“They’re perfect.” He licked butter from his thumb with an unselfconsciousness that made heat curl in her belly. “Everything about tonight has been perfect.”
Dahlia leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. His arm came around her immediately, like it belonged there.
“Paris.”
“Paris,” he agreed.
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
“But you’re going to.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “Because you want it. Because your grandmother wanted it for you.”
Dahlia closed her eyes. Finally chasing a dream.
“What about Magnus? The council hearing. Everything that’s still unresolved.”
“We deal with Magnus first. Win the hearing. Secure the territory.” His arm tightened around her. “And then you go to Paris. And I’ll be here when you get back. Or—” his brow rose, “or I come with you.”
She sat up, staring at him. “What?”
“I said maybe I don’t go back to Seattle.” His lips curved. “I didn’t say I had to stay in Haven Shores. The sleuth can survive without me for a while. Margot’s more than capable. And I hear Paris has excellent opportunities for a bear who needs to learn how to rest.”
Dahlia couldn’t speak. The image rose unbidden—Paris in winter, croissants in tiny cafés, Cal beside her as she learned and grew and finally, finally chased the dream her grandmother had given her.
“You’d do that?” Her voice cracked. “For me?”
“For us.” He cupped her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone. “I spent years building an empire so I wouldn’t have to need anyone. But here’s the thing about empires—they don’t keep you warm at night. They don’t make you laugh until your sides hurt. They don’t sit beside you on flour-covered floors eating mediocre croissants at three a.m.”
He kissed her—soft and certain and full of promise.
“Choose Paris.” He breathed the words against her lips. “Choose yourself. And let me choose you right back.”
When Dahlia finally fell asleep that night—curled in her own bed, still smelling of flour and butter and him—she dreamed of croissants in Paris.
And the dream didn’t feel impossible anymore.
THIRTY-NINE
CAL
The Wolf Moon Brewery’s back room smelled like hops and tension.
Cal arrived at the meeting five minutes early, still carrying the scent of flour and vanilla from his late-night croissant disaster. The memory of Dahlia’s kitchen lingered—her laughter, her tears, the press of her body against his. He’d left her apartment before dawn, both of them exhausted and hopeful and raw in equal measure.
She’d kissed him at the door, soft and certain, tasting of butter and promise. Come back to me, that kiss had said. We’re not finished.
Now he sat in a room full of men who could kill him six different ways, preparing to discuss war.
The room had assembled itself around the map-covered table: Theo at the head, arms crossed, the posture of a man carrying weight he’d never asked for. Leo Castellan to his right, deceptively still. Sheriff Wyatt Gentry in the shadows, whiskey-colored eyes tracking everything. Mayor Hux Holt sat across from Leo, already calculating. Beck Driscoll in the corner—uncharacteristically quiet, the easy humor gone hollow.
Five shifters. One bear with a target on his back. And a war they hadn’t chosen but couldn’t avoid.
“He filed this morning.” Theo tossed a folder onto the table. Papers spilled out—official letterhead, Regional Shifter Council seals, language so formal, it practically dripped contempt. “Formal complaint claiming the Ursa sleuth is ‘unfit to hold territory.’ He’s calling for an emergency review of your boundary claims.”
Cal picked up the papers. The language was clever—legalistic without being aggressive, reasonable-sounding while hiding poison in every clause.
“He’s claiming my grandfather’s illness has left the sleuth leaderless.” Cal set the papers down. “That I abandoned the territory and have no legitimate claim to succession. That the boundary disputes prove systemic mismanagement going back decades.”
“Is any of it true?” Leo’s question was direct, without judgment.
