She stared at him. “Cal?—”
“My place is here. The company can work around that.”
A long breath. Then her fingers tightened around his, and she let it settle.
“And Magnus himself—I’ve challenged him. Formally. For leadership of both sleuths.”
Her grip on his hand tightened. “When?”
“Tomorrow. At the ancestral denning grounds.”
Her pupils dilated, breath catching—or worry. But beneath it was steel.
“Then I’ll be there.”
“Dahlia, you can barely sit up?—”
“I’ll be there.” No room for argument. No softness in those hazel eyes. “You’re going to fight for everything we’ve built. You think I’m going to miss that?”
Cal kissed her—gentle, mindful of her injuries, but thorough enough to make his point.
“I love you.” He breathed the words against her lips. “I should have said it before. Should have said it a hundred times. I love you, Dahlia Moon.”
Her smile was like a sunrise. “I know. I heard you. In the chamber, when everything was going gray—I heard you.”
“You heard me, and you stayed.”
“Of course, I stayed.” She touched his face, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw. “I wasn’t done with you yet.”
FORTY-SEVEN
CAL
The ancestral Ursa denning grounds lay in a valley where the mountains folded into sheltered ridges, protected from wind and weather by ancient rock formations. Cal had played here as a child before his father left.
Now he stood at the edge of the challenge circle—a natural amphitheater worn smooth by generations of bears settling disputes—and tried to remember why he’d ever thought running was the answer.
The crowd had gathered on the slopes above. Bears, of course—the Ursa sleuth in their entirety, even the ones who’d doubted him, even Margot with her sharp tongue and sharper eyes. But they weren’t alone.
Theo stood with his pack—two dozen wolves, gray and brown and black, a wall of solidarity at the valley’s northern edge. Beck was at his side, the beta’s easy humor replaced with quiet intensity. Leo had brought his lions, sleek and golden in the afternoon light, their presence a statement of alliance that crossed species lines. Wyatt’s panthers moved like shadows through the trees, barely visible but unmistakably present—the law, standing witness.
And the witches. God, the witches had turned out in force. Junie, with her wild red hair and crackling energy, practically bouncing with nervous tension. Cassia vibrating with storm magic, clouds darkening overhead in response to her mood—she’d offered twice to “accidentally” strike Magnus with lightning. Narla, calm and watchful, Ember perched on her shoulder, her knowing eyes tracking everything. Elder Sue Tidewell, serenely smug, as if she’d personally arranged all of this.
Even Hux Holt had come, the mayor’s political mind likely already calculating how to spin this. The Regional Council representatives who’d presided over the hearing stood on neutral ground, witnesses to the formal challenge.
All of Haven Shores gathered to watch him fight for their future.
But Cal’s attention fixed on one figure in particular.
Dahlia stood at the front of the crowd, flanked by Avine and Junie, each of them holding one of her arms to keep her upright. She was pale, moving carefully, bandages visible beneath the loose sweater she wore. She shouldn’t have been out of bed. She definitely shouldn’t have made the trek up the mountain. The healers had been explicit: five days minimum of bed rest, no exceptions, no arguments. Dahlia had listened with the attentiveness of someone who had no intention of complying, and then done exactly as she pleased.
She was here anyway. Because that was who she was.
Their eyes met across the challenge circle. She nodded once—I’m here. I believe in you. Go get him.
Cal’s bear went still. Ready.
Magnus emergedfrom the opposite side of the circle.
