Ember clacked his beak together.
“And, yes, I’ll call Wyatt as soon as I’m done. I promise.”
The owl turned away, presenting her with his back. Maximum disapproval. He’d been giving her that look more often lately—ever since Wyatt had started showing up at the shop, ever since the surge-charged night at the festival. Ember approved of the panther. Approved of Narla finally letting someone in.
He didn’t approve of her running off to face potential danger alone. But some habits were harder to break than others. The coastal highway blurred past. Through the bond—that permanent warmth in her chest—she could feel the distant pulse of Wyatt still asleep in his cabin. Safe. She kept her eyes on the road and her foot on the accelerator.
Sunset Harbor Assisted Livingsat on a bluff overlooking the ocean—weathered cedar buildings, manicured gardens, the kind of peaceful retirement community that charged a fortune for the view. Narla had been sending money for years to ensure her parents had the best suite, the best care, the best chance of living out their remaining years in comfort.
She parked in the visitor lot as the morning sun crested the horizon. The facility was quiet at this hour—residents still at breakfast, staff doing their morning rounds. Perfect time for a quick visit. The wards hit her the moment she stepped outof the car. Her magic recognized them instantly—the protective spells she’d woven into gifts and decorations over the years, layered and reinforced until the entire building hummed with her intention.
Keep them safe. Keep them hidden. Keep the darkness away.
The wards were intact. Strong. Undisturbed. Relief flooded through her. Her father’s episode had been just that—an episode. The dementia playing tricks, dredging up old memories, old grief. Nothing sinister. Nothing to do with Derren. She should have trusted her own magic.
“Narla.”
The voice came from behind her. She recognized the voice. Had heard it in nightmares for years. Smooth and pleasant and utterly, completely wrong. Narla turned.
Derren Bale stood at the edge of the parking lot, perfectly positioned between her and the facility entrance. His glamour was flawless—kind eyes, warm smile, the face of a man you’d trust with anything. He wore a visitor’s badge clipped to his jacket.
“I had a feeling you’d come.” His voice carried that reasonable, concerned tone that made her skin crawl. “Your father mentioned Clara last night. I thought that might bring you running.”
Her blood turned to ice. “If you touched them?—”
“I haven’t. Yet.” Derren took a step closer. The morning light caught his face at an angle, and for just a second, his glamour flickered—danger bleeding through. Something with too many eyes. “They’re protected, Narla. I can feel the wards. Quite impressive work, actually. You’ve grown stronger over the years.”
“Stay away from them.”
“I would.” Another step. Another flicker. “I was content to leave them alone. Leave you alone. You were quiet. Useful. A living reminder that resistance is futile.”
“And now?”
“Now.” The word came out sharp. “Now you’re gathering an army. You told your little witch friends. You told that shifter who’s been sniffing around you. You told the dragons.” His voice dropped to ice. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Narla’s heart hammered against her ribs. Her magic surged, candle-flame power flickering at her fingertips, desperate to defend. But she didn’t run. Didn’t cower. Didn’t feel the familiar paralysis of terror that had ruled her for years. The dynamic had changed. The power between them had shifted, and she knew exactly what—exactly who—had caused it. Wyatt had looked at her like she was worth fighting for. Had told her he loved her like the words had been building for years. Had held her through the night and made her feel that she wasn’t alone.
She wasn’t going to let Derren take that from her.
“I’m done hiding.” The words came out steadier than she felt. “I’m done letting you control my life.”
“I see.” Derren studied her with something that might have been curiosity. “And your mate? Does he think he can protect you?”
“He doesn’t have to protect me. I can fight for myself.”
“Can you?”
The glamour dropped.
It happened in an instant—the pleasant face dissolving, the human proportions distorting, something ancient and wrong emerging from beneath the mask. Limbs too long, joints bending in directions they shouldn’t, skin that absorbed the morning light and left shadows that didn’t match the environment.
And his eyes. Sometimes too many. Sometimes too few. Looking at them made her brain want to reject what it was seeing.
“You’ve seen this before.” Derren’s voice had changed too—a harmonic underneath that made her want to kneel, to submit, to stop fighting. “The night your husband died. I showed you what I really was. And you’ve been afraid ever since.”
Narla forced herself to stay standing. To meet those wrong, shifting eyes.
“I’m still afraid.” Her voice cracked. “But I’m done running.”
