He walked away. Narla watched him go—the controlled grace of a predator pretending to be civilized, all that coiled power wrapped in a sheriff’s uniform—and her hands finally shook.
The violet flame on her table flared two feet high before she managed to tamp it down.
Ember made a small sound against her ear. Disapproving. Knowing.
“Don’t start,” she muttered. “I know.”
But knowing and controlling were two very different things.
TWO
NARLA
An hour later, the pressure beneath her skin had become unbearable.
Narla stood behind her booth, smiling at customers, wrapping purchases, radiating the peaceful competence everyone expected from the candle witch. Inside, a scream was building.
The surge pulsed through Haven Shores. She could feel it—beyond pressure but a rhythm, a heartbeat that matched the drums from the main stage and the thud of her own pulse in her ears. Every supernatural in the park had to feel it. The wolves were restless, pacing the perimeter with more intensity than security required. The lions kept scenting the air, noses twitching, muscles coiled. Even the witches were jumpy, their magic sparking at unexpected moments—Junie had accidentally set her own hair on fire twice already.
And Narla’s candles wouldn’t behave.
The violet had spread. Half her display now burned in colors that shouldn’t exist—purple and gold swirling in the flames, reaching toward the tent ceiling with hungry fingers. Customers had started to notice, casting curious glances at her booth,whispering to each other. She’d made excuses. Festival magic. Equinox energy. A new product line she was testing.
Lies. All of it lies.
She didn’t know what her magic was doing, only that it had slipped her control entirely. And that hadn’t happened since?—
Since Niccolas died. Since Derren showed you what he really was. Since you learned what fear actually tasted like.
She shoved the memory down. Now was not the time.
Ember had abandoned his circling to perch on the tent pole, watching her with ancient knowing in his amber gaze. He hadn’t delivered a single dead mouse to anyone’s doorstep all night. That was how she knew it was serious.
She felt him before she saw him.
The awareness hit her with physical force—his presence, his proximity. Her magic knew him. Her body knew him. And tonight, with the surge cresting and her control crumbling, she couldn’t pretend otherwise.
Her pulse spiked. Heat flooded her skin. The candles on her table flared in unison, flames stretching toward the tent opening where?—
Wyatt emerged from the crowd.
“There’s a situation.” He stopped at the edge of her display. “The wards near your cottage triggered again. I need?—”
Their gazes locked.
The surge pulsed.
Every candle on Narla’s table ignited simultaneously.
Not gentle flames—pillars of fire in violet and gold, surge colors, roaring upward with a heat that pushed customers stumbling back. The tent fabric began to smolder. Ember screeched and launched into the air. Someone screamed. The drums from the main stage stuttered, and for one frozen moment, the entire festival seemed to hold its breath.
Narla couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Her magic had ripped free entirely, surging toward Wyatt with a force that felt tidal, unstoppable, inevitable.
He lunged forward.
His hand closed around her wrist.
Contact.
