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A low growl rolled through his chest. Several patrons glanced toward us, decided whatever was happening wasn’t worth becoming involved, and abruptly found other things to look at.

“That probably works better on people who haven’t been threatened by Jacqueline Fortman before breakfast,” I told him.

Dean set the glass down. His eyes flashed with his wolf before returning to their usual dark brown.

“I won’t have a mate, Logan.”

There was something in his voice I hadn’t heard before. Not anger. Not exactly. It sounded older than that. Final in a way that made the questions crowding my tongue feel suddenly unwelcome.

“That sounds different from not wanting one.”

“It isn’t.” He picked up another glass. “I don’t need fate dropping someone into my life and turning everything upside down. I have the bar. I have friends. I have exactly as much bullshit as I’m willing to tolerate.”

“That last part seems debatable.”

“Drink your beer.”

I did, mostly because Dean had listened when I needed him and never demanded answers I wasn’t ready to give. I could return the favor.

Still, as he moved away to serve another customer, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Dean hadn’t merely decided against finding a mate.

He was counting on never being found by one.

An hour later, I walked into the private garage behind Kingston Security.

The building smelled of motor oil and sawdust, the comforting scent of honest work far removed from boardrooms and supernatural threat assessments. The ’69 Mustang sat in the center with its engine exposed and parts scattered across the concrete like mechanical confetti.

“You’re late,” Mack called without looking up from the carburetor he was rebuilding.

“I was having an emotional revelation at the bar. It was very important.”

He snorted. “Emotional revelations don’t fix carburetors. Get over here.”

I joined him beside the Mustang and picked up my tools.

The friendship between us had developed so naturally that I sometimes forgot how unlikely it was. Mack had once been prepared to throw me out of his garage and possibly Arrhythmia. Now he trusted me with his prized restoration project.

We worked in comfortable silence. The clink of metal against metal and the occasional muttered profanity filled the garage.

“Carolina has that look again,” Mack said eventually.

“What look?”

“The one she gets when she’s planning something. I saw her outside the bookstore yesterday talking to the witch who runs the apothecary. There was a lot of gesturing. It looked serious.”

I smiled. “I’ve been curse-free six months today. I suspect she’s planning something, but she hasn’t told me what.”

“Keeping you guessing?”

“She likes planning, and she likes surprising me.” I tightened a bolt and felt the satisfying resistance of metal gripping metal. “Last month, she organized a picnic in the meadow behind the coven house. There were fireflies, champagne, and a blanket she had apparently spent three months weaving.”

Mack made a face. “That’s disgustingly romantic.”

“It really was.”

“You deserve it. After everything.”

I paused and looked at him.