Chapter 8
EIGHT
NARLA
Junie arrived first, because, of course, she did.
The chaos witch burst through Avine’s door twenty minutes later, arms loaded with a coffee carrier, a bag that clinked with glass bottles, and enough nervous energy to power the entire bed-and-breakfast. Her red hair was pulled into a haphazard ponytail, her clothes looked like she’d grabbed whatever was closest, and her eyes were bright with the particular intensity that meant she was already mentally cataloguing potential disasters.
“Okay, I brought coffee, two different calming draughts, an anti-hex potion in case someone cursed you, and—” She stopped mid-sentence, taking in Narla’s disheveled appearance. “Holy shit. You look terrible.”
“Thank you, Junie.”
“I mean that with love.” Junie dumped her supplies on Avine’s coffee table and dropped onto the sofa beside Narla.
“Seriously, though, what happened? The group chat made it sound like an emergency, and I’ve been trying to figure out what could possibly make unflappable Narla Wright show up at Avine’s asking for wine. ”
“She hasn’t told me yet.” Avine poured Junie a glass of wine. “She wanted to wait for everyone.”
“That’s ominous.” Junie took the wine because Junie never turned down wine. “Is this about the candles? Because Leo mentioned reports this morning about flames showing visions, and I tested one of the ones I bought at the festival, and—”
“You saw Leo.” Narla’s voice held no inflection.
“Clear as day. His stupid handsome face right there in the fire.” Junie’s expression softened slightly. “It’s the surge, right? It altered your magic?”
Before Narla could answer, the door opened again.
Cassia swept in with storm energy crackling around her—literally crackling, tiny sparks of electricity dancing through her dark hair. She looked like she’d been awake for hours, probably dealing with the same candle chaos that had been consuming Narla’s phone since yesterday.
“I already talked to Wyatt.” Cassia’s gaze found Narla’s immediately. “He was at the station when I brought him one of your candles. Showed him exactly what they do.”
Narla’s heart stuttered. “What did he say?”
“Not much. He went silent when I asked if you’d tested one yourself.” Cassia settled into an armchair, accepting the wine Avine pressed into her hands. “Did he drive to your cottage?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t let him in.”
Junie’s head swiveled between them. “Wait, Wyatt went to your cottage? The same Wyatt Gentry who’s been watching you like you’re a case to be solved? The one who shows up at every town event like he can’t decide whether to arrest you or—”
“Junie.” Avine’s voice carried a quiet warning.
“What? Everyone’s noticed! Sue Tidewell has been running a betting pool for years about when they’d finally—”
“A betting pool?” Narla’s voice cracked.
“Oh, yeah. Half the town is in on it. Current odds are three to one that resolution happens before the winter solstice, but there’s a side bet about whether it’ll be a public confrontation or a private—” Junie caught the look on Narla’s face and stopped. “You didn’t know about the betting pool.”
“No.”
“Well.” Junie took a large gulp of wine. “Surprise?”
Avine’s laptop chimed with an incoming video call.
She set it on the coffee table and accepted, and suddenly Dahlia Moon’s face filled the screen—warm brown skin, kind eyes, a kitchen that was clearly Parisian in the background.
Cal appeared briefly behind her, pressing a kiss to her hair before disappearing off-screen.
“I’m here. What’s happening?” Dahlia leaned closer to her camera, concern evident in every line of her face. “Narla, honey, you look exhausted.”
“That’s what I said,” Junie muttered.
Four faces turned toward Narla. Expectant. Worried. Ready to help with whatever crisis had driven her to emergency wine.
She took a breath.
“I had sex with Wyatt Gentry.”
The silence lasted approximately two seconds.
Then Junie spat out her wine.
Cassia’s hair erupted with actual electricity, sparks dancing from strand to strand like a personal lightning storm.
Dahlia’s video call froze for three full seconds, then unfroze with her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide enough to see the whites all around.
Avine’s composure—legendary, unshakeable—cracked to shocked delight. Her wine glass tilted dangerously before she caught it.
“You—” Junie was coughing, wine dribbling down her chin. “You what?”
“At the festival.” Narla stared into her glass because looking at any of them felt impossible. “The surge hit, and my candles went crazy, and he grabbed me, and—” She swallowed. “We barely made it to the storage tent.”
“The storage tent.” Cassia’s voice had gone strangled. “Behind your booth. At the festival.”
“I know.”
“Where hundreds of people were—”
“I know.”
“Oh my god.” Junie had given up on her wine entirely, setting the glass down with shaking hands. “Oh my god. This is—Sue is going to be insufferable. She’s been predicting this since the day you showed up in Haven Shores.”
“She makes comments every time she sees me.” Narla’s laugh came out broken. “Something about ‘candles and their revelations’ and ‘predators who forget they’re prey.’”
“That cryptic old bat.” Junie shook her head in reluctant admiration. “She knew. She never misses.”
“Narla. Look at me.” Dahlia’s voice came through the laptop, gentle but firm.
Narla forced herself to meet the screen. Dahlia’s expression had shifted from shock to tenderness—concern, understanding, the particular empathy of someone who’d spent her life taking care of others.
“Was it… okay? Did he hurt you? Because if he pressured you or took advantage of the surge—”
“No.” The word came out fast. Certain. “It wasn’t—he didn’t—” Narla pressed her palms against her eyes again. “It was mutual. Completely mutual. We both lost control. The surge just…”
“Broke down all that denial?” Cassia’s voice was knowing. “Trust me, I understand that particular feeling.”
The storm witch met Narla’s gaze, and understanding passed between them. Recognition. Shared experience. Cassia had spent months hiding who she really was, controlling her magic, denying her own power. She knew what it felt like to have those walls crumble.
“After,” Narla continued, forcing the words out, “we both agreed it was a mistake. Surge interference. That it would never happen again.”
“But?” Avine prompted quietly.
“But I went home and lit a candle to calm myself down. And the flame showed me his face.”
The room went motionless.
“Wyatt.” Cassia said it like a statement, not a question.
“Clear as a photograph. Unmistakable.” Narla’s voice shook. “Every candle I’ve touched since then shows the same thing. His face. His eyes. And I know what it means. I know what the candles are showing people now.”
“Fated mates.” Junie had gone pale. “Your candles show people their fated mates.”
“Yes.”
“And Wyatt Gentry is—”
“Yes.” Narla set her wine glass down because her hands were shaking too badly to hold it.
“The panther shifter who’s been watching me with suspicious eyes since the day I arrived.
The sheriff who’s been digging into my background, looking for inconsistencies, trying to figure out what I’m hiding. He’s my fated mate.”
“And that’s a problem because…” Avine’s question was gentle.
The pressure, the expectation, the knowledge that she was going to have to share something she’d kept buried.
Not everything. She couldn’t tell them everything. But maybe—maybe she could tell them enough.
“Because there’s someone from my past.” The words felt like glass in her throat. “Someone dangerous. Someone who’s been watching me. And if he finds out I have a mate—if he finds out there’s someone I care about—”
She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Narla.” Dahlia’s voice came through the laptop, soft but urgent. “What are you saying?”
“My husband didn’t die in an accident.” Six years of silence, cracking open. “Niccolas was murdered. By someone who threatened to do the same to anyone I tried to tell. Anyone who got too close. Anyone I cared about.”
The silence that followed was different from before. Heavier. Darker.
Arms wrapped around her. Avine on one side, Junie on the other, pulling her into an embrace that smelled like lavender and chaos magic and the unfamiliar sensation of safety.
“You’ve been carrying this alone.” Avine’s voice was thick.
“I couldn’t risk it.” Narla pressed her face into the embrace. “Couldn’t risk anyone else.”
“Stop.” Junie’s voice was fierce. “You didn’t kill him. Some monster did, and you’ve been surviving the best way you knew how.”
A laugh bubbled up in Narla’s chest, wet and broken but real. “It’s armor. All of it. The calm, the distance—”
“I know.” Junie’s expression softened. “But you don’t need armor with us.”
The tears came again—not the sharp, suffocating grief of before, but clean release. The weight lifting, redistributing, spreading across shoulders that were willing to share it.
“So,” Avine reached for the wine bottle and refilled everyone’s glasses, “here’s what’s going to happen.
You’re going to drink this wine, eat whatever pastries I can scrounge from the kitchen, and tell us exactly what you need.
Not what you think we can handle. Not what you’ve decided is safe to share. What you need.”
“And then,” Junie added, “we’re going to figure out how to keep you safe without sacrificing your shot at happiness with a hot panther shifter. Because honestly? You deserve good things after all that fear.”
“Junie.”
“What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”
Cassia snorted. Dahlia bit her lip on a smile. Even Avine’s composure cracked into reluctant amusement.
And Narla—for the first time in years—discovered what might have been hope.