“I know what dragons are.” Cassia grabbed apain au chocolatand bit into it with more aggression than the pastry deserved. Buttery flakes scattered across her lap. “Ancient. Arrogant. Think they’re better than everyone else because they can breathe fire and fly. Probably looks at mortals and sees bugs.”
“This one breathes lightning,” Junie said cheerfully. “Storm dragon, remember? Same subspecies as your magic. What a coincidence.”
“Even better.” Cassia washed down the pastry with more coffee. The bitterness matched her mood. “A condescending lizard who can electrocute me if I annoy him. Can’t wait.”
“Dragons aren’t like other shifters. They don’t integrate. Don’t join packs or prides or sleuths.” Cal met Cassia’s gaze, and something in his expression looked almost like a warning. “This one coming here, asking to work with locals—it’s unusual.”
“You think it means something?” Avine asked.
“I think it means watch your back.” Cal’s hand found Dahlia’s hip, settling there with an easy possessiveness. “Dragons always have their own agenda.”
“Great. An agenda older than most civilizations. Just what Haven Shores needs.” Cassia finished her coffee in three long swallows and stood. “I should probably go. Get this over with.”
“We’ll come with you—” Junie started.
“No.” Cassia softened the refusal with a tired smile. “I’d rather face one dragon than give Sue the satisfaction of thinking I need backup. Besides,” she brushed croissant flakes from her shirt, “when this turns into a disaster—and it will—I want it on record that I handled the initial meeting myself.”
“Noted.” Narla’s lips twitched, the closest she ever came to an outright smile. “Though I have a feeling this particular disaster might surprise you.”
Cassia didn’t ask what that meant. With Narla, it was usually better not to.
TWO
CASSIA
The Council chambers occupied the oldest building in Haven Shores—a converted church with stained glass windows that cast colored shadows across the stone floor. Cassia had been here dozens of times over the years, for weather reports and ward maintenance and the occasional heated argument about fishing schedules that had ended with her accidentally setting off the fire suppression runes.
This felt different.
The air itself seemed charged as she pushed through the heavy wooden doors. Static prickled along her skin. Her barometer pendant dropped another notch, the brass warming against her collarbone. Every instinct she possessed screamed that something was waiting for her inside. Something that would change everything.
Gust, who had insisted on accompanying her despite his ongoing sulk, pressed close to her shoulder. His small body had gone rigid with tension, and through their bond she felt?—
Something’s wrong. Don’t like it. Go back.
“Join the club,” she muttered.
But she kept walking. Because Cassia Gale didn’t back down from challenges, even when every cell in her body told her she should.
Elder Sue Tidewell waited at the far end of the main hall, ancient and smug in her usual carved chair. The Witch Elder had been running Haven Shores for longer than anyone could remember, and she did nothing—nothing—without an ulterior motive. Her snow-white hair was piled in an elaborate arrangement. Her dark eyes glittered with the particular satisfaction of someone whose scheme was going exactly as planned.
The fact that she’d specifically requested Cassia for this assignment raised more red flags than a maritime distress signal.
But it was the figure beside her that stopped Cassia dead in her tracks.
He stood at the edge of the colored light from the windows, tall and utterly still. Dark hair silvered at the temples, the kind of gray that looked distinguished rather than old. Sharp jaw. High cheekbones. A mouth set in a hard line that suggested it had forgotten how to do anything else. He wore all black, tailored and precise, and he radiated the kind of cold stillness that had nothing to do with temperature.
Everything about him screamed predator. Ancient. Powerful. Dangerous.
And his eyes?—
Gray. Not just gray—layered, shifting, dark as thunderheads with something electric flickering in their depths. Not quite lightning, but the promise of it. The threat of it.
Those eyes locked onto hers across the stone floor.
Everythingstopped.
Electricity arced between them—actual electricity, blue-white and crackling, jumping from her fingertips toward hischest before she could stop it. The lights overhead flickered and died. Thunder cracked outside, sudden and deafening despite the clear morning sky. The stained glass windows rattled.
