“They’re keeping her busy.” Wyatt held Derren’s gaze without blinking. Let the predator see the predator staring back. “Too busy for casual conversations.”
A flicker of annoyance, quickly masked, crossed Derren’s face. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to keep her from important work.” He stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. “We’ll chat another time, Narla. Do give my best to your parents. Such a lovely facility they’re in.”
The threat landed exactly where Derren intended it. Narla’s breath hitched. Her hand tightened against Wyatt’s spine.
Derren walked away, still smiling, and Wyatt had to lock every muscle in his body to keep from lunging after him.
“Wyatt.” Narla’s voice was barely audible. “Not here.”
He grabbed her basket. Took her arm. Steered her toward the checkout with a grip just short of bruising.
The drive back to his cabin passed in tense silence. His hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Her face turned toward the window, pale and drawn.
It wasn’t until they were inside, door locked, wards humming, that she finally spoke.
“He knows.” She wrapped her arms around herself, and he hated the way she made herself small. “About us. About you. He congratulated me on finding a ‘protector.’”
Something cold settled into Wyatt’s chest. His panther went very still—the stillness of a predator measuring the distance to a kill. “What else did he say?”
“That he’s enjoying Haven Shores. That the community has been so welcoming.” Her laugh was bitter. “That he hopes nothing happens to spoil his visit.”
Kill him. End this.
The panther’s demands crashed against his skull. He paced the length of the main room, unable to stay still, unable to think through the red haze of protective fury.
“We’re not ready.” The words tasted like ash. “We don’t know if the candles will work the way we need them to. If we move too soon?—”
“He’ll kill everyone I care about.” Narla’s voice cracked.
Wyatt stopped pacing. Turned to face her.
She stood in the center of his cabin—the space he’d never let anyone enter—and she looked like she was about to shatter.
“Hey.” He crossed to her. Caught her face in his hands, cradling her jaw with a gentleness that surprised him. “Look at me.”
Those dark eyes met his. Wet with unshed tears. Exhausted. Terrified.
And underneath it all, more. Something that made his breath hitch.
Want.
“He doesn’t get to win.” Wyatt’s voice dropped. “Not this time. Not ever again. Do you understand me?”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Watch me.”
He kissed her.
Soft at first. Barely a brush of lips. Giving her the chance to pull away, to say no, to choose differently than this.
She didn’t pull away.
Her hands came up to grip his wrists, holding him in place, and she kissed him back with a desperation that sent fire racing down his spine.
Yes. Finally.
He felt it then—her magic brushing against him, warm and insistent, the way it had at the festival but deliberate now. Chosen. Something in him went quiet at the touch.
