Candlelit Hex (Haven Shores #5)

Chapter 1

ONE

NARLA

The candles were misbehaving again.

Narla watched the flame on her display table flicker from amber to violet, a color that had no business existing in honest fire. She’d poured these particular candles three days ago, infused them with the usual intentions—peace, clarity, gentle protection—but lately, her magic had other ideas.

The Autumn Equinox Festival swirled around her booth in a chaos of fairy lights and sugar-spun laughter.

Haven Shores knew how to celebrate the turning seasons, and the central park had transformed into a fever dream—vendor tents in harvest gold and deep burgundy, strings of enchanted lanterns bobbing overhead, the distant thump of drums from the main stage where a local band played with more bass than rhythm.

The air smelled of Dahlia’s pastries drifting from the Honey & Hex table two rows over, of mulled wine and woodsmoke and the particular electricity that came with liminal nights.

Children ran past her booth shrieking, trailing streams of spelled ribbon that changed color with their moods.

A group of wolves congregated near the beer tent, their laughter carrying on the breeze.

Somewhere behind her, Junie’s voice rose in an animated argument about potion ingredients.

Normal festival chaos. Nothing that should make Narla’s heart race.

Magic ran strongest at the equinox. Everyone knew that.

What Narla knew, what she felt crawling beneath her skin and pressing against her ribs with every breath, was that the surge had been building for weeks.

Not merely the general magical amplification affecting all of Haven Shores, but a force distinctly her own.

Personal. Her power strained against barriers she’d spent half a decade constructing, and tonight, those barriers felt thin as parchment.

She adjusted a row of harvest-scented pillars, checking that the price tags were straight. The simple, mundane task helped. It usually did.

You’re fine. You’re in control. Nothing is going to happen.

The violet flame stretched higher, mocking her.

Overhead, Ember circled in tight, agitated loops. Her familiar hadn’t settled on his perch since sundown. The small owl’s feathers shifted between brown and gray in the festival lights, and every few minutes, he’d swoop low enough to fix her with a look that clearly said, Danger approaches.

“I know,” she murmured, not caring if passersby thought she was talking to herself. “I feel it too.”

Ember’s response was a sharp cry that made a nearby tourist jump. The owl banked hard and resumed his circling, feathers ruffled with agitation.

Thirty-five years. He’d been with her that long, since he’d flown through her childhood bedroom window and refused to leave. He knew her moods, her fears, her secrets. He knew everything she’d buried and everything she was still running from.

Tonight, he knew more than she did. And that terrified her.

A young wolf couple approached her table, pulling her back.

The woman had bright red hair and a nervous smile, already reaching for an autumn spice candle while her mate’s attention snagged on the violet-tinged flames.

He was newly shifted, Narla guessed—there was still that awkward awareness in how he held his body, that careful tension of a predator learning to pretend he wasn’t dangerous.

“These are so beautiful.” The woman turned the candle in her hands. “Do they actually have magic in them, or is that marketing?”

Narla smiled—the serene, competent smile she’d perfected over years of practice. “Subtle enchantments. Nothing flashy. This one promotes peaceful sleep. That one—” She gestured to a deep green pillar. “—helps with focus and clarity.”

“And the weird color?” The man nodded toward the violet flame.

“Festival energy. The equinox affects all magic.” The lie came easily. Too easily. “It’s completely harmless.”

The woman’s scent registered in Narla’s awareness—happiness, bright and lemony. New love, sticky-sweet. And underneath, a thread of anxiety that probably had nothing to do with candles and everything to do with integration into a new pack.

Ordinary customers with ordinary concerns. Nothing that should send her hands trembling.

She wrapped their purchase in tissue paper while the violet flame danced higher. Neither of them noticed. People rarely did—they saw what they expected to see, and no one expected Narla Wright’s candles to burn in impossible colors.

The couple wandered away, already leaning into each other, already forgetting the strange widow with the strange fire. Narla’s hands trembled as she set down the cash box.

Steady. Breathe.

She’d survived this long by hiding. By wearing calm over terror.

By watching and waiting and never, not once, letting the facade slip in public.

The morning panic attacks happened behind locked doors.

The nightmares stayed in her bedroom. The evidence of what Derren really was stayed in her cellar, buried and waiting.

But the surge didn’t care about her control. It pressed against her defenses anyway, relentless as the tide, and somewhere deep in her chest, the foundations were starting to crack.

Her wedding ring—Niccolas’s ring, the one she’d worn for fifteen years—hung warm against her sternum on its chain. She touched it without thinking. An old comfort. An old grief.

I’m sorry. I’m trying. I don’t know what’s happening to me.

“Ms. Wright.”

That voice. Low and controlled, with an edge of gravel that scraped down her spine and settled somewhere inappropriate.

Narla’s entire body went still.

Sheriff Wyatt Gentry stood at the edge of her booth, badge catching the lantern light, uniform stretched across shoulders that had no business being that broad.

Dark skin. A jaw set in permanent tension, clenched against emotions he refused to acknowledge.

Those amber eyes that had been watching her—tracking her, studying her—since the day she’d arrived in Haven Shores.

Her heart stuttered. Her magic surged toward him, and she had to clamp down hard to stop every candle on the table from flaring.

No. Not him. Not now.

Working security at a festival full of happy supernaturals probably wasn’t his idea of a good time. Wyatt didn’t do happy. He did suspicious. He did controlled.

She should not find that attractive. She absolutely shouldn’t.

“Sheriff.” She kept her voice even. Pleasantly neutral. The same tone she’d used in every clipped, professional exchange they’d had—even as lightning arced between them with one glance. “Working security tonight?”

“Making rounds.” His gaze swept her booth, cataloguing everything—the candle arrangements, the cash box, the slight tremor in her fingers before she hid them behind the display table.

Nothing escaped him. It never did. “We had a report of a disturbance near your cottage earlier this evening. Wanted to give you a heads up.”

“A disturbance?”

“Probably nothing. Kids, most likely. This time of year, they test the wards around isolated properties.” His focus returned to her face, and Narla felt it land with physical force. “You’ll let me know if you see anything unusual.”

Not a question. Never a question with Wyatt Gentry. He issued statements and expected the world to fall in line.

“Of course.” She forced a smile. Felt it crack at the edges. “Happy to assist local law enforcement.”

His jaw tightened. A flicker in those eyes—gold bleeding out from his pupils for just an instant before he wrestled it back to human amber.

Narla knew what that meant. She’d seen it a hundred times over the years. His panther, surging toward her, held back only by iron will. The same iron will she used to hold herself motionless when every instinct screamed to close the distance between them.

The space between them crackled with static. Electricity prickled along her skin. Her candles flickered, flames leaning toward him.

“Your candles.” He nodded toward the display. “They’ve been acting strange lately. Burning in colors I’ve never seen.”

“The surge affects all magic.” She kept her hands steady through sheer force of will. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

“I’m not concerned.” That flat, measuring stare. “I’m observant.”

You’re observant when it comes to me. Watching. Digging.

She knew he suspected her. Had known it since her first week in Haven Shores, when she’d caught him reviewing her registration paperwork for the third time. He’d never found anything—she’d been too careful, too thorough—but Wyatt Gentry wasn’t the type to let go of a hunch.

Under other circumstances, she might have admired that stubbornness.

Ember swooped low between them, breaking the tension with a pointed screech. The owl landed on Narla’s shoulder, puffed his feathers at Wyatt, and delivered what could only be described as a threatening glare.

Wyatt’s expression didn’t change, but a flicker crossed his gaze. Amusement, maybe. Or challenge.

“Your familiar doesn’t like me.”

“Ember doesn’t like anyone.” Not entirely true. Ember didn’t like anyone who got too close. The owl had delivered dead mice to Junie’s doorstep for two weeks straight after the chaos witch had hugged Narla too enthusiastically at a party. “Was there anything else, Sheriff?”

He studied her for a beat. Two. Narla held his gaze because looking away would be weakness, and she couldn’t afford weakness. Not with him. Not when the careful distance between them felt paper-thin and ready to ignite.

“No.” He turned to leave, then paused. Over his shoulder: “Be careful tonight, Ms. Wright. Equinox magic is unpredictable.”

He walked away. Narla watched him go—the controlled grace of a predator pretending to be civilized, all that coiled power wrapped in a sheriff’s uniform—and her hands finally shook.

The violet flame on her table flared two feet high before she managed to tamp it down.

Ember made a small sound against her ear. Disapproving. Knowing.

“Don’t start,” she muttered. “I know.”

But knowing and controlling were two very different things.