Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
WYATT
The drive to the sea cliffs took twenty minutes.
Wyatt kept one hand on Narla’s thigh the whole way—a point of contact he couldn’t seem to give up, his body craving reassurance that she was here, solid, alive.
She didn’t seem to mind. Her fingers traced idle patterns on his knuckles, and every few minutes she’d glance at him with an expression that made his blood run hot.
The cliffs were empty when they arrived.
Good. He parked at the overlook and cut the engine.
Through the windshield, the ocean stretched to the horizon, the setting sun painting everything in shades of gold and rose.
Waves crashed against the rocks below, a rhythmic thunder that felt almost like a heartbeat.
“It’s beautiful.” Narla’s voice was soft.
He turned to look at her instead. The setting sun caught her face, and the sight of her—here, with him, finally—tightened something in his chest.
She reached across the console and cupped his face in her hand. Her touch was warm against his jaw, grounding.
“What changed?”
“You know what changed.” He covered her hand with his. “You. I spent years telling myself I was investigating you, when really I was—”
“Stalking me?”
Despite everything, his mouth curved. “Observing. With dedication.”
“Really?” She laughed harder, the sound bright and alive in the quiet car. He drank it in—this lightness between them, this easy joy that he’d never known before her.
She squeezed his hand. He brought it to his lips, held it there a moment.
“I want tonight to mean something,” he said. “Something permanent.”
Understanding moved across her face. “Then let’s stop talking and start doing.”
He knew the answer. Had known it since he’d watched her lying unconscious in that parking lot, dark fire spreading through her chest, her life slipping away.
“You.” Simple. True. “I want you. I want to claim you on these cliffs with the ocean as witness. I want—” His voice cracked. “I want forever. With you. Whatever that looks like.”
Her smile was radiant.
“Then let’s stop talking and start doing.”
They made it out of the truck, but barely.
The blanket he’d brought was spread on the clifftop grass, and then his hands were in her hair and her back was against his chest, and he was kissing her like he’d never get another chance.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in streaks of crimson and gold.
The ocean crashed below, salt spray carried on the wind.
The air was cold, but her body was warm—so warm—and he couldn’t stop touching her.
“Wyatt.” His name came out breathless. “Wyatt, please—” He stripped her clothes away slowly, reverently. Let himself look at her in the dying light—the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the silver threading her dark hair. She was beautiful. She was his.
Mate. Claim. Ours.
His panther paced just beneath his skin, closer to the surface than it had ever been. For once, he didn’t fight it.
“I love you.” He said it against her throat, her collarbone, the hollow between her breasts. “I love you. I should have said it years ago. Should have stopped pretending I didn’t feel anything and just—”
“You’re saying it now.” Her fingers worked at his shirt, pushed it off his shoulders. “That’s enough.”
It wasn’t. It would never be enough. He had years of silence to make up for, years of solitude to fill with her presence. But tonight was a start.
He laid her on the blanket and covered her body with his. Kissed her until she was gasping, until her nails scored down his back, until she was pleading for more.
Then he gave her more.
She arched beneath him when he entered her—a slow, deliberate slide that made them both groan. The sensation was overwhelming, her heat surrounding him, her magic flickering against his skin in sparks of warmth and light.
Mine.
The thought was primal, possessive, absolutely certain. He set a rhythm—deep and slow, savoring every moment. Every gasp. Every whimper. Every time she said his name like a prayer.
“Wyatt—”
“I’m here.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “I’ve got you.”
Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. Her hands clutched his shoulders. Her eyes—dark and fierce and full of love—held his.
“Claim me.” The words came out rough, desperate. “Do it. Make me yours.”
His panther surged.
It had been waiting for this—pacing, hungry, ready. The beast that had recognized her as mate from the first moment, that had been fighting his control for years, finally given permission to do what it had always wanted.
Wyatt buried himself inside her one last time, felt her body clench around him, heard her cry out as pleasure crested. His teeth found her left shoulder. He bit down.
The taste of her blood flooded his mouth—copper and magic and something ineffably her. His panther roared in triumph, in possession, in bone-deep satisfaction. Twenty-three years of caging the beast, of denying it everything it wanted, and now—
Now it had her. Now she was theirs. Now nothing could take her away.
Narla cried out—not in pain, though there must have been pain. In completion. In recognition. In the same overwhelming certainty that was crashing through him.
He held the bite for a long moment, letting the mark set, letting his magic seep into her skin. When he finally released her, when he lifted his head to look at her face, her expression made his chest crack open. Wonder. Joy. Love so fierce it burned.