You went silent just now.”
“Processing.” He stood, needing to move, needing an outlet for the restless energy coiling through his muscles. “This is going to require careful handling. If word gets out before we understand what’s happening?—”
“Word is already getting out.” Cassia stood too, gathering the candle back into her bag. “I passed three people on Main Street arguing about whether to buy Narla’s candles or burn their existing ones. The festival sales from last night are spreading through town. By noon, everyone’s going to know.”
By noon. He had hours at most before Haven Shores descended into mate-revelation chaos.
And somewhere in that chaos, Narla Wright was sitting on the same secret he was. The same knowledge. The same impossible truth.
“I need to talk to her.” The words came out before he could stop them. “Narla. I need to understand what her magic is doing.”
“I can come with you. This affects me too, and?—”
“No.” Too fast. Too sharp. He forced himself to moderate his tone. “I’ll handle the initial inquiry. Standard procedure. Once I have more information, we can coordinate a community response.”
Something flickered in Cassia’s expression. Skepticism, maybe. Or recognition.
“Standard procedure.” She repeated the words flatly. “Right. Because there’s nothing unusual about your interest in Narla Wright.”
Wyatt went motionless.
“Six years you’ve been watching her.” Cassia’s voice was quiet, almost gentle. “The whole town has noticed. Even before I mated Aero, before I understood what it felt like to have a beast inside you that sensed a truth your human brain refused to accept—I noticed.”
“I don’t know what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything.” She moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the frame. “I’m saying that denial only works for so long. And when it breaks—” Her gaze flickered to the scratches on his neck, visible above his collar. “—it breaks hard.”
She left before he could respond.
Wyatt stood alone in his glass-walled office, his panther prowling restlessly, his carefully constructed control lying in ruins around him.
The mate bond was forming. He could feel it—a new awareness, something terrifying, a thread stretching across town toward a woman who smelled like warm honey and candlelight and tasted like everything he’d been denying himself for twenty-three years.
It was forming whether he wanted it or not.
And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.
SIX
WYATT
He made it until noon before his control cracked again.
The morning passed in a blur of paperwork and calls—reports from the festival, complaints about surge damage, three separate requests for mediation in disputes that had erupted overnight. Word about the candles spread exactly as Cassia had predicted, and by eleven, Rena was fielding calls from panicked residents demanding to know if they could sue Spellbound Lights for emotional distress.
Wyatt handled it all with mechanical efficiency. Delegated. Documented. Did his job.
But underneath the professional mask, his panther was going insane.
Narla was at her cottage. Hadn’t moved all morning. Hiding, probably—from the candle chaos, or from him.
Go to her. Find her. Make sure she’s okay.
“She’s not my responsibility.” He muttered it under his breath, earning a curious look from Rena. “The candle situation is a community matter, not a personal?—”
She’s OURS.
His panther’s certainty slammed into him with physical force. His panther surged closer to the surface than it had in years.
