Delos sprawled in a booth at Wolf Moon Brewery, nursing a beer he’d barely touched and watching his boss—his friend, actually, after everything they’d been through—make heart eyes at a storm witch across the table.
Aero Tau. Eight centuries old. Dragon elder. Former emotional disaster. Currently gazing at Cassia Gale like she’d hung the moon and stars and possibly invented the concept of weather itself.
Delos had never been prouder.
The bar was packed with Haven Shores’s supernatural community, all of them celebrating the newest mated pair. Someone had hung streamers. Someone else had convinced Dahlia to bake a cake before she left for Paris—a towering confection decorated with lightning bolts and tiny fondant dragons that Delos had already photographed from multiple angles. For posterity. And blackmail purposes.
“You’re staring,” Beck said, sliding into the booth beside him with two fresh beers. “It’s getting weird.”
“I’m savoring. Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to see him happy? Fifteen years.” Delos accepted the beer, gesturing toward where Aero was tucking a strand of hair behindCassia’s ear. She swatted his hand away, laughing, and Aero—Aero actually smiled. Not the barely-there twitch of lips that passed for amusement in dragon elder circles. An actual smile. “All that time watching him pretend he didn’t have feelings. Of translating his emotional constipation into something resembling normal interaction. Of being told that he didn’t form attachments while he literally refused to fire me despite my complete inability to maintain professional boundaries.”
“Worth the wait?”
Delos watched Cassia lean into Aero’s side, watched Aero’s arm come around her with the ease of someone who’d finally learned that touching the people he cared about wouldn’t kill him. The brand on her hip—Delos had caught a glimpse of it yesterday, the dragon-in-flight with lightning patterns branching through it—marked her as permanently, irrevocably his.
“Yeah.” His voice came out rougher than he’d intended. “Worth the wait.”
The brewery was decorated for the occasion—fairy lights strung between exposed beams, tables pushed aside to make room for dancing, a playlist that seemed to consist entirely of songs chosen for maximum romantic embarrassment. Currently, “Can’t Help Falling in Love” drifted through the speakers, and Leo was attempting to waltz Junie across the dance floor while she argued about his footwork.
Some things didn’t change, even after mating.
Theo’s pack occupied the pool table area, a rowdy cluster of wolves who’d apparently decided that this celebration required competitive billiards. Hux was holding court near the bar, his political charm on full display as he glad-handed everyone who wandered within reach. The witches had claimed the booth nearest the jukebox—Avine curled against Theo’s side, Narla observing everything with those knowing eyes of hers.
Haven Shores’s supernatural community, all gathered to celebrate a dragon elder falling in love with a local weather witch. Three months ago, Delos wouldn’t have believed it possible.
Then again, three months ago, Aero had still been convinced that mate recognition was a statistical anomaly that couldn’t possibly apply to him.
“So.” Beck’s tone shifted, became something careful and deliberately casual. “Rosemary’s three months are up.”
Delos went still. The wolf beta had become an unexpected friend over the past weeks—fellow sidekicks bonding over the disaster areas they both worked for, sharing war stories and questionable advice. He knew what the three-month deadline meant. Knew about the expedition offer. Knew Beck had been trying not to hold on too tight while simultaneously being unable to let go.
“And?” Delos asked.
Beck’s hands tightened around his beer bottle. The label was already shredded, little paper strips littering the table like confetti from a celebration that hadn’t happened yet.
“She turned it down.” His voice cracked on the words. “The expedition. Two years in the Pacific. Leadership of her own team. Everything she’s worked for.” He swallowed hard. “She said she’s staying.”
“Beck—”
“She said she’s done running from the thing that scares her most.”
Delos waited, because some confessions needed space.
“Being chosen.” Beck’s laugh was wet, disbelieving. “Staying in one place long enough to actually let someone love her. She said—” He had to stop, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes. “She said she spent her whole life using the ocean torun from commitment, and she’s finally ready to stop swimming away.”
“That’s…” Delos raised his beer. “Congratulations, man. You deserve it.”
“We’re still figuring things out.” Beck wiped his face, managing something like a smile. “Won’t be easy. She’ll still want to travel, do research, and be out on the water. But she’s going to come back. Every time. She’s going to come back to me.”
“That’s all you can ask for.”
They clinked bottles, drinking in companionable silence while the party swirled around them. On the dance floor, Leo had given up on waltzing and was now dipping Junie with a theatrical flourish while she pretended to be annoyed. Cal and Dahlia had finally arrived from the airport—Dahlia still in travel clothes, Cal looking more relaxed than Delos had ever seen him—and were being swarmed by friends demanding hugs.
The Paris trip had been delayed by the tsunami emergency, but they’d made it at last, a few weeks of international pastry success and—if the rumors were to be believed—bear shifter yoga. Delos chose not to examine that second part too closely.
“Look at them,” Beck said quietly, nodding toward the room at large. “A year ago, half these people barely spoke to each other. Wolves and lions. Witches and bears. Territorial disputes and old grudges and all that historical bullshit.” He shook his head. “Now we’re all drinking beer and celebrating a dragon mating.”
“The surge changed things.”
