Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
WYATT
She was alive. That was what mattered.
Wyatt had spent seventeen years in law enforcement—had faced down rogue shifters, territorial disputes, the occasional supernatural crisis that threatened to tear Haven Shores apart.
He knew what preparation felt like. The sharp focus.
The tactical checklist running in the back of his mind.
The cold clarity that came from accepting that he might die.
Three days of healing, of Junie’s potions and Dahlia’s pastries, and Wyatt refusing to leave her side.
This felt like standing on the edge of something vast. Not an ending, but a beginning.
Like everything in his life—every year of isolation, every wall he’d built, every night he’d spent alone in his cabin convincing himself that solitude was strength—had been leading to this moment.
To her.
He watched Narla from the doorway of Avine’s guest room, where she’d been recovering for the past two days.
She sat propped against pillows, a half-eaten pastry in one hand—one of Dahlia’s protective creations, shipped overnight from Paris.
Her color was better than it had been. The dark fire damage was fading, pushed back by Junie’s purification potions and her own stubborn magic.
She was going to be fine.
She was determined to stand beside him when Derren struck, and nothing he said would change her mind.
He crossed the room and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. Her hand found his immediately—automatic now, instinctive. The ease of it still caught him off guard sometimes. How natural it had become, this constant reaching for each other.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit with corrupted magical fire and spent thirty-six hours unconscious.” Her tone was dry, but her fingers tightened around his. “Better than yesterday. Strong enough to face whatever comes.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do.” Her gaze held his—steady, certain. “We’ve had this conversation three times already. The answer isn’t changing.”
He exhaled slowly. She was right. They had talked about it—argued about it—and she’d won every time.
Not because she’d convinced him it was safe, but because he’d finally understood that taking this fight from her would mean taking something essential.
Her voice. Her agency. He wouldn’t do that to her.
Even if the thought of her anywhere near Derren made his panther pace with barely contained fury.
“I know.” He lifted their joined hands, pressed his lips to her knuckles. “I needed to hear you say it one more time.”
“When Derren makes his move, I’m fighting. Right beside you. And we’re going to destroy him.”
“Yes.” The word came out rough. “We are.”
Silence settled between them—comfortable, weighted with everything still unspoken. Outside the window, the afternoon light was starting to fade. Evening was approaching.
Wyatt had been thinking about this moment for days. Since the parking lot. Since watching the healers work on her, not knowing if she’d wake up. Since she’d opened her eyes and told him she loved him, and he’d felt something shift inside his chest—a lock finally opening, a cage finally breaking.
He’d spent his whole adult life convincing himself that feeling things was dangerous. That caring led to loss. That the safest path was the solitary one.
He’d been wrong.
“I want to take you somewhere tonight.” The words came out before he could second-guess them. “If you’re strong enough.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Another secret lighthouse?”
“The cliffs.” He watched her face, looking for hesitation. “North of town. Where Theo and Avine had their claiming. Where Leo marked Junie.”
Understanding dawned in her expression.
“Wyatt—”
“Not because I think we might lose.” He needed her to understand. “Not because I’m afraid.” His voice cracked. He made himself continue. “I need to know we’ve chosen each other completely. Because I almost lost you. Because I need you to know what you mean to me.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Her thumb traced circles on the back of his hand.
“You want to claim me.”
“I want us to claim each other.” The distinction mattered. “I want everyone to know that whatever happens, we belong to each other. That the bond is real. That you’re mine and I’m yours and nothing—not Derren, not fear, not anything—can take that away.”
Her eyes had gone bright. Wet.
“Yes.” No hesitation. “I want that too.”
She reached for the chain at her throat. Niccolas’s ring—the one she’d worn against her skin since the night she fled—sat cool in her palm for a moment. Not gone. Just laid down, finally, in the right place. She tucked it carefully into the pocket of her coat.