“Well.” Junie took a large gulp of wine. “Surprise?”
Avine’s laptop chimed with an incoming video call. She set it on the coffee table and accepted, and suddenly Dahlia Moon’s face filled the screen—warm brown skin, kind eyes, a kitchen that was clearly Parisian in the background. Cal appeared briefly behind her, pressing a kiss to her hair before disappearing off-screen.
“I’m here. What’s happening?” Dahlia leaned closer to her camera, concern evident in every line of her face. “Narla, honey, you look exhausted.”
“That’s what I said,” Junie muttered.
Four faces turned toward Narla. Expectant. Worried. Ready to help with whatever crisis had driven her to emergency wine.
She took a breath.
“I had sex with Wyatt Gentry.”
The silence lasted approximatelytwo seconds.
Then Junie spat out her wine.
Cassia’s hair erupted with actual electricity, sparks dancing from strand to strand like a personal lightning storm.
Dahlia’s video call froze for three full seconds, then unfroze with her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide enough to see the whites all around.
Avine’s composure—legendary, unshakeable—cracked to shocked delight. Her wine glass tilted dangerously before she caught it.
“You—” Junie was coughing, wine dribbling down her chin. “You what?”
“At the festival.” Narla stared into her glass because looking at any of them felt impossible. “The surge hit, and my candles went crazy, and he grabbed me, and—” She swallowed. “We barely made it to the storage tent.”
“The storage tent.” Cassia’s voice had gone strangled. “Behind your booth. At the festival.”
“I know.”
“Where hundreds of people were?—”
“I know.”
“Oh my god.” Junie had given up on her wine entirely, setting the glass down with shaking hands. “Oh my god. This is—Sue is going to be insufferable. She’s been predicting this since the day you showed up in Haven Shores.”
“She makes comments every time she sees me.” Narla’s laugh came out broken. “Something about ‘candles and their revelations’ and ‘predators who forget they’re prey.’”
“That cryptic old bat.” Junie shook her head in reluctant admiration. “She knew. She never misses.”
“Narla. Look at me.” Dahlia’s voice came through the laptop, gentle but firm.
Narla forced herself to meet the screen. Dahlia’s expression had shifted from shock to tenderness—concern, understanding, the particular empathy of someone who’d spent her life taking care of others.
“Was it… okay? Did he hurt you? Because if he pressured you or took advantage of the surge?—”
“No.” The word came out fast. Certain. “It wasn’t—he didn’t—” Narla pressed her palms against her eyes again. “It wasmutual. Completely mutual. We both lost control. The surge just…”
“Broke down all that denial?” Cassia’s voice was knowing. “Trust me, I understand that particular feeling.”
The storm witch met Narla’s gaze, and understanding passed between them. Recognition. Shared experience. Cassia had spent months hiding who she really was, controlling her magic, denying her own power. She knew what it felt like to have those walls crumble.
“After,” Narla continued, forcing the words out, “we both agreed it was a mistake. Surge interference. That it would never happen again.”
“But?” Avine prompted quietly.
“But I went home and lit a candle to calm myself down. And the flame showed me his face.”
