When Mira finally left, Narla stood at the window and watched her slow progress down Moonstone Lane. Her heart felt too full and too empty at the same time.
Ember clicked his beak. A sound of warning.
“I know.” Narla pressed her palm against the cool glass. “I’m thinking about him.”
Not Niccolas. Not anymore.
Wyatt’s presence had been a constant hum at the edge of her awareness all week. She knew when he was at the station, when he was patrolling, when he drove past the road that led to her cottage. The awareness was getting stronger. More specific. She could almost feel his attention now—that particular quality of focus that meant he was thinking about her.
Which was most of the time.
The bell chimed again. Narla turned, her customer smile ready?—
And froze.
FOURTEEN
NARLA
He looked exactly the same.
That was the horror of it. Years since she’d seen him, and Derren Bale hadn’t aged a day. The same warm smile. The same kind eyes. The same well-dressed confidence that invited trust and promised safety.
The glamour was flawless. It had worked on her for fifteen years—and even now, knowing what lived beneath it, her instincts still reached for the lie.
That was Derren’s gift. That was what made him so dangerous.
“Ms. Wright?” His voice was pleasant, modulated, the perfect pitch of a man making polite conversation with a stranger. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Derren Bale—I deal in rare magical artifacts.”
He extended his hand.
Narla didn’t take it.
Behind the counter, Ember had gone completely still. The owl’s feathers were flat against his body, his amber gaze fixed on Derren with predatory intensity. He knew. The familiar had been there the night Niccolas died, had watched from the shadows as Derren revealed what he truly was.
“Mr. Bale.” Her voice came out even. Calm. The mask she’d perfected over years of practice. “What brings you to Haven Shores?”
“Business, mostly.” He lowered his unshaken hand without acknowledging the slight, his smile never wavering. “I’ve heard fascinating things about this town. Cross-species matings. Dragon residents. And now—” His gaze swept her shelves, lingering on the candles that flickered innocently in their displays. “—candles that show people their fated mates. Remarkable magic, Ms. Wright.”
The way he said her name. Soft. Familiar. As if they shared secrets.
They did. Just not the kind he was pretending.
“The candles are a side effect of the surge.” Narla moved behind the counter, putting distance and wood between them. Ember shifted closer to her shoulder, a warm pressure of feathered protection. “I can’t control what they reveal.”
“Can’t you?” Derren wandered through the shop, examining displays with casual interest. His fingers trailed along a shelf of votives, and Narla’s magic recoiled from the contact. Wrong. Everything about him rang false to her power in a way it hadn’t before. “I’ve studied magical artifacts for decades. Revelation magic is particularly fascinating. The ability to strip away lies, to expose hidden truths…” He glanced at her, and ice flickered behind those warm eyes. “Dangerous, in the wrong hands.”
“My candles aren’t dangerous.”
“No? I heard about a marriage that ended last night. A lioness who discovered her husband wasn’t her fate.” He picked up a candle and turned it in his hands. “Revelations have consequences, Ms. Wright. You should know that better than anyone.”
The threat was delicate. Precise. A blade hidden in velvet.
Narla’s hands trembled beneath the counter, hidden from view. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Bale?”
“Just browsing.” He set down the candle and moved closer to the counter. Closer to her. “And meeting the town folk. The innkeeper is very welcoming. Avine, I believe her name is? Charming woman. Very trusting.”
Narla’s blood turned to ice.
