Chapter 46
FORTY-SIX
NARLA
The drive to Sunset Harbor took three hours.
Wyatt drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Narla’s thigh. She watched the coastline blur past and let herself think about what she was going to say.
Her parents didn’t know about Derren. Didn’t know Clara had been murdered.
For all those years, Narla had maintained the lie that her sister died in a tragic accident—partly because Derren’s threats had demanded silence, partly because she couldn’t bear to destroy the peace her aging parents had found.
But Derren was dead now. And some truths needed to be spoken, even if they came tempered with mercy.
“You don’t have to tell them everything.” Wyatt’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Some details can stay buried.”
“I know.” She covered his hand with hers. “But they deserve to understand why I’ve been so distant. Why I stopped coming as often. Why I—” Her throat tightened. “Why I couldn’t let them comfort me when I needed it most.”
“They love you. Whatever you tell them, that won’t change.”
“I hope so.”
Sunset Harbor Assisted Living appeared through the coastal fog—weathered cedar buildings, manicured gardens, the ocean stretching gray and endless beyond. The wards Narla had woven over the years still hummed beneath the surface, protective magic layered into every inch of the property.
Those wards had done what she’d built them to do—blocked his ability to harm her parents directly through magic, even when he’d been inside the building wearing a visitor’s badge and a smile. He could walk the halls. He couldn’t reach them through her protections.
Her magic was stronger than her fear. She hadn’t understood that until now.
“Ready?” Wyatt parked.
“No.” She squeezed his hand. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
Rose Wright sat in the facility’s sunroom, a book open on her lap, afternoon light streaming through windows that overlooked the garden. At seventy-eight, she moved slowly—mobility issues that had forced the transition from independent living—but her mind remained razor-sharp.
She looked up when Narla entered. Her expression shifted through surprise, then joy, then careful assessment as she noted the man at her daughter’s side.
“You brought someone.” Not a question.
“Mom, this is Wyatt Gentry.” Narla guided him forward. “He’s—”
“Her partner.” Wyatt’s voice carried quiet certainty. “I’m in love with your daughter, Mrs. Wright.”
Rose’s eyebrows climbed. Her gaze swept over him—the height, the controlled stillness, the way he positioned himself at Narla’s shoulder like a guardian.
“Shifter?”
“Panther.”
“Hmm.” A loaded silence. “You treat her well?”
“I try.” Something vulnerable flickered across his face. “She’s everything to me.”
Rose studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded once, apparently satisfied with whatever she’d found.
“Your father’s having a good day. He’s in the garden—asked about you this morning.” She reached for her walker. “Let’s go find him.”
David Wright sat on his favorite bench beneath a flowering magnolia, watching hummingbirds dart between feeders. The dementia had stolen pieces of him over the years—memories, words, the ability to always recognize the people he loved. But today his eyes were clear when he looked up.
“Little bird.” His voice cracked on the childhood nickname. “You came.”
“I came.” Narla crossed to him, knelt at his feet, took his trembling hands in hers. “Dad, I need to tell you something. Something I should have told you years ago.”
Rose settled into a chair nearby. Wyatt hung back, close enough that Narla could feel his presence through the bond, far enough to give the family privacy.
She told them.
Not everything—not the Devourer’s true form, not the dark fire, not the details that would give them nightmares. But enough.
She told them Niccolas hadn’t died in an accident. That Derren—his trusted business partner—had killed him.
She told them Clara’s death wasn’t an accident either. That she’d tried to help Narla and paid with her life.
She told them she’d been hiding for years, too afraid to speak, too afraid to put anyone else at risk.
And she told them it was over now. That Derren was dead. That the threat that had haunted her for years had finally been destroyed.
When she finished, Rose was crying silently, tears tracking down weathered cheeks. David’s hands had gone still in hers, his expression cycling through grief and anger and something that looked almost like pride.
“You carried this alone.” Rose’s voice was thick. “All this time. You carried it alone.”
“I couldn’t risk you. If Derren had known I’d told anyone—”
“We’re your parents.” Rose reached out and gripped Narla’s shoulder. “We should have been there.”
“You were.” The tears Narla had been holding back finally spilled over. “Every Sunday phone call. Every time you told me you loved me. You kept me going. Even when I couldn’t explain why I needed it.”
David’s grip tightened on her hands. When he spoke—one of those unexpected windows of clarity that opened without warning and closed just as fast, the dementia retreating for a breath or two—his voice was steady.
“Clara.” His eyes were wet. “She was always the brave one. Couldn’t stand by when someone needed help.” He lifted Narla’s hands, kissed her knuckles gently. “She’d be proud of you. For fighting back. For stopping him.”
Grief and relief surged through Narla’s chest.
“I miss her,” she whispered. “I miss her so much.”
“I know, little bird.” David’s thumb traced gentle circles on her hands. “But you’re safe now. You’re safe, and you’re loved, and you’re not alone anymore.”
He looked past her, toward where Wyatt stood in watchful silence.
“That one. He loves you?”
“He does.”
“Good.” The clarity was fading now, the dementia reclaiming its hold. “Clara always said you needed someone to watch over you. Someone as stubborn as you are.”
Narla’s breath caught. Clara had said that—years ago, before Niccolas, before everything fell apart. She’d forgotten until now.
“He’s very stubborn.”
“Good.” David’s eyes had gone unfocused. “That’s good.”
Rose gathered Narla into her arms, holding tight, and for a long moment, they just breathed together. Mother and daughter. Survivor and witness. Two women mourning what had been lost while celebrating what remained.
“Bring him back,” Rose murmured against Narla’s hair. “Your stubborn panther. I want to interrogate him properly.”
Despite everything—the tears, the grief, all of it—Narla laughed.
“I will. I promise.”
She glanced toward Wyatt, found him watching with an expression that made her chest ache. Patient. Protective. Ready to wait as long as she needed.
He’d been waiting for her for years. First, from suspicion. Then from love. Now, from understanding that some moments belonged to family alone.
When she finally crossed to him, his arms opened without hesitation. She stepped into his embrace, let him hold her while the last of the tension drained away.
“Okay?” His voice was soft against her hair.
“Better than okay.” She pressed her face to his chest. “They know now. They understand. And they want to meet you properly—without crisis interrupting.”
“Interrogation?”
“Definitely interrogation. My mother has questions.”
“I can handle questions.”
“She’s going to ask about your intentions.”
“My intention is to love you for the rest of my life.” His arms tightened. “Think that’ll satisfy her?”
“I think that’ll make her cry again.” Narla smiled against his shirt. “She’s been waiting for me to find someone since Niccolas died. She’ll be insufferably happy.”
“Good.” He dropped a kiss into her hair. “Let’s give her something to be happy about.”