Chapter 20
TWENTY
NARLA
It had only been seventy-two hours since Wyatt’s fingers had laced through hers while the sunset painted the water in shades she’d never be able to name.
But it felt like weeks. Since she’d told him about Niccolas—the real Niccolas, not the sanitized version she offered everyone else.
Since he’d shared pieces of himself that she suspected he’d never given anyone.
She’d started believing, against every instinct screaming at her to run, that maybe she didn’t have to carry this burden by herself.
Derren Bale had become Haven Shores’s newest favorite person.
Narla stood behind the counter at Spellbound Lights, arranging candles she’d already arranged twice, watching through the front window as Derren emerged from the bakery across the street with a box of pastries and a smile that made her stomach turn to ice.
He’s everywhere.
The thought circled her mind for the hundredth time that morning. At Wolf Moon Brewery, buying rounds. At the Siren’s Rest, charming Avine with stories about his artifact collection. At the town council meeting yesterday, offering his expertise on magical preservation.
Building trust. Gathering leverage. Spinning a web with Haven Shores at its center.
Ember shifted on his perch behind the register, feathers ruffling in that particular way that meant he shared her unease. The owl had been watching her all morning, his dark gaze sharp with a focus that made her feel seen and measured in equal measure.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she murmured.
Ember blinked slowly. Judgment, clear and unfiltered.
“I know. I know, okay?”
She knew. She knew exactly what her familiar was thinking because it was the same thing she’d been thinking since Derren first walked into her shop. Since Wyatt had demanded answers and she’d given him the bare minimum—enough to explain her terror, not enough to arm him for the fight ahead.
He killed my husband.
True. But not the whole truth.
Derren disappeared around the corner, and Narla’s hands finally stopped shaking.
She pressed her palms flat against the counter, forcing her breathing to steady, her magic to settle.
The flames of every candle in the shop had been flickering erratically since she arrived this morning.
Responding to her fear. Threatening to reveal more than she wanted anyone to see.
The bell above the door chimed, and she looked up, already arranging her features into the carefully constructed calm she kept ready for exactly these moments.
Junie burst in, trailing chaos and the sharp scent of brewing potions.
“Good—you’re here.” She closed the door, glancing up and down the street.
“He’s too helpful.” Junie didn’t bother with further preamble.
She planted herself in front of the counter, hair escaping its chaotic bun, gaze bright with suspicion.
“No one’s that nice without an agenda. I’ve been watching him. ”
Narla’s pulse jumped. “Watching who?”
“Don’t.” Junie held up a hand. “Don’t give me the perfectly-composed routine. I invented deflection, remember? That Derren guy. He’s been buying drinks for the whole brewery, complimenting everyone’s magic, asking questions about the town’s history like he’s writing a dissertation.”
“Maybe he’s just friendly.”
“Maybe I’m a fire-breathing salamander.” Junie leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Leo says his lion doesn’t like him. Can’t pin down why—says the scent is off somehow. Slippery. And you should have seen how twitchy Beck got when Derren tried to shake his hand.”
The candles on the display table behind Junie flared, flames climbing higher than they should. Narla reined in her magic with an effort that left her temples aching.
“You need to tell me what’s going on.” Junie’s gaze cut through her. “I know you’re hiding secrets. Cassia knows. Avine’s been tiptoeing around you for days. Whatever secret you’re keeping, it’s going to explode if you don’t—”
“He’s the one who killed my husband.”
The words came out before Narla could stop them. Flat. Toneless. The voice of a woman who’d repeated this truth to herself so many times it had worn smooth.
Junie went motionless. Silence stretched between them. The candle flames had stopped flickering, as if even her magic was holding its breath.
“Fuck,” Junie whispered.
“I’ve been running since Niccolas died. Hiding. Pretending to be peaceful when I’m actually—” Narla’s voice cracked, and she hated herself for it. “I’m so tired, Junie. I’m so damn tired of being afraid.”
Junie rounded the counter and pulled her into a fierce hug. Narla stiffened for a heartbeat, two, then let herself sink into it. Let herself feel, for just a moment, what it was to have someone shoulder even a fraction of this weight.
The door chimed again. A tourist wandered in, phone raised, clearly more interested in Instagram content than actual candles.
Junie shot the woman a glare that could curdle milk. “We’re closed.”
“The sign says—”
“Closed.” Junie’s hand twitched toward her pocket, where Narla knew she kept at least three volatile potions at any given time. “Family emergency. Come back tomorrow.”
The tourist fled.
Ember hooted approvingly from his perch.
“Lock the door,” Narla said. Her hands had started shaking again, but this time it was different. Less like fear. More like the trembling that comes before a storm breaks. “I can’t—I can’t tell you everything. Not yet. There’s someone I need to talk to first.”
Junie’s brow furrowed. Then her face cleared, and sly calculation crept into her expression. “The sheriff.”
“It’s not—we’re not—”
“Narla.” Junie caught her hands, squeezed them until the trembling eased.
“Whatever you and Wyatt are or aren’t, you lit up like a bonfire when you saw him at the festival.
I saw you at the grocery store, and whatever’s happening between you two?
It’s not nothing. If you’re going to trust anyone with this, trust him.
But maybe don’t wait another decade to do it, okay? ”
The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, catching dust motes and candle wax, painting the shop in amber and gold.
Narla breathed in—beeswax and lavender and the faint electrical charge that was Junie’s particular magic—and made a decision she’d been avoiding for longer than she wanted to admit.