Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
WYATT
Narla’s scent clung to his skin even after the shower.
Wyatt stood in front of the bathroom mirror, toweling off his hair, and caught himself inhaling.
Beeswax. Lavender. That faint smokiness that was purely her magic.
He’d spent the afternoon tangled in his sheets with her, and now the smell of her had seeped into his pores, his clothes, the very air of his cabin. His panther purred with satisfaction.
Ours.
He didn’t argue.
In the bedroom, Narla was pulling on one of his shirts—dark gray, too big for her, the sleeves falling past her wrists. She’d stopped asking permission to raid his closet days ago. He hadn’t complained.
He crossed the room and slid his arms around her waist from behind. She leaned back into him without hesitation—that easy trust still catching him off guard every time. “You’re wearing my clothes.”
“They smell better than mine.”
“They smell like me.”
“Exactly.” She turned in his arms, rose on her toes, and brushed her mouth against the underside of his jaw. “Now everyone at the brewery will know I’ve been here.”
“They already know.” His hands found her hips, pulled her closer. “Shifter senses. My scent’s been on you for days.”
“And you like that.”
It wasn’t a question. Wyatt answered anyway.
“I like that.”
Her smile turned knowing. She kissed him properly then—slow, thorough, tasting of the coffee she’d made while he was in the shower. His fingers tightened on her hips, and he had to actively resist the urge to walk her backward toward the bed.
“Gathering,” she murmured against his mouth. “You’re going to be late.”
“They can wait.”
“Theo won’t.” She pulled back, smoothed her hands down the front of his chest. “Go. Plan. Strategize. I’ll be here when you get back.”
The promise in those words hit him harder than it should have. She’d be here. In his cabin. In his bed. Waiting for him. He kissed her forehead, grabbed his keys, and forced himself to walk out the door.
Wolf Moon Brewery hummed with low voices and the smell of hops and wood smoke. The regular crowd had been cleared—Beck’s doing—and the alpha network occupied the back booth. Wyatt arrived, slid into his usual seat, and found every eye on him.
“You have everything?” Theo asked.
“Narla’s settled. Beck’s wolves are on her perimeter. The plan stands.” He looked around the table—Theo’s wolf calm, Leo’s barely contained energy, Hux’s political assessment, the two dragons at the end like matched punctuation. “Then we finalize.”
The strategy they’d already hammered out between them moved quickly. It was the contingencies that took the hours.
By the time they’d covered every contingency, the brewery had emptied entirely. Even the staff had gone home. Only the alpha network remained, empty glasses scattered across the table, the weight of what was coming settling over all of them.
Cal signed off first—it was nearly dawn in Paris, and Dahlia was falling asleep against his shoulder. Hux left next, muttering about emergency council meetings and public safety protocols. Leo followed, clasping Wyatt’s shoulder briefly as he passed.
“She’s lucky to have you.” The lion’s voice was low enough that only Wyatt heard. “Don’t waste time being afraid of what you feel.”
Wyatt didn’t answer. Didn’t know how to answer. Aero and Delos departed in a gust of heat and ozone—dragon magic crackling in the air as they took to the sky. Theo stayed long enough to confirm patrol schedules, then slipped away with a wolf’s silent efficiency.
That left Beck.
The beta wolf leaned against the bar, watching Wyatt with an expression that was uncomfortably perceptive.
“You going to sit there all night, or are you going home to your mate?”
Wyatt didn’t answer. Some things didn’t need saying out loud.
Beck pushed off from the bar. “Then we’re going to make sure she survives this.”
The certainty in his voice was absolute. Not hope. Not optimism. Just the simple, unwavering conviction of a pack protecting its own.
“We?”
“Haven Shores.” Beck’s gaze swept the empty brewery—the table where the alpha network had put defenses in place. “All of us. You’ve got her. You’ve got us. You don’t have to fight alone anymore.”
The words echoed what Narla had told him, what her friends had told her. Community. Pack. Family.
But sitting in this brewery, surrounded by the lingering presence of men who’d just pledged to fight beside him—for him, for Narla, for the community they’d all chosen—he felt something shift. Not weakness. Not vulnerability.
“Thank you.” The words came out stiff, unpracticed. “For everything. For—”
“Don’t.” Beck’s grin was back. “Save the gratitude for after we’ve burned the bastard. Buy the first round at the victory celebration.”
Despite everything—despite the uncertainty, despite the fear he couldn’t quite shake—Wyatt felt his mouth curve.
“Deal.”