Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
WYATT
Wyatt’s world had reoriented around a single axis.
Protect Narla Wright.
Three days of running background checks, pulling financial records, and reaching out to contacts at the Continental Council. Three days of building a case against a monster whose true nature remained frustratingly unclear.
And all that time keeping his distance from her cottage, even though his panther howled for it.
He’d held her while she cried. Had felt her shake apart in his arms, years of suppressed terror finally breaking free.
And when she’d fallen asleep on her couch from sheer exhaustion, he’d covered her with a blanket, left a note on her kitchen counter, and driven home with his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
Because if he’d stayed—if he’d been there when she woke up, warm and vulnerable and looking at him with those deep brown eyes—he wouldn’t have been able to keep his hands to himself.
And she didn’t need that. Not now. Not when she was still processing revelations that had rewritten everything she thought she knew about her life.
So he kept his distance. Worked the case. Pretended he wasn’t tracking her presence across town every waking moment.
His panther was not impressed with this strategy.
She needs us. Find her.
“She needs space.” Wyatt muttered it to the empty office, earning a curious look from Rena through the glass walls. “She needs time to process.”
She needs her mate.
He shoved the thought down and returned his attention to his computer screen.
Derren Bale’s background was a masterpiece of careful construction. Respectable. Consistent. The kind of history that held up under scrutiny because it had been designed to do just that.
Birth records in a small town that had burned down fifteen years ago, destroying all original documents.
Education credentials from a university that had since closed.
Professional licenses that traced back to institutions with minimal record-keeping.
Every thread Wyatt pulled led to another dead end, another convenient gap, another wall of plausible deniability.
Five centuries of evasion—that much was clear from his documentation trail. Five centuries of learning how to hide.
Wyatt’s jaw tightened.
The thing that called itself Derren Bale had been building false identities since before Haven Shores existed.
Since before most of the supernatural community’s modern record-keeping systems had been established.
It had killed Narla’s husband, her sister, and probably dozens of others whose disappearances had been written off as accidents or unexplained.
His phone buzzed. A text from Theo:
Patrols increased in town. Wolves are watching. He hasn’t done anything suspicious yet.
Yet. The word sat heavy in Wyatt’s chest.
Derren was waiting. Planning. Gathering information the same way Wyatt was, except Derren had centuries of experience and a glamour that made direct surveillance nearly impossible. The wolves could watch, but they couldn’t see through the mask. None of them could.
Except maybe Narla’s candles.
Wyatt leaned back in his chair, turning that thought over. Derren had mentioned the candles specifically. Had called them “dangerous” and “interesting.” If the revelation magic could show people their fated mates, what else might it expose?
What might it show if pointed at a creature who’d been hiding his true nature for five centuries?
He needed more information. Needed to understand exactly what Narla’s magic could do—and couldn’t. Needed to sit down with her, review evidence, establish parameters for the investigation.
His panther perked up with sudden interest.
Yes. See her. Be near her.
Wyatt reached for his phone before he could talk himself out of it.
She met him at the door of her cottage with suspicious eyes and flour on her cheek.
“You want to do what?”
Wyatt stood on her porch, hands shoved in his pockets, feeling approximately as awkward as he’d felt at seventeen when his first girlfriend had dumped him behind the foster home. “A strategic meeting. To review evidence and establish parameters for the investigation.”
“A strategic meeting.” Her tone was desert-dry.
“We need to discuss your candle magic. What it can reveal, what its limitations are, whether it might be weaponized against Derren.” He cleared his throat. “Over dinner.”
“Over dinner.”
“At sunset.” His panther was practically preening. “There’s my cabin. Private, good sightlines on all approaches, and I can actually cook without burning it.”
Narla leaned against her doorframe, arms crossed, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She was wearing an oversized sweater and leggings, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, and she looked soft in a way that twisted his gut.
“Let me see if I understand.” Her voice had warmed, amusement bleeding through the suspicion. “You want me to come to your place at sunset to discuss investigation parameters. Over dinner.”
“Yes.”
“And this is purely professional.”
“Completely.”
“Wyatt.” She pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer. Close enough that he could catch the warm scent of her—candle smoke and herbs, the faint sweetness of whatever she’d been baking. “Are you trying to ask me on a date?”
His panther held its breath. Waiting.
“I’m trying to—” He stopped. Started again. “The investigation requires—”
“Wyatt.”
He met her gaze. Those deep brown eyes, seeing right through him, stripping away every professional excuse he’d constructed.
“Yes.” The admission scraped past his defenses. “I’m asking you on a date. I’m doing it badly, apparently, but yes.”
Her smile broke through fully, warm and unexpected and devastating. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“It was excruciating.”
She laughed—a real laugh, startled out of her—and the sound hit him somewhere deep. When was the last time he’d made anyone laugh? When was the last time he’d tried?
“Give me twenty minutes.” She was already stepping back into the cottage. “And for the record, Sheriff, your strategic framing needs work.”
“Noted.”
She closed the door, and Wyatt stood on her porch, heart hammering, feeling more off-balance than he had in decades.
His panther practically preened.
She said yes.
“She said yes.” He repeated it out loud, testing the reality of the words. “She actually said yes.”
Inside the cottage, Ember hooted. It sounded suspiciously like approval.