Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
NARLA
Wyatt slept heavily beside her, one arm draped across her waist, his breath warm against her shoulder. He’d worn himself out the night before—showing her exactly what his words meant, making good on every promise whispered in the dark. Her body still hummed with the memory of it.
Clara.
The sister who’d been dead for years. The sister whose murder Narla had never been able to explain.
“He’s fine now,” the nurse had assured her. “Settled back down. But he was quite upset, Mrs. Wright. Asked why Clara hadn’t visited. We thought you should know.”
Narla had thanked her, hung up, and stared at the ceiling for an hour while Wyatt’s heartbeat thudded against her back. She should wake him. Should tell him. Should let him go with her to the nursing home three hours away, watch over her while she checked on her parents, make sure Derren didn’t—
If Derren was already watching, arriving with Wyatt confirmed everything he’d suspected—two targets instead of one. A lone woman making a family visit was far less interesting. She told herself that firmly. She almost believed it.
Wyatt shifted in his sleep, pulling her closer. His lips brushed her temple—unconscious, instinctive. Even in sleep, he reached for her.
Something lodged in her throat. Not pain—something deeper.
When did this happen? she wondered. When did his cabin start feeling more like home than anywhere I’ve lived in years?
She couldn’t pinpoint the moment. What mattered was that it had happened.
And now she was lying in his bed, surrounded by his scent, and the thought of going back to the life she’d lived before him made her chest feel hollow.
But old habits die hard.
She slipped out of bed, dressed in the dark, and left a note on the kitchen counter: Checking on my parents. Back soon. Don’t worry. She knew he’d worry anyway.
The drive to Sunset Harbor took several hours through winding coastal roads, the sky lightening from black to gray to pale pink as she traveled. Ember rode on the passenger seat, his feathers ruffled with disapproval.
“I know.” She kept her voice low, though there was no one to hear. “I know it’s stupid. I should have brought him. But what if Derren is waiting for him? What if this is an ambush, and if I don’t show up alone, he kills my parents?”
The owl’s stare was eloquent. He’d been giving her that look for thirty-five years—the one that said she was being an idiot and he was disappointed but not surprised.
“I’ve warded every inch of that building. The protection spells are solid. I need to check them. Make sure they’re holding.” She gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. “Dad asked for Clara. He hasn’t mentioned her in years. What if Derren found a way through? What if—”
Ember clacked his beak together.
“And, yes, I’ll call Wyatt as soon as I’m done. I promise.”
The owl turned away, presenting her with his back.
Maximum disapproval. He’d been giving her that look more often lately—ever since Wyatt had started showing up at the shop, ever since the surge-charged night at the festival.
Ember approved of the panther. Approved of Narla finally letting someone in.
He didn’t approve of her running off to face potential danger alone.
But some habits were harder to break than others.
The coastal highway blurred past. Through the bond—that permanent warmth in her chest—she could feel the distant pulse of Wyatt still asleep in his cabin.
Safe. She kept her eyes on the road and her foot on the accelerator.
Sunset Harbor Assisted Living sat on a bluff overlooking the ocean—weathered cedar buildings, manicured gardens, the kind of peaceful retirement community that charged a fortune for the view.
Narla had been sending money for years to ensure her parents had the best suite, the best care, the best chance of living out their remaining years in comfort.
She parked in the visitor lot as the morning sun crested the horizon.
The facility was quiet at this hour—residents still at breakfast, staff doing their morning rounds.
Perfect time for a quick visit. The wards hit her the moment she stepped out of the car.
Her magic recognized them instantly—the protective spells she’d woven into gifts and decorations over the years, layered and reinforced until the entire building hummed with her intention.
Keep them safe. Keep them hidden. Keep the darkness away.
The wards were intact. Strong. Undisturbed. Relief flooded through her. Her father’s episode had been just that—an episode. The dementia playing tricks, dredging up old memories, old grief. Nothing sinister. Nothing to do with Derren. She should have trusted her own magic.
“Narla.”
The voice came from behind her. She recognized the voice. Had heard it in nightmares for years. Smooth and pleasant and utterly, completely wrong. Narla turned.
Derren Bale stood at the edge of the parking lot, perfectly positioned between her and the facility entrance. His glamour was flawless—kind eyes, warm smile, the face of a man you’d trust with anything. He wore a visitor’s badge clipped to his jacket.
“I had a feeling you’d come.” His voice carried that reasonable, concerned tone that made her skin crawl. “Your father mentioned Clara last night. I thought that might bring you running.”
Her blood turned to ice. “If you touched them—”
“I haven’t. Yet.” Derren took a step closer.
The morning light caught his face at an angle, and for just a second, his glamour flickered—danger bleeding through.
Something with too many eyes. “They’re protected, Narla.
I can feel the wards. Quite impressive work, actually. You’ve grown stronger over the years.”
“Stay away from them.”
“I would.” Another step. Another flicker. “I was content to leave them alone. Leave you alone. You were quiet. Useful. A living reminder that resistance is futile.”
“And now?”
“Now.” The word came out sharp. “Now you’re gathering an army. You told your little witch friends. You told that shifter who’s been sniffing around you. You told the dragons.” His voice dropped to ice. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Narla’s heart hammered against her ribs.
Her magic surged, candle-flame power flickering at her fingertips, desperate to defend.
But she didn’t run. Didn’t cower. Didn’t feel the familiar paralysis of terror that had ruled her for years.
The dynamic had changed. The power between them had shifted, and she knew exactly what—exactly who—had caused it.
Wyatt had looked at her like she was worth fighting for.
Had told her he loved her like the words had been building for years.
Had held her through the night and made her feel that she wasn’t alone.
She wasn’t going to let Derren take that from her.
“I’m done hiding.” The words came out steadier than she felt. “I’m done letting you control my life.”
“I see.” Derren studied her with something that might have been curiosity. “And your mate? Does he think he can protect you?”
“He doesn’t have to protect me. I can fight for myself.”
“Can you?”
The glamour dropped.
It happened in an instant—the pleasant face dissolving, the human proportions distorting, something ancient and wrong emerging from beneath the mask. Limbs too long, joints bending in directions they shouldn’t, skin that absorbed the morning light and left shadows that didn’t match the environment.
And his eyes. Sometimes too many. Sometimes too few. Looking at them made her brain want to reject what it was seeing.
“You’ve seen this before.” Derren’s voice had changed too—a harmonic underneath that made her want to kneel, to submit, to stop fighting. “The night your husband died. I showed you what I really was. And you’ve been afraid ever since.”
Narla forced herself to stay standing. To meet those wrong, shifting eyes.
“I’m still afraid.” Her voice cracked. “But I’m done running.”
“Yes.” Something that might have been amusement crossed Derren’s distorted face. “That’s the problem.”
He raised one too-long arm.
Dark fire erupted from his palm.