Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
NARLA
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Wyatt sat frozen on the bed’s edge, one hand still clutching hers, his body coiled with tension that seemed barely contained. His eyes raked over her face, her neck, the bandages she could feel wrapped around her torso.
“You left a note.” His voice cracked on the word. “A damn note. ‘Back soon, don’t worry.’”
“I know. I’m sorry. I thought—”
“You thought you could protect everyone by handling it alone. The way you’ve been handling everything for years.” He shook his head. “I understand why. I do. But, Narla—”
“I was wrong.” The admission scraped out of her. “I was so wrong, and I almost—” Her voice broke.
Wyatt moved. One moment, he was sitting on the edge of the bed; the next, he was lying beside her, his arms wrapping around her with desperate care, his face buried in her hair.
“Don’t do that again.” The words were muffled against her scalp. “I don’t care about protecting me or protecting your parents or protecting anyone. I need you alive. I need you.”
“I know.” She pressed her face into his chest, breathing him in. His familiar scent—pine and leather and something wild underneath—steadied something in her that had been shaking since she’d woken. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
They lay there for a long moment, wrapped in each other, the weight of almost-loss heavy between them. Then Narla pulled back. Just far enough to see his face.
“I need to tell you something.”
His expression flickered—fear, hope, uncertainty. “Okay.”
“When the dark fire hit—when I was lying in that parking lot, feeling it spread through my chest—” She had to stop. Had to breathe. “I wasn’t thinking about Derren. Wasn’t thinking about my parents, or my friends, or any of the things I thought would matter at the end.”
“What were you thinking about?”
“You.” The word came out simple. True. “I was thinking about you. About all the mornings in your kitchen. About the lighthouse. About the way you looked at me last night when you told me you loved me.”
His breath caught.
“I kept thinking about you,” she said quietly. “When the dark fire hit—even then. Your face.” She pressed her palm flat against his chest, over his heart. “You kept showing up. Kept refusing to let me disappear. And somewhere along the way, I stopped wanting to.”
“I couldn’t look away.” His voice was rough. “From the moment you walked into my station—”
“I know.” Her fingers curled against his chest. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “I need you to understand that. Whatever comes next—I’m staying.”
Something in his expression shifted—fierce and banked. He kissed her.
Not gentle—fierce. Desperate. His mouth claiming hers with all the fear and relief and love he couldn’t put into words. She kissed him back, ignoring the ache in her healing body, letting herself drown in his taste.
“I was so scared.” His forehead pressed against hers.
“Driving to you, not knowing what I’d find.
Holding you in that parking lot, watching you fade.
The healers working for hours while I sat in the hallway and—” His voice cracked.
“I’ve spent years not caring about anything.
Not letting anyone matter. And then you—”
She traced his cheekbone with her thumb. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’d better not.” He kissed her again—softer this time, a promise rather than a claim. “Because I meant what I said. I need you. Not just alive—present. With me. Building trust instead of just surviving.”
“I want that too.” The words felt like freedom. “I want mornings in your kitchen and nights in your bed and arguments about whose turn it is to make coffee. I want all of it.”
“Even the surveillance?”
Despite everything—the pain, the fear, the war still coming—she laughed.
“Especially the surveillance. Someone has to keep me from running off to face monsters alone.”
“Damn right.” His arms tightened around her. “From now on, we face everything together. No more running.”
“No more running,” she agreed. She meant it.
For the first time in years, she meant it completely.
Because lying in this bed, wrapped in the arms of the man she loved, she understood something she’d been too afraid to accept before.
Wyatt had made her want to be brave again.
Had shown her what it felt like to be seen, wanted, loved without condition.
Had given her something worth fighting for.
She wasn’t going to give that up. Not for Derren. Not for fear. Not for anything.
Later—after the healers had checked her injuries and Junie had forced another purification potion down her throat—they gathered in Avine’s suite to plan.
Narla sat propped against pillows, Wyatt a solid presence at her side. His hand hadn’t left hers since the others had returned. Every few minutes, his thumb traced across her knuckles—a small, unconscious gesture that made her chest ache with tenderness.
“We had a plan,” Theo said from the doorway, his wolf’s authority quiet in the space. “Strike first, before he could. That’s changed now—his invitation is a trap.”
“So we don’t walk into it.” Wyatt’s voice was steady, tactical. “We still set our own terms. Choose our ground.”
“The harbor is still right,” Cassia agreed, storm energy crackling. “Open space, room for the dragons. But we need to give him a reason to go there.”
“How?”
All eyes turned to Narla.
She thought about Derren in the parking lot. The way he’d looked at her—not with hatred, but with curiosity. Interest.
“My candles.” Her voice was hoarse but certain. “He’s been interested in them since the surge changed my magic. If I can make him believe I’ve developed a new awareness—something that threatens him—”
“He’ll come to investigate.” Wyatt finished. His jaw tightened. “Using you as bait.”
“Using my magic as bait. There’s a difference.” She squeezed his hand. “I won’t be alone this time. I promise.”
He held her gaze for a long moment. She watched him wrestle with it—the protective instinct warring with the respect for her autonomy. Finally, he nodded.
“Together.”
“Together.”
On Avine’s phone, Dahlia’s face appeared. “We’re catching the next flight,” she said. “We’ll be there by morning.”
Junie was already pulling out vials, her chaos magic humming in agreement. Aero and Delos arrived quietly and took up position near the door. The pieces were all in place—what was new was the shape of the trap.
Narla looked around at them. Then she looked at Wyatt, solid and certain at her side.
This—community, love, belonging—was what strength looked like. Not the ability to survive alone, but the willingness to trust. To let people in. To believe that maybe, just maybe, she deserved to be fought for.