If she’s been using poisoned honey?—
“Don’t panic yet.” Wyatt read his features with unsettling accuracy. “The poisoning theory is preliminary. And if the honey is tainted, it would need to be consumed regularly over a long period to cause serious harm. Someone who bakes with it occasionally is not in danger. The curse requires accumulation.”
“But she uses it in everything.” Cal’s voice came out ragged. “Her charmed pastries. That’s her signature.”
Wyatt studied him for a long moment. “You might want to warn her. Quietly. Until we know more.”
“I will.”
The panther nodded once. Slipped past Cal toward the door. Paused with his hand on the frame.
“For what it’s worth,” he said without turning around, “your bear chose well. She’s one of the good ones.”
Then he was gone, disappearing into the brewery’s crowded taproom with the silent grace of his animal.
Cal stood alone in the back room, mind racing.
Magnus. Poisoned honey. Dahlia.
The pieces were connecting in ways he didn’t like. A siege, Theo had called it. But it was worse than that. It was a slow assassination dressed up as natural decline.
And Dahlia was caught in the crossfire.
His bear surged to the surface with protective fury.
Cal left the brewery through the front door, pushing through the crowd of laughing humans and supernaturals who had no idea what was brewing in their town. The night air hit him cold and sharp—woodsmoke, salt, the tang of low tide?—
His bear perked with recognition.Her.
Cal closed his eyes. Drew a breath. Let the scent wash over him even though he knew it was dangerous, knew he was only making this harder on himself.
Three days in Haven Shores. Three days, and everything had already gotten impossibly complicated.
He had a sleuth to save. An enemy to fight. A baker whose very presence had cut through fifteen years of noise like it was nothing. Whose perceptive gaze stripped away every defense. Who carried a scent that made him think of safety, of belonging, of things he’d lost when he was eight years old.
She’s not ours,he told his animal again.
His bear didn’t bother arguing anymore. It held onto her scent, turning it over and over, waiting for Cal to stop lying to himself.
Tomorrow. He’d see her tomorrow. Warn her about the honey. Make sure she was safe.
And maybe, if he was lucky, figure out why a woman he’d met once had managed to wake up parts of him he’d thought were dead.
He walked to his truck. Got in. Sat in the dark parking lot, staring at the lights of Haven Shores.
Sitting here in the dark, breathing in the cold and the salt and the faint trace of honey the wind carried off the mountain, Cal wasn’t sure that his plan made sense anymore.
FOURTEEN
DAHLIA
The email arrived at 5:47 a.m.
Dahlia stared at her phone, certain she’d misread. But no—the words were clear, clinical, devastating.
Dear Ms. Moon, Due to unforeseen circumstances, we regret to inform you that Torres Apiaries can no longer fulfill your standing order. We apologize for any inconvenience.
No explanation. No advance warning. A terse dismissal after twelve years of monthly deliveries.
