Outside the office windows, the afternoon was fading toward evening. Somewhere in Haven Shores, Derren was still wearing his mask, still gathering leverage, still planning whatever horror he’d come here to execute.
But for the first time since Niccolas died, Narla felt less like prey and more like someone building toward a fight.
She felt like the tide that was about to turn.
TWENTY-TWO
NARLA
They worked until well past sunset.
Wyatt made calls while Narla sat in the chair across from his desk, wrapped in the spare jacket he’d pulled from a closet without comment. It smelled like him—cedar and darkness, musk and predator—and she probably shouldn’t have found that as comforting as she did.
He worked his way through the network, voice steady and precise. Theo confirmed the pack was already running tighter patrols. Leo had contacts for Derren’s cover identity. Beck had personally been watching the bar and businesses, logging every movement.
Haven Shores was closing ranks around her.
The realization hit Narla like a wave she hadn’t seen coming. For years, she’d convinced herself that hiding was the only option. That speaking up meant death for everyone she cared about. That Derren’s power was absolute, and her only hope was to make herself small enough that he’d forget she existed.
But these people—this community—they didn’t look at Derren and see an impossible threat.
They looked at him and saw a problem to be solved.
“You’re staring.”
Wyatt’s voice pulled her back. He was leaning against his desk, arms crossed, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.
“Just thinking.” She tugged his jacket tighter around her shoulders. “Years I’ve been running. And in one afternoon, you’ve built half an army.”
He pushed off the desk, crossed to her chair, and crouched so they were eye to eye. “You’ve been one of us since the day you arrived. The fact that you were concealing secrets doesn’t change that. It just means we have more to protect you from.”
Her throat tightened with emotion.
“Wyatt—”
“Come home with me.”
The words hung between them. His gaze was steady, unblinking, utterly serious.
“Not like that.” A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “I have a spare room. And my cabin is more defensible than your cottage. Just until we deal with Derren.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know.” He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Come home with me anyway.”
It was theanywaythat undid her.
Not because he thought she was weak. Not because he was trying to control the situation. But because he wanted her close, and he wasn’t pretending otherwise.
“Okay.” The word came out barely above a whisper. “But I need to get some things from my cottage first. And Ember?—”
“Bring the owl.” His hand lingered at her temple, warm against her skin. “I’ve got plenty of perches.”
She laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of her. “He’ll leave dead mice on your pillow.”
“I’ve had worse houseguests.”
They drove to her cottage in his truck, headlights cutting through the darkness. Ember was waiting on the porch when they arrived, feathers puffed in agitation, clearly offended at being left alone during such obvious drama.
