They reached the door. Beck pulled it open, and the noise of the brewery washed over them—laughter, clinking glasses, the low thrum of conversation. The main room was crowded with the usual evening crowd, but Wyatt’s attention went immediately to the back booth.
Where too many pairs of eyes turned to watch him enter.
Fuck.
ELEVEN
WYATT
The back booth was a study in barely contained testosterone.
Theo Vance anchored one end—wolf alpha, quiet authority, the kind of leader who rarely raised his voice because he never had to. He nodded at Wyatt as he approached, gray eyes assessing in that calm, measured way that saw everything and revealed nothing.
Leo Castellan sprawled beside him, lion energy barely contained in human form. The Castellan Ventures heir had traded his usual designer suit for a Henley and jeans, but the predator underneath was as obvious. He raised his beer in greeting, gaze sharpening with interest.
Hux Holt sat apart from the others, nursing a whiskey with the focused intensity of a man trying to drown his thoughts. The mayor’s usual political polish had worn thin, leaving raw edges visible. Whatever he’d seen—or hadn’t seen—in that candle flame, it was eating at him.
And then there were the dragons.
Aero Tau occupied the corner with ancient stillness, eight centuries of existence compressed into the deceptively slight frame of an academic. His dark eyes tracked Wyatt’s approachwith the patience of a predator who’d learned to wait centuries for his prey.
Delos Gefen sat beside him—younger, brasher, fire dragon to Aero’s storm. He’d been in Haven Shores for barely two months, but he’d already established himself as the group’s most persistent source of bad jokes and worse timing. His grin as Wyatt approached held far too much anticipation.
“Sheriff.” Theo gestured to the empty seat. “Glad you could finally join us.”
“Finally” hung in the air. Wyatt ignored it, sliding into the booth with what he hoped was neutral indifference.
Beck appeared with a beer before Wyatt could order, setting it down with a knowing look. “On the house. You look like you need it.”
“Thanks.” Wyatt wrapped his hand around the glass. Didn’t drink. “Aero. You said there were developments with the surge investigation.”
“There are.” Aero’s voice was measured, precise. “But before we discuss that, perhaps we should address the more immediate matter.”
“Which is?”
Delos leaned forward, nostrils flaring. “You smell different.”
Every head at the table turned toward Wyatt.
His panther bristled.
Here we go.
“Your scent.” Delos wasn’t grinning anymore. His expression had sharpened to focused, predatory attention—the dragon underneath the cheerful exterior. “It’s changed. There’s complexity layered beneath it. Something floral and…” He inhaled again, dramatic and deliberate. “Is that jasmine? And candle wax?”
Wyatt said nothing. His grip on his beer glass tightened.
“Candle wax.” Leo’s voice was deceptively casual. “Interesting. Can’t think of anyone in Haven Shores who might smell like candle wax. Can you, Theo?”
“Not off the top of my head.” Theo’s neutral expression didn’t waver. “Although there is that candle shop on Moonstone Lane. What’s it called? Spellbound Lights?”
“That’s the one.” Leo snapped his fingers. “Run by that witch. What’s her name? The one who’s been driving our resident sheriff crazy for?—”
“Enough.” Wyatt’s voice came out sharper than he intended. “I didn’t come here to discuss my personal life.”
“Your personal life.” Beck spoke for the first time, his deep rumble cutting through the banter. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“I’m calling it none of your business.”
