“I don’t need—” she started.
“Stay out of the water if you can. Don’t try to reinforce the wards alone. I’m fifteen minutes out.”
The line went dead.
Avine stared at her phone, standing waist-deep in cursed seawater, wearing spite pajamas, and felt her carefully constructed new life tilt dangerously off its axis.
Of all the people in this damn town. Of all the numbers Junie could have put in my phone.
She shoved the phone back in her pocket—the water had already killed it anyway—and turned back to the flickering ward stones.
Fifteen minutes. She could hold for fifteen minutes.
Likely.
They arrived in twelve.
She’d been counting. Not consciously—her mind was too busy fighting to keep the wards from collapsing entirely—but a part of her had tracked every minute since she’d ended that call. Twelve minutes of feeding magic into stone that didn’t want to hold. Twelve minutes of watching the water rise and fall in response to her efforts, like an argument she couldn’t win.
Avine heard the truck before she saw it—engine cutting off, doors slamming, and then footsteps pounding through the inn above her head. Fast. Coordinated. The footsteps of predators who knew exactly how to move through unfamiliar territory.
“Basement!” she called, hating how hoarse her voice sounded. The water was chest-high now, and she’d moved to higher ground on an old shipping crate that creaked under her weight. Her magic was stretched thin, feeding into the remaining ward stones, trying to slow the assault. It wasn’t enough. The dark threads were winning.
NINE
AVINE
The door crashed open. Theo appeared at the top of the stairs, a dark silhouette against the emergency lighting, and her pulse stuttered in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
He took in the scene in a single sweep—the flooding, the dying wards, her standing on a crate in soaked pajamas with her hair plastered to her face—and his jaw went tight.
“Report.”
“Ward obstruction.” She kept her voice steady. Professional. Not affected by the way he was already descending the stairs, moving through the water without hesitation. “Something’s disrupting the foundations. Foreign magic in the water. I’ve been trying to hold the stones, but?—”
“But you need pack magic.” Beck appeared behind Theo, wearing sweatpants and an inside-out T-shirt, managing to look cheerful despite the circumstances. His gaze dropped to her feet. “Nice socks. Very intimidating.”
“They were fuzzy ten minutes ago.”
“Tragic loss.” He was already scanning the basement, noting exits, assessing structural integrity. The humor didn’t touch his focus. “Theo?”
Theo had reached the nearest ward stone, the one Avine had been fighting to protect. He placed his palm against it, and she watched his expression shift—concentration giving way to cold assessment.
“This magic doesn’t belong here.” His voice had dropped, rougher than human. “It’s disrupting everything it touches—old and incompatible. Whatever it is, it’s not friendly to the inn’s foundation.”
“Can you stop it?”
He looked at her then, across the flooded basement, and the air between them charged. Challenge and assessment and want she didn’t have words for.
“I can try.” He was already stripping off his shirt, tossing it onto the stairs. “But I’ll need you.”
Avine’s brain short-circuited.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen shirtless men before. She’d been married. She’d had a life. But Theo Vance—water already lapping at his waist, chest bare, muscles moving under skin as he waded toward the failing wards—made rational thought difficult.
“Your magic,” he clarified, and there might have been amusement in his voice. Bastard. “I need your magic to anchor the pack sigils. Witch and wolf working in tandem.”
“Right.” She climbed off the crate, refusing to acknowledge that her face was flushed despite the freezing water. “Yes. Magic. That’s what I was thinking about.”
