He’d known. On some level, he’d known since the first moment they’d met, since the lightning had arced between them and his panther had roared its recognition. But hearing her say it—acknowledge it out loud?—
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was terrified.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “Derren destroys everyone I care about. My husband. My sister.If he found out I had a mate—if he knew there was someone that mattered?—”
“He’d use me to hurt you.”
“Or kill you outright.” Her voice cracked. “I couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk you.”
Wyatt reached across the console. Took her hand. Let the warmth of her skin anchor him.
“I’m not easy to kill.” The words were nearly a growl. “And I’m not going anywhere. Derren can try whatever he wants. It won’t change this.”
“This.” She echoed the word. “What is this, exactly?”
“I don’t know.” Honesty. He owed her that. His thumb traced circles on her palm. “You matter. Whatever that means, wherever it leads. You matter.”
She didn’t respond with words.
She leaned across the console, her free hand finding his jaw, and pressed her lips to his cheek. Soft. Deliberate. A promise rather than a demand.
“Thank you.” She pulled back, and her smile was the most genuine thing he’d seen from her since they’d met. “For the strategic meeting. And for not kissing me, even though I could see how much you wanted to.”
“You’re welcome.” His voice was steadier than it had any right to be. “And for the record, it took considerable restraint.”
“I know.” She opened her door, the dome light flooding the car. “Goodnight, Wyatt.”
“Goodnight, Narla.”
He watched her walk to her cottage, waited until she was inside with the door locked and the wards sealed, then sat in her driveway for a long moment.
His panther was pacing. Agitated. Wanting more.
But underneath the frustration was more. A quieter emotion.
Satisfaction.
They were building trust. Brick by careful brick. Not rushing, not forcing, not letting the intensity of the mate bond overwhelm the fragile foundation of trust between them.
Wyatt started the engine and headed home, the memory of her lips on his cheek burning brighter than any candle flame.
TWENTY
NARLA
It had only been seventy-two hours since Wyatt’s fingers had laced through hers while the sunset painted the water in shades she’d never be able to name. But it felt like weeks. Since she’d told him about Niccolas—the real Niccolas, not the sanitized version she offered everyone else. Since he’d shared pieces of himself that she suspected he’d never given anyone.
She’d started believing, against every instinct screaming at her to run, that maybe she didn’t have to carry this burden by herself.
Derren Bale had become Haven Shores’s newest favorite person.
Narla stood behind the counter at Spellbound Lights, arranging candles she’d already arranged twice, watching through the front window as Derren emerged from the bakery across the street with a box of pastries and a smile that made her stomach turn to ice.
He’s everywhere.
The thought circled her mind for the hundredth time that morning. At Wolf Moon Brewery, buying rounds. At the Siren’s Rest, charming Avine with stories about his artifact collection.At the town council meeting yesterday, offering his expertise on magical preservation.
Building trust. Gathering leverage. Spinning a web with Haven Shores at its center.
