Wyatt hadn’t slept properly in days.
Days of heightened vigilance, of potions brewing in Junie’s shop, of Aero and Delos conferring about dragon fire and ancient weaknesses. The alpha network checked in daily—tracking Derren’s movements, strengthening wards, staying ready for whatever might come.
Beck’s wolves had swept the eastern boundary twice since the construct attack; the trail had gone cold, the things dissolved to nothing, but the tracks had numbered fourteen.
That was the worst part. The not knowing.
But Wyatt knew. And the waiting was slowly driving him insane.
Derren’s glamour made him untouchable—direct attacks would only feed his power.
So they waited. Watched. Stayed sharp.
And Wyatt tried to pretend that every moment of delay didn’t feel like gambling with Narla’s life.
He found her in his kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of his flannels over her tank top. She’d started leaving things at the cabin—a hairbrush, spare clothes, candles on every surface that made the space smell like her magic. His territory was becomingtheirs, and his panther rumbled with satisfaction every time he noticed a new addition.
She looked up as he entered, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea. The smile she gave him was soft, unguarded—the kind of expression she’d never shown him during their six years of careful distance.
“You’re brooding again.”
“I don’t brood.”
“You absolutely brood. You stand in doorways with your arms crossed and stare into the middle distance with that look on your face.” She set down the mug, crossed to him. “Talk to me.”
“Nothing to talk about.” His hands found her hips anyway, pulling her close. “Just thinking.”
“About Derren?”
“About you.” The admission slipped out before he could stop it. “About keeping you safe. About what happens if he decides to make a move.”
“Don’t.” Her finger pressed against his lips. “Don’t spiral into worst-case scenarios. We have wards. We have allies. We’ll handle whatever comes.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not.” Her hand moved to his chest, spread flat over his heart. “But I spent six years paralyzed by fear. Hiding. Waiting for the axe to fall. I’m done with that.”
“Come with me.” The words surprised even him. “There’s somewhere I want to show you.”
She tilted her head, curiosity flickering across her features. “Now? It’s almost midnight.”
“Best time for it.” He bent his head, brushed his mouth against her temple. “Trust me?”
Her answer was to set down her mug and slip her hand into his.
The driveto the harbor took fifteen minutes. Wyatt kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Narla’s thigh—a point of contact he hadn’t realized he needed until her warmth seeped through the denim.
She didn’t ask where they were going. She watched the town lights slide past, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the back of his hand. The silence between them was comfortable. Easy. The kind of quiet that came from two people who didn’t need words to fill space.
The lighthouse appeared around the final curve, its pale tower rising against the star-scattered sky. Decommissioned for decades, the structure looked abandoned from the road—no lights, no signs of habitation. Just weathered stone and salt-crusted windows and the faint groan of wind through ancient supports.
Narla straightened in her seat. “The old lighthouse?”
“My secret.” He pulled into the small lot at the base. “Seventeen years in Haven Shores, and I’ve never brought anyone here.”
She turned to look at him. In the dim light filtering through the windshield, her expression was soft with surprise. “Why me? Why tonight?”
The question deserved a real answer. Wyatt considered deflecting—years of habit, years of walls. But she’d given him her truths. Every ugly, painful piece of her past. The least he could do was return the favor.
