Wyatt didn’t answer.
Which was answer enough.
TWELVE
WYATT
The silence stretched for five full seconds before Delos broke it.
“Well,” the fire dragon raised his beer in a mock toast, “welcome to the club. We have jackets. They’re soft.”
“We don’t have jackets.” Theo’s tone was dry.
“We should have jackets. ‘Haven Shores Mated Males’. With little embroidered fangs.”
“I’m not mated.” Wyatt’s protest came out weak, even to his own ears.
“Not yet.” Delos’s rumble held grim amusement. “But you will be. The bond’s already forming. I can smell it on you—that pull, that awareness. You know where she is right now, don’t you? Without looking, without checking. You just… know.”
Wyatt’s hand clenched around his beer glass.
He did know. She was at her cottage—he’d felt her presence settle there an hour ago, a distant beacon at the edge of his awareness. Some part of him was straining toward her even as he sat in this booth pretending to be fine.
“Yeah.” Beck nodded at whatever he saw in Wyatt’s expression. “That’s how it starts. Gets stronger the longer youresist it. By the time I stopped fighting and just accepted what Rosemary was to me, I could track her across continents.”
“Romantic.” Delos grinned. “In a stalkerish kind of way.”
“Says the dragon who literally followed Aero around the Continental Council archives for three decades.”
“That was professional development.”
“That was obsession with extra steps.”
“Gentlemen.” Theo’s quiet authority cut through the bickering. “Perhaps we could focus on the more pressing issue. Wyatt’s mate recognition is his business. But the surge affecting his judgment—affecting all our judgment—is a community concern.”
“The candles.” Hux spoke for the first time since Wyatt arrived, his voice rough from whiskey or darker thoughts. “Everyone’s talking about them. Half the town wants to light one and find their fated mate. The other half is terrified of what they might see.”
“And some of us saw nothing at all.” Beck’s observation was gentle, but Hux flinched anyway.
“What does that mean?” Wyatt asked. “The empty vision?”
“Unknown.” Aero’s clinical detachment had softened slightly. “There are several possibilities. The subject may not have a fated mate—rare, but not unheard of. The mate may be deceased. The bond may be blocked by external magic. Or…” He hesitated.
“Or?”
“Or the vision may be incomplete. The flame shows what it can access. If there’s interference—magical shielding, deliberate concealment—the image might not form properly.”
Hux stared into his whiskey. “So either I don’t have a mate, she’s dead, or a barrier is blocking the vision.” His laugh was bitter. “Great options.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Theo’s voice held quiet certainty. “Whatever’s happening with the candles, with the surge, we’ll find answers.”
“In the meantime,” Leo turned his attention back to Wyatt, “what’s your plan with the candle witch?”
“I don’t have a plan.”
“Bullshit.” Theo crossed his arms. “You’ve been investigating her for years. You’ve been obsessing over her background, her movements, her secrets. Now you’ve slept with her, your panther’s claiming territory, and you’re sitting here trying to pretend you don’t have a plan?”
“She’s concealing secrets.” The words came out before Wyatt could stop them. “She has been since she arrived. Her background doesn’t add up. Her reactions don’t match her story. And when I went to her cottage after—” He stopped, remembering the look on her face. The fear underneath the careful composure. “There’s trouble brewing. Something she won’t tell me.”
