“Good.” His thumb traced her cheekbone. “You okay?”
“Better than okay.” And it was true. The weight she’d carried for so long had finally lifted. Speaking the truth hadn’t destroyed her—it had set her free. “I need to see my parents.”
His lips brushed her forehead. “I’m coming with you.”
She didn’t argue.
FORTY-SIX
NARLA
The drive to Sunset Harbor took three hours.
Wyatt drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Narla’s thigh. She watched the coastline blur past and let herself think about what she was going to say.
Her parents didn’t know about Derren. Didn’t know Clara had been murdered. For all those years, Narla had maintained the lie that her sister died in a tragic accident—partly because Derren’s threats had demanded silence, partly because she couldn’t bear to destroy the peace her aging parents had found.
But Derren was dead now. And some truths needed to be spoken, even if they came tempered with mercy.
“You don’t have to tell them everything.” Wyatt’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Some details can stay buried.”
“I know.” She covered his hand with hers. “But they deserve to understand why I’ve been so distant. Why I stopped coming as often. Why I—” Her throat tightened. “Why I couldn’t let them comfort me when I needed it most.”
“They love you. Whatever you tell them, that won’t change.”
“I hope so.”
Sunset Harbor Assisted Living appeared through the coastal fog—weathered cedar buildings, manicured gardens, the oceanstretching gray and endless beyond. The wards Narla had woven over the years still hummed beneath the surface, protective magic layered into every inch of the property.
Those wards had done what she’d built them to do—blocked his ability to harm her parents directly through magic, even when he’d been inside the building wearing a visitor’s badge and a smile. He could walk the halls. He couldn’t reach them through her protections.
Her magic was stronger than her fear. She hadn’t understood that until now.
“Ready?” Wyatt parked.
“No.” She squeezed his hand. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
Rose Wright satin the facility’s sunroom, a book open on her lap, afternoon light streaming through windows that overlooked the garden. At seventy-eight, she moved slowly—mobility issues that had forced the transition from independent living—but her mind remained razor-sharp.
She looked up when Narla entered. Her expression shifted through surprise, then joy, then careful assessment as she noted the man at her daughter’s side.
“You brought someone.” Not a question.
“Mom, this is Wyatt Gentry.” Narla guided him forward. “He’s?—”
“Her partner.” Wyatt’s voice carried quiet certainty. “I’m in love with your daughter, Mrs. Wright.”
Rose’s eyebrows climbed. Her gaze swept over him—the height, the controlled stillness, the way he positioned himself at Narla’s shoulder like a guardian.
“Shifter?”
“Panther.”
“Hmm.” A loaded silence. “You treat her well?”
“I try.” Something vulnerable flickered across his face. “She’s everything to me.”
Rose studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded once, apparently satisfied with whatever she’d found.
