Chapter 2
TWO
LEO
Theo hadn’t exaggerated. The whole damn town had shown up.
The Siren’s Rest dining room had been transformed into a space caught between a political summit and a community potluck.
Round tables filled every available inch, occupied by people who ranged from grizzled fishermen with weathered hands to elderly women dripping with magical auras so strong, they made Leo’s teeth grind.
Wolf shifters clustered near the bar, trading jokes and maintaining a casual perimeter that wasn’t casual at all.
A group of witches held court by the windows, their laughter punctuated by occasional sparks of magic.
Two lion shifters—the Marinis, if he remembered correctly—were already approaching him with expressions of alarming enthusiasm.
“You’re too skinny!” The woman, Bella, poked his arm without preamble. Short, round, with streaks of gray in her dark hair and absolutely no respect for personal space. Her accent was thick—old country, probably Italian. “They don’t feed you in San Francisco?”
“I eat.” Leo stepped back fractionally. The beast grumbled—not threat, just discomfort. Too close. Too familiar. “Thank you for your concern.”
“Concern.” Vito Marini clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to rattle teeth.
Large man, jovial face, the build of someone who’d once been a fighter and had since discovered the pleasures of his wife’s cooking.
“We’re lions. We’re family. Family worries.
” He steered Leo toward the food table with the determination of a man who would not accept refusal. “Eat something. Then we talk business.”
Leo ate. It was easier than arguing, and the food was actually excellent—fresh seafood, homemade bread, butter-laden dishes that would horrify his nutritionist.
For the next hour, he worked the room like the political operative he’d trained himself to become.
Elder Sue Tidewell cornered him first—an elderly witch with silver hair piled high and sharp eyes that missed nothing.
She asked pointed questions about his investigation timeline while somehow making it sound like a casual conversation about the weather.
Elder Eamon Amell, the wolf representative, was equally probing but less subtle about it.
Georgia Gentry, another Elder, watched from across the room with the unblinking patience of a predator waiting for weakness.
The local lions were a study in contrasts.
Mayor Hux Holt was all political charm—handshakes that lingered exactly the right length, smiles that showed exactly the right amount of teeth, carefully meaningless promises about cooperation and transparency.
His father, Elder Isandro Holt, radiated old-guard disapproval from his corner table, clearly unhappy about a visiting alpha on his territory regardless of Coalition sanction.
The Marinis, meanwhile, kept trying to feed Leo additional courses and interrogate him about his romantic prospects in equal measure.
“You have a mate?” Bella demanded during what Leo was certain was his third ambush by the dessert table.
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Anyone? Someone to warm your bed? To cook for you? To—”
“No.”
She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You need someone. A man alone is a man incomplete. Unbalanced.” She poked his ribs. “A lion needs a pride. A pride needs a heart.”
Leo bit back the response clawing at his throat. The beast rumbled in what might have been agreement with the meddling woman.
Traitor.
He extracted himself from the Marinis and retreated to a less populated corner of the room, positioning himself with his back to the wall and clear sightlines to all exits.
From here, he could observe without being observed.
The pack dynamics were interesting—Theo Vance commanded respect without demanding it, his authority so natural that others deferred instinctively.
His mate, Avine, wove through the crowd like she belonged, touching arms, trading whispers, making connections.
They’d integrated well. It was impressive, actually, how quickly she’d become part of the pack structure.
The witches were harder to read. They gathered in shifting groups, their conversations punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional spark of magic.
He recognized a few from the files—the candle witch with silver-streaked hair, the storm witch with wild dark curls and dramatic gestures, the baker with flour still dusting her sleeve.
A cream-colored cat caught his attention, weaving between table legs with suspicious purpose. The baker’s familiar, according to the files. Marzipan. It paused, looked directly at him with unsettling intelligence, then continued on its mysterious path.
Then the crowd shifted. Parted. And Leo forgot how to breathe.
Red hair. Not auburn, not ginger—red, like flame given form, like sunset bleeding into fire.
It caught the light as she moved, shifting between copper and crimson depending on the angle.
She was small, barely tall enough to reach his shoulder, but she took up space like someone three times her size.
Hands gesturing wildly as she talked. Feet never quite still.
A mouth that curved into a smirk even when she wasn’t speaking.
She laughed at a comment from the storm witch, and the sound cut through the noise of the room like a blade. Sharp. Bright. Impossible to ignore.
The predator surged forward with a force that nearly knocked him off his feet.
Mate.
The word thundered through him—not a thought, not a question, a certainty so absolute, it felt like being struck by lightning. The beast clawed at his restraint, demanding he cross the room, claim her, mark her, make her his—
No.
Leo locked every muscle in his body. His hands curled into fists at his sides. His jaw clenched so tight, his teeth ached. The pressure building behind his ribs was almost unbearable—want, denial, and need crashing against each other.
No. Not happening. Not possible.
The woman looked up, green eyes scanning the room, and for a heartbeat her attention locked with his. Recognition sparked in her expression—not mate recognition, just awareness. Ah, the visiting lion. She tilted her head, hair sliding over her shoulder, and lifted one brow in clear challenge.
Then she was moving again, pulled into conversation with the baker, and Leo could breathe.
Barely.
“That’s Junie Reed.” Beck Driscoll materialized at his elbow, holding two bottles of beer. Theo’s beta was tall and rangy, with sandy hair and an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he watched the red-haired witch. “She runs the potion shop on Main Street. Moonrise Mixology.”
Leo accepted the beer without thinking. His hand was steadier than it should have been. “One of the businesses affected by the surge.”
“Among other things.” Beck’s attention lingered on Junie with an emotion Leo recognized: longing.
Familiarity. A possessiveness that made the beast growl low in warning.
“She’s one of us. Pack-adjacent. Talented as hell.
” He took a swig of his beer. “You’ll need to interview her at some point.
About her magic. For the investigation.”
The words were helpful. The tone was a warning.
I’m not going anywhere near her. I can’t. I won’t.
The beast snarled its disagreement.