She was smiling as she said it, and the iron band around Wyatt’s ribs loosened.
Narla settled at the table, cradling her wine glass. The cabin’s wards hummed their quiet recognition. She looked peaceful. Softer than he’d seen her in the time since the festival.
Her voice was quiet. “Before Derren. Before any of it, there was a cabin in Colorado. Not so different from this. Niccolas and I would cook on weekends—nothing fancy, just the two of us and the mountains outside the window.”
Wyatt lowered himself into the chair across from her, careful to leave space between them. “Tell me about him.”
She turned, surprise flickering across her face. “You want to hear about my dead husband?”
“I want to know you.” The words came out before he could filter them. “The real you. Not the mask you’ve been wearing since you came to Haven Shores.”
Her expression shifted. The careful composure cracked, just slightly, revealing the woman underneath.
“Niccolas was my best friend.” She stared into her glass. “We grew up in the same community. Knew each other since we were kids. He used to steal the cookies my mother made and blame it on my familiar, which was ridiculous because Ember doesn’t even eat cookies.”
“Sounds like a criminal mastermind.”
“He was a terrible liar. My mother knew it was him the whole time. She made extra cookies just so he’d have some to steal.” Her smile was distant, fond. “That was Niccolas. People wanted to take care of him. Wanted to make him happy. He had this gift for making everyone around him feel seen.”
“You loved him.”
“I did.” No hesitation. No guilt. Just quiet certainty. “Not the way—” She stopped, glanced at him. “Not the way fated mates love each other. We knew that. Talked about it, actually, before we got married. We were twenty-five, and neither of us had found our fated one, and we decided we were done waiting for the one that might never come.”
“So you chose each other instead.”
“We chose each other.” She nodded. “And it was good. Fifteen years of friendship and partnership, and a life we built on purpose. He called me his ‘fate-adjacent.’ I threw pillows at him for it.” Her voice caught. “I miss him. Not the way you miss a fated mate—I can still function, still breathe, still imagine afuture. But I miss my friend. My partner. The person who knew me better than anyone.”
Wyatt sat with that. The complexity of her grief—loving someone genuinely without it being the world-ending bond of fated mates. Losing someone precious without losing a piece of your soul.
“He sounds like a good man.”
“He was.” She wiped at her eyes, a quick, embarrassed motion. “He was a good man who died because he tried to do the right thing. And I’ve spent years wondering if I should have done more. Should have told someone sooner. Should have fought instead of running.”
“You survived.” Wyatt’s voice came out fiercer than he intended. “Against a predator who’s been killing for centuries, you survived. That’s not running. That’s strategy.”
Her gaze found his. Held.
“Your turn.” She said it quietly. “I’ve told you about my ghosts. What are yours?”
EIGHTEEN
WYATT
He’d taken their wine to the deck after dinner. The acres of woods behind his cabin had been his only respite for years. He’d never brought anyone out here.
And he had never talked about his past.
Not to the guys at the brewery, not to Aero’s careful probing, not even to his aunt Georgia, who’d given him a home when no one else would. His history was a locked room, sealed and warded, contents too dangerous to examine.
But Narla was watching him with those eyes that saw everything, and the beast inside him had gone uncharacteristically silent, and the sunset was painting the world in colors that made the truth feel less jagged.
“My parents were volatile.” The words felt jagged, unpracticed. “My father was a panther with a temper. My mother was a witch who loved too hard and couldn’t leave. They spent my entire childhood tearing each other apart and piecing each other back.”
Narla didn’t interrupt. Didn’t offer platitudes. Just listened.
“I learned early that feeling things was dangerous. That passion led to destruction. That the safest thing you could do was stay in control, no matter what.” He picked up a pebble,turned it over in his fingers. “My mother died when I was twelve. Car accident. Random, senseless. My father drank himself to death within the year.”
“I’m sorry.”
