Wyatt didn’t pause. He gripped her hips hard enough to leave marks, a sound tearing out of him—low and guttural and not quite human—as he fucked her against the support beam with a rhythm that was punishing, relentless, driven by need neither of them could control.
“Shut up and move,” she breathed.
He snarled against her throat. His hips snapped harder, each thrust driving her up the beam, and Narla’s pleasure built in her core—hot and tight and demanding. She fisted one hand in his hair, yanked his head back, kissed him with teeth.
The surge pulsed around them. Through them. Every flame in a hundred-foot radius flared in sync with their heartbeats, and distantly she could hear shouts of confusion from the festival, could feel the magical ripple of a dozen candles igniting.
She didn’t care. Nothing existed outside this tent. Nothing mattered except his hands on her skin, his body inside hers, the desperate sounds he made against her throat.
His thumb found her clit. Pressed. Circled.
Narla shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her without warning—white-hot and devastating, blanking out her vision, blanking out her thoughts. Her magic exploded outward, and she felt Wyatt growl her name against her throat as he followed her over the edge.
Silence settled. Nothing but the sound of harsh breathing. The crackle of flames. The distant, oblivious sounds of the festival continuing beyond the canvas.
Then reality crashed back.
Wyatt’s grip on her loosened. His forehead dropped to her shoulder, his breath coming in ragged pants against her skin. His eyes were still panther-gold when he pulled back, but horror was fighting its way to the surface.
“That was?—”
“A mistake.” Narla untangled herself from him and yanked her dress down with shaking hands. Her legs barely held her when her feet hit the ground. “The surge?—”
“Obviously affected us both.” He was already refastening his belt, not looking at her. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“This can never?—”
“No.” His voice came out flat. Empty. “Never.”
They stood in the ruins of the storage tent—scattered boxes, overturned inventory, the melted remains of several hundred dollars’ worth of candles—and didn’t look at each other.
Narla’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Her body still pulsed with aftershocks. Her magic burned raw and exposed, stripped of all its careful defenses.
What have I done?
“I’ll—” Wyatt ran a hand over his face. His uniform shirt was half-untucked, scratches visible on the back of his neck where she’d marked him. “I’ll go first. You should wait a few minutes before?—”
“I know.”
He hesitated at the tent flap. His gaze found hers in the dying firelight.
A current passed between them. Recognition. Terror. Need that hadn’t diminished at all.
Then he was gone.
Narla stood alone among the wreckage of her candles and her composure, trembling from head to toe, and struggled to remember how to breathe.
THREE
NARLA
She made it through the rest of the festival on autopilot.
Narla cleaned up the storage tent. Made excuses about a magical mishap to the concerned festival organizers who came to check on the sudden flame eruptions across the grounds. Packed her surviving inventory with mechanical precision while her mind screamed in the background.
“I heard there was some magical surge near your booth. Are you okay?” Avine stopped by, eyes bright with concern.
