“Yeah.” Narla climbed into the bed that smelled faintly of cedar and laundry soap. “Maybe it’ll be different this time.”
Through the wall, she could hear Wyatt moving around the main room. His footsteps were nearly silent, predator-quiet, but she tracked them. Felt her breath ease at the knowledge that he was close.
TWENTY-THREE
WYATT
Derren Bale still walked free.
Wyatt stood at his office window, coffee gone cold in his hand, watching the morning crowd on Main Street. The Devourer was out there somewhere. Wearing his human mask. Smiling his human smile. Plotting whatever fresh hell he’d come here to unleash.
Patient.
The beast had been relentless since Narla told him the truth. Since she’d wept against his chest and handed him files that proved a centuries-old monster had been feeding on supernaturals while the world looked the other way.
Hunt. Kill. Protect.
Wyatt’s grip tightened on the mug until the ceramic creaked. He forced his fingers to relax. Forced his breathing to steady. He wasn’t about to lose it now.
But God, he wanted to.
His phone buzzed. A text from Beck:
Target leftlibraryat0847. Heading toward market district.
The wolves had been tracking Derren around the clock. Discreetly—the pack knew how to shadow prey without beingnoticed. Days of surveillance had established a pattern. Morning coffee at the bakery. Afternoon visits to local businesses, always charming, always helpful. Evening drinks at Wolf Moon Brewery, buying rounds and telling stories about his artifact collection.
Building trust. Establishing himself as a valuable member of the community.
Making himself indispensable before anyone realized what he really was.
Another text, this one from Aero:
Located relevant material in the archives. Council records from the purge. Need to discuss in person.
Wyatt’s gaze drifted to the window that faced Moonstone Lane. Three blocks away, just visible if you knew where to look, the amber facade of Spellbound Lights caught the morning sun.
He found himself planning patrol routes that passed her shop. Finding reasons to call and check in. Waking in the night to pad down the hallway and listen at her door, just to confirm she was still breathing.
She’d been in his spare room since that night at the station. Her scent layering over his in the cabin. Her candles appearing on surfaces. Her owl judging him from every available perch.
Days of not letting himself take it further than that kiss. Deliberate restraint. Because if he started, he wasn’t sure he could stop, and she needed time. Needed space to process everything that had changed.
His restraint was fraying at the edges.
Wyatt drained the cold coffee and set the mug aside. Time to check in with the network.
Aero’s officeat the Continental Council’s Haven Shores outpost was a study in organized chaos. Books stacked on every surface. Scrolls in languages that predated most civilizations. The dragon elder stood at a massive desk, ancient texts spread before him, his expression carved from granite.
“I found fragmentary accounts from survivors of the purge.” Aero didn’t look up as Wyatt entered. “Witches who helped in the hunts. They developed methods for detecting Devourers—imperfect, but functional.”
The folder he offered contained copies of handwritten pages, the ink faded, the language archaic. Wyatt scanned the contents while Aero translated.
“Truth magic is the key. Not conventional truth spells—those fail against the glamour. But magic that reveals essential truth. The kind that reveals fundamental nature, rather than what it pretends to be.”
Narla’s candles after the surge.
The realization landed with physical force. Her surge-altered magic showed people their fated mates—the essential truth of who belonged to them. If it could reveal that, what else might it expose?
