14. Caroline
Circle of Protection:
Iron filings and salt. Draw a line. What crosses pays the price.
The blue light of the television flickers across the living room, painting the walls in shifting shadows. On screen, Carrie Bradshaw is wrestling with some romantic crisis.
I’m curled on the sofa, a bag of salt and vinegar chips balanced on my chest, a can of Diet Coke sweating on the coaster beside me. This is my version of self-care after a day that felt like it lasted a week.
Today was a marathon. The apothecary was a madhouse, everyone jittery and demanding after the Rift surge. My hands still ache from grinding herbs. My nose still tingles with the phantom scents of lavender and panic.
When I finally stumbled home, Amara was waiting, a whirlwind of energy and concern. We spent an hour together—her updating me on town gossip, me pretending my world hadn’t been tilted off its axis. Then she left, off to pack for her return trip to school.
A long, hot shower washed away the grime of the day, but not the memories.
Not the phantom ache between my legs, not the scent of Damon that seems to have seeped into my skin.
A nap helped, plunging me into a dreamless sleep that left me groggy but more human when I woke.
Now, this. Chips, soda, and the judgmental wisdom of four women in New York City.
Thistle is a warm weight against my thigh, his purr a vibrating rumble that’s more soothing than any potion I could brew. His eyes are half-closed, content in his kingdom of cushions. I scratch behind his ears, and he rewards me with a flick of his tail tip.
“See, Thistle?” I murmur, popping another chip into my mouth. “This is the life. No drama, no Rift, no… complications.”
He opens one eye, as if to say, “Speak for yourself.”
Then comes the knock.
Not a tentative tap. Not a frantic pounding. Three decisive raps that cut through the TV dialogue and make my heart jump. I pause the show, Carrie’s face frozen mid-monologue. Thistle’s head lifts, his ears swiveling toward the door, his purr silenced.
Nine o’clock. Who the hell is knocking at my door at nine o’clock?
My mind races through possibilities. Amara, forgetting her keys? Unlikely, she has a spare. June? My mom? A neighbor, needing help with a minor magical ailment? Also possible.
Or… Damon.
The thought sends a jolt through me, equal parts dread and something I refuse to name. I push myself off the sofa, my bare feet silent on the cool wood floor. I peer through the peephole, my breath catching in my throat.
It’s not Damon.
It’s Griffin.
My heart skips a beat. He’s standing on my porch, under the warm glow of the porch light, looking both familiar and strange. His dark hair is slightly messy, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He’s wearing a jacket over a button-down shirt and slacks—dressier than his usual firefighter gear.
And he smells… I can smell him even through the door. Faintly of alcohol, that specific tavern scent of spilled beer and woodsmoke that clings to clothes long after you’ve left.
He cups the back of his head with one hand, a gesture I remember all too well. It’s his nervous tic, the one he used to do when he was about to say something difficult.
I unlock the door, my hand trembling slightly. “Griffin? Everything okay?”
He lowers his hand, and his eyes meet mine. They’re the same deep brown I remember, but there’s something new in them, a tension I can’t quite read. “Hey, Caroline. Sorry to just… show up like this.” He glances away, then back. “I had a weird conversation and… can I come in?”
My mind is blank, a white wall of shock. Griffin. Here. Now. After all this time. I nod, stepping aside without a word, my body moving on autopilot.
He steps inside, bringing the cool night air and the scent of the tavern with him. The small space of my entryway suddenly feels too small, too intimate. I’m wearing my oldest, softest pajamas—thin cotton pants and a faded T-shirt. I feel exposed.
“I’ll be right back,” I mumble, grabbing the thick fleece robe hanging on the hook by the door.
I wrap it around myself, tying the belt tight, creating a barrier between us. It’s a flimsy defense, but it’s something.
He’s already moved into the living room, his gaze taking in the space—the bookshelves overflowing, the half-finished potion projects on the side table, the paused TV. He sits on the edge of the armchair, perched like he’s ready to bolt.
Thistle, my traitorous familiar, abandons his spot on the sofa.
He trots over to Griffin, rubs against his leg, then, with a graceful leap, jumps into his lap.
Griffin stiffens for a second, then relaxes, his hand automatically going to Thistle’s head, scratching behind his ears.
The traitor starts purring again, that loud rumble that fills the silence.
I stand there for a moment, watching them. A man I once loved, a cat who’s supposed to be my judge of character. And they seem to like each other.
“Can I… can I offer you something to drink?” I ask, the words tumbling out, filled with nervous energy. “Water? Tea? I have… Diet Coke?”
He shakes his head, his eyes still on Thistle. “I’m okay. Thanks.”
I sit on the sofa, across from him, tucking my feet under me. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. Every tick of the clock on the wall sounds like a hammer blow. My palms are damp, my heart is beating too fast.
This is wrong. This is all wrong.
“Griffin,” I whisper. “I’m getting nervous. Is everything okay? Did something happen? Is it the Rift?”
He looks up from Thistle, his gaze direct, intense. “The Rift’s fine. As fine as it ever is.” He takes a breath, and I can see him gathering his courage. “It’s something else. Something Beckett said.”
Beckett. One of the firefighters. What could he have said?
“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to prepare myself. “What about it?”
He studies me, his eyes searching my face, and I have the unnerving feeling that he can see right through me, through the robe, through the lies I’ve told for years.
He sees the girl who was stupid enough to let a boy mark her during her first heat, the girl who’s been living with the consequences ever since.
“Do people in this town not know that we’re not dating?”
And there it is.
One of my biggest lies, the one I’ve cultivated for years, the one that’s kept me safe and lonely all at once, hanging in the air between us.
The world seems to stop, the sound of the refrigerator humming in the kitchen fading away.
The floor drops out from under me, and I’m falling, falling into a panic so sharp it takes my breath away.
He knows. Someone told him. Or maybe he’s just been putting the pieces together. The way people look at me. The way no one ever asks me out.
“Griffin,” I say, his name a strangled sound. I don’t know what else to say. What can I say?
He doesn’t look away. His gaze is unwavering, a stark contrast to the nervous energy he radiated at the door. He’s found his footing, and he’s not backing down.
“What is going on, Caroline?”
The question hangs there. It’s not an accusation. It’s a genuine plea for understanding, a request for the truth. And I have no idea how to give it to him. My throat is tight, my mind a chaotic mess of excuses and half-truths and the overwhelming, crushing burden of my own deception.
“It’s complicated,” I say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. It’s the most pathetic, inadequate response imaginable, but it’s all I have.
Griffin stands up so abruptly that Thistle leaps from his lap, landing silently on the rug.
For a second, I think he’s going to walk out, that this is over before it’s even begun.
But then he sinks back into the armchair, running his hands through his hair, his elbows resting on his knees.
He looks broken, and the sight of it sends a pang through my chest.
“Complicated how?” he presses. “We haven’t spoken in three years, Caroline. Three years. And I come back to find out everyone in this town thinks we’re some bonded couple. How is that complicated?”
The words tumble out of me then, a frantic, jumbled rush of truth I’ve kept buried for too long.
“We were on and off, you know that. It was never… simple. There were good times, really good times, but then there were the bad times when we’d drive each other crazy.
” I can almost smell the old leather of his jacket, feel the scratch of his stubble against my cheek.
“Then you told me you were joining the academy. You were so excited, so sure. And you asked me… you asked me to marry you.”
My voice cracks on the last word. I remember that day so clearly. The sun was shining, we were by the river, and his face was full of hope. A hope I couldn’t share.
“I said no,” I whisper, the confession hanging in the air between us. “I ended things. I know I hurt you. I saw it in your eyes—the confusion, the hurt. And then the anger. You were so angry, Griff. And you had every right to be.”
He doesn’t say anything, just stares at the floor, his jaw tight.
“I thought you’d hate me forever,” I continue, gaining a little strength.
“Then you left. You moved fucking towns just to heal. And I let you go. I told myself it was for the best, that we were toxic for each other. And now… now here you are. You were never supposed to come back. I never thought… fuck. I didn’t think the lie was going to be a whole thing, and then it got complicated… and…”
He finally looks up, his eyes blazing. “Why? Why would you do that? Why would you tell anyone that we were together?”
I panic, the words spilling out in a desperate flood.
“Because I was scared!” I blurt out. “People already assumed we were together after… after you marked me. I should have corrected them. I should have told everyone it wasn’t what they thought.
” I shake my head, my chest tightening. “But I had just gotten the job at the apothecary, and I was screwing up. Everything I touched seemed to turn to dust. I was so new, so inexperienced. And I was still an unbonded Omega, Griff. I was terrified that if June and August found out, they’d think I was unstable, that my magic was erratic, that I couldn’t be trusted.
I know now June would have understood, but back then…
I panicked. The lie was already out there, and every day that passed it became harder to take it back.
So I let people believe it. Then I kept letting them believe it because I didn’t know how to undo it. ”
He stares at me, unreadable. “Everyone?” he asks. “Does everyone in this town think that?”
I nod, feeling a fresh wave of shame wash over me. “Everyone but Amara. I could never lie to her.”
“Fuck,” he says, the word a quiet explosion in the small room. “Fuck.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, tears welling in my eyes. “I’m so, so sorry. I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Fuck,” he repeats, standing up again, pacing the small space between the sofa and the armchair.
“Griffin…”
“Do you have any idea what this feels like? I tried to get over you, Caroline. I really did. I went to Chicago, I dated other people, I threw myself into my work. And I was doing it. I was moving on. I was so sure I had… and now I’m here.
And this lie, it’s like it’s pulling me back in, erasing everything I worked for. ”
He stops pacing and turns to face me, his eyes wild with frustration. “I asked someone out tonight. A woman from the bookstore. And all I could think about was what people would say. That I was cheating on you. That I was some kind of asshole.”
A hot, ugly twist of jealousy coils in my stomach at the thought of him with someone else, of his hand on another woman’s back, his smile directed at someone new. I push it down hard. I have no right to feel this way. None at all.
“I’ll fix it. I’ll tell everyone the truth. I’ll fix it.”
“How?” he asks, throwing his hands up in the air. “How are you going to fix this? You can’t just send out a town-wide announcement. ‘Hey everyone, remember that lie I’ve been telling for three years? Well, surprise! It’s not true!”
“I don’t know,” I admit, my shoulders slumping in defeat. “But I’ll think of something.”
“This isn’t just about us, Caroline. This is about my career. I’m working toward being a lieutenant. This… this could taint my image. They could see me as dishonest, as someone who can’t be trusted.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I say, and it’s the truth. I was so wrapped up in my own fears, my own insecurities, that I never once considered the real-world consequences for him.
“You never think about me!” he shouts, the words a sudden, sharp crack in the tension. It’s a culmination of all his anger, all his hurt, all his frustration, and it hits me like a physical blow.
He immediately looks horrified, his shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice soft now, filled with regret. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Don’t you know you did?” I ask. “Don’t you know that’s exactly what you meant?”
He doesn’t answer, just sinks onto the sofa beside me. The space between us feels charged, electric with all the words we haven’t said, all the feelings we’ve tried to suppress. He reaches for me, his hand outstretched, his fingers brushing against my arm.
And that’s when Thistle strikes.
He leaps onto the sofa between us, his back arched, his fur on end. A hiss rips from his throat, his eyes narrowed to slits. He’s not just warning Griffin away; he’s protecting me, in his own fierce, feline way.
Griffin pulls his hand back as if he’s been burned. “Fuck,” he says, the word barely a whisper. “You should have told me.”
And I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that he’s right. I should have.
I fucked everything up.