Tomorrow, she’d tell him. Tomorrow, she’d stop hiding behind fear and start reaching for what she wanted.
But tonight, she sat in her grandmother’s kitchen with her cat and her memories and the first fragile tendrils of hope, letting herself believe that maybe—she could have it all.
Magnus had underestimated Haven Shores.
He’d underestimated her.
And when the time came, he would learn what happened when a witch with thirty-eight years of patience and a very good reason finally decided to fight for what was hers.
THIRTY-ONE
CAL
Theo had told him not to go alone.
Cal had ignored the advice—partly because the wolf alpha’s protective instincts were starting to feel suffocating, and partly because Cal needed to see the disputed boundary line for himself. The old ward markers Dahlia had identified on her grandmother’s maps. The stones that would prove Magnus’s surveys were fraudulent.
The afternoon sun filtered through the dense canopy as he hiked deeper into the forest, following a game trail that wound along the ridge. This was Ursa territory—had been for six generations. His grandfather had taught him to hunt in these woods. His father had abandoned them here. And now Cal was fighting to keep them from falling into Magnus Ironwood’s hands.
The forest smelled of pine needles and damp earth, of late-season wildflowers and the faint musk of deer. Familiar scents. Home scents. Cal had forgotten how much he’d missed them during his years in Seattle, where the air tasted of exhaust and ambition and the constant low hum of human striving.
His bear prowled beneath his skin, more alert than it had been in years.
Cal found the first marker near a lightning-split oak, half-buried in decades of fallen leaves and forest debris. The stone was ancient—far older than Magnus’s supposed 1892 surveys—carved with symbols that hummed with faint magical energy when he brushed the dirt away.
Ursa territory. The ward confirmed it. This land had belonged to his family since before Haven Shores existed as a town.
He photographed the marker, made notes on his phone, and moved on to the next location on Dahlia’s map. The boundary line ran through dense forest here, far from roads or hiking trails. No witnesses. No backup if something went wrong.
His bear’s attention sharpened.
Movement. Incoming. Fast.
Cal stopped walking. Listened. The forest had gone silent—no birdsong, no rustle of small animals in the underbrush. The whisper of wind through branches and the distant drum of his own pulse.
And then he caught the scent.
Bear. Multiple bears. Coming from upwind, moving fast.
Not Ursa.
Ironwood.
They emergedfrom the trees like shadows taking form.
Three of them, still in human form, spreading out to cut off his retreat. Big men—bigger than Cal, with the heavy muscle and scarred knuckles of bears who’d been raised to fight rather than negotiate. Their leader had a shaved head and a smile that promised violence.
“Callum Ursa.” The bald one spoke with a drawl that dripped contempt. “Alpha Magnus sends his regards.”
Cal’s bear threw itself against his control, demanding release. He held it back—barely.
“I wasn’t aware Magnus had jurisdiction on Ursa land.”
“Ursa land.” The bald one laughed—an ugly sound with no humor in it. “You haven’t been here in a decade and a half, boy. Things have changed. Your grandfather’s dying. Your sleuth is scattered. And this—” He spread his arms wide, encompassing the forest around them. “This belongs to Ironwood now. Has for years.”
“According to fraudulent surveys and doctored records.” Cal’s voice stayed level, but his hands had curled into fists at his sides. “The ward markers tell a different story.”
The bald one’s smile flickered. A crack in the confident facade. Then he shrugged, rolling his massive shoulders.
