“Good morning to you too.”
“Late night at the festival?” Her tone was casual, but her nostrils flared. Wolves and their damn sense of smell. “Heard there was some magical incident near the candle booth. Flames going crazy, that sort of thing.”
Wyatt didn’t break stride. “Surge energy. Nothing serious.”
“Uh-huh.” Rena’s gaze followed him across the bullpen. “You know, people have been talking. About the candles. Apparently they’re doing strange effects now. Showing?—”
“I have reports to file.” He cut her off, his tone making it clear the conversation was over.
His office waited at the back of the station, glass walls offering the illusion of transparency while letting him observe everything. He’d fought for this office when he made sheriff. The previous occupant had preferred solid walls, privacy. Wyatt preferred sight lines.
He dropped into his chair, turned on his computer, and stared at the blank screen.
His desk was immaculate. Files in precise stacks, a single coffee mug positioned exactly where it belonged, no personal items to distract or reveal. The only anomaly was the hidden drawer on the right side. The one he wasn’t going to open.
He opened it anyway.
Six years of notes stared back at him. Observation logs. Background research. Questions he couldn’t answer.
Narla Wright arrived in Haven Shores on March 15th. Previous residence: Mountain View, CO. Claimed widowhood—husband Niccolas Chen, bear shifter, died in house fire. No children. No close family in the area.
He flipped through the pages.
April 3rd: Subject visited the library. Checked out books on protective wards and concealment magic. Stayed for three hours.
June 17th: Subject declined invitation to Junie Reed’s birthday party. Claimed prior commitment. No evidence of alternate plans.
September 22nd: Subject’s candles exhibited unusual flame behavior during autumn equinox. Colors unidentifiable. Magic appears to be fluctuating.
Page after page after page. Documentation he’d told himself was professional vigilance. Month after month, tracking a woman he’d claimed to suspect while his panther howled for her with every breath.
What kind of lawman kept files like this on an innocent resident?
What kind of man watched a woman like this and told himself it wasn’t obsession?
Wyatt slammed the drawer shut.
His hands shook. His panther paced. And somewhere across town, Narla Wright was probably waking up and trying to forget last night ever happened.
The same way he was trying to forget.
The same way neither of them would succeed.
Two hours into his shift,his computer glitched.
The screen flickered, pixelated, went dark for three full seconds before rebooting. Wyatt stared at it with grim recognition. This was the fourth computer he’d gone through since Narla arrived in Haven Shores. The first one had died the day they met. The second had lasted eight months before an “unexplained electrical surge” fried the motherboard. The third had developed a persistent glitch that only manifested when she walked past the station.
He’d told himself it was coincidence.
He’d told himself a lot of things.
The door to his office banged open without warning.
Cassia Gale stood in the doorway—storm witch, newly mated to Aero, and currently looking like she’d witnessed something that had rattled her unshakeable composure. Her dark hair crackled with residual electricity, and her eyes were too wide, too bright.
In her hands, she held one of Narla’s candles.
Wyatt’s panther went rigid.
