Page 72 of Impawssible Magic

Veren slides closer, fox-grin firmly in place. “Well, well. The murder cat found his witch. I believe Rhodes owes me twenty gold pieces.”

“You were betting on this?” Leire’s voice is incredulous.

“Darling, everyone was betting on this.” Veren waves a hand. “The only question was timing. I had ‘before the new moon.’ Rhodes was holding out for ‘never.’ Torin went with ‘eventually, after significant emotional trauma.’”

“I said after moderate emotional trauma,” Torin corrects. “There’s a distinction.”

Rhodes appears, looking deeply uncomfortable with the entire conversation. “Can we please focus on the fact that we just fought off an organized attack by an ancient conspiracy? There are protocols⁠—”

“There are protocols about shifter-witch matings?” Leire asks.

“There are protocols about everything.” Rhodes’s jaw tightens. “Which is why this entire situation is irregular.”

“Irregular is one word for it.” Caius’s voice cuts through the chatter. The alpha wolf surveys the scene with steel-gray eyes, his expression unreadable. “Unprecedented is another.”

Silence falls.

Caius looks at me. At Leire. At the bodies scattered around us, the blood on my face, the protective way I’m still holding her against my chest.

“Report to the Den tomorrow. Both of you. There will be questions.” His gaze softens, just barely. “But tonight... tonight, you’ve earned some peace.”

They want reports. Debriefings. Official statements about what happened and why and how.

We walk back to town through the golden mist. Leire’s hand in mine, her steps steady despite the exhaustion I see dragging at her. The Network falls in around us—an escort neither of us asked for but neither of us objects to. Protection. Pack behavior. The instinct to circle wounded members and keep threats at bay.

I should care that they’re seeing this. Seeing us.

I don’t care.

Let them see. Let them talk. Let the whole damn town know.

She’s my witch. My mate. And I’m done hiding it.

Whisperwind Charms is dark when we reach it.

The wards are shattered—remnants of the earlier battle that no one’s had time to repair. Glass and crystals litter the floor inside, visible through the broken windows. The door hangs crooked on its hinges.

Leire stops on the threshold. I feel the shudder that runs through her—grief and rage and bone-deep exhaustion woven into a single wave.

“My shop.” Her voice is small. “They destroyed my shop.”

“We’ll rebuild it.”

“All my crystals. My workbench. The displays I spent weeks⁠—”

“We’ll rebuild it.” I squeeze her hand. “All of it. Better than before.”

She turns to look at me. Eyes searching mine in the dim light. “We?”

“Yes.”

Her laugh is exhausted, brittle. “I don’t know what happens next, or how to process any of this, or why you’re still standing here when you could⁠—”

I kiss her.

Not gentle. Not tentative. I kiss her the way I’ve wanted to for weeks—deep and claiming and thorough enough to leave no doubt about what I feel. She gasps against my mouth, her free hand fisting in my hair, and then she’s kissing me back with the same desperate intensity.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.