Years of carefully maintained distance, shattered in an instant.
The surge ripped through them both.
Narla gasped as heat and electricity blazed up her arm, through her chest, into every nerve ending she possessed. Her vision went white. Her magic spiraled completely out of control—the candles ignited across the festival grounds, a hundred feet in every direction, flames responding to whatever was exploding between them.
Wyatt’s grip tightened. His eyes had gone full panther—pure molten gold, no human amber left—and she heard his bones creak as his beast surged toward the surface.
“What—” His voice had dropped into a guttural rasp, barely human. “What the fuck is?—”
She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t think. Every defense, every barrier, every carefully constructed pretense she’d built was burning away, leaving nothing but raw, desperate want.
She wanted him. Had wanted him since the first day she saw him, since that lightning strike of recognition that she’d buried under fear and grief and the certainty that she couldn’t let anyone close. She’d denied it every single day, and the surge stripped that denial away and left only truth.
“Storage tent.” The words scraped past her lips. “Behind my booth. Now.”
A rational part of her screamed that this was insane, that she couldn’t do this, that she was putting herself in danger and him in danger and everything she’d worked so hard to protect?—
The surge didn’t care about rational.
Wyatt’s other hand fisted in the back of her dress. He hauled her toward the tent flap without a word, barely pausing to shove past the startled crowd, his grip on her wrist iron-tight and his breath coming in harsh pants.
The storage tent was twenty feet behind her booth—a cramped space filled with backup inventory, boxes of candles, spare tablecloths. Dark. Private enough.
He shoved through the canvas opening and pulled her in after him.
They collidedbefore the tent flap had finished falling.
His mouth found hers—rough, starving, years of denied want concentrated into a single explosive point of contact. Narla’s back hit a support beam, and she didn’t care, couldn’t care, because his hands were already tearing at her clothes and she was clawing at his uniform shirt and the surge was screaming through them both.
“Fuck.” The word came out half growled against her lips. “All this time?—”
“Stop talking.”
She yanked his shirt free of his pants, got her hands on bare skin, and felt him shudder. The muscles of his back flexed under her palms, hot and solid and real. His mouth dropped to her throat. His teeth scraped over her pulse point, and the hint of danger—of what he could do, of what his beast wanted to do—sent heat pooling between her thighs.
Her magic went haywire. The candles she’d stored in here ignited all at once—pillars and votives and tea lights bursting into violet and gold flames that threw wild shadows across thecanvas. The air filled with the scent of beeswax, herbs, ozone, storm-charge, and the sharp, unmistakable musk of a predator in heat.
She didn’t care. Let them burn.
Wyatt’s hands found the hem of her dress, shoved it up around her hips. His palm slid up her inner thigh, and Narla’s head fell back against the support beam, a sound escaping her that was half gasp, half plea.
“Look at me.”
She did. His eyes were still full panther, glowing gold in the firelight, and the predator staring out of them was hungry. Desperate. Just as wrecked as she was.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice barely sounded human. “Tell me to stop and I’ll?—”
“Don’t you dare stop.”
His control snapped.
He lifted her against the beam, her legs wrapping around his waist, her fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to bruise. His mouth claimed hers again—deeper, more demanding—and she felt his hands working at his belt, heard the metallic rasp of the zipper.
No preamble. No tenderness. This wasn’t about romance.
He pushed her underwear aside and thrust into her in one hard stroke.
Narla cried out—pleasure and pain and relief, years of emptiness suddenly, brutally filled. Her nails scored down his back. Her magic surged again, candles exploding around them, flames dancing in impossible colors.
