19. Caroline #2
But as I stand there, trying to make sense of him, another sense kicks in, one that overrides everything else. Scent. It wafts under the door, through the cracks, a scent of cold iron and expensive cologne and something else… something sterile and cold like winter rain just before it freezes.
It’s an Alpha scent, but unlike any I’ve ever encountered. It’s not earthy and comforting like Damon’s. It’s all sharp edges and control, the scent of a predator.
He must sense me watching, because he tilts his head, a subtle, inquisitive movement. “I know someone is there. I can smell you, Omega.”
The word sends a violent shiver through me, a jolt of pure electricity that makes the heat inside me flare to an inferno. My body betrays me, a deep and involuntary clenching in my core that makes me gasp. I fumble with the lock, my hands shaking so badly I can barely get the key in the hole.
I don’t know why I’m opening the door. This is a terrible idea. Every instinct is screaming at me to run, to hide. But that voice, that scent, that undeniable presence… it’s a force of nature, and I’m a moth drawn to a flame.
I open the door a crack, the chain lock holding it fast with a pathetic rattle. “What do you want?”
He removes his sunglasses. The movement is slow and calculated.
He hooks them in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
His eyes are a piercing, arctic blue, so bright they seem to glow in the dimness.
They seem to see right through the door, through the flimsy chain, through me, pinning me in place with an intensity that’s both terrifying and mesmerizing.
“Who are you?”
“Caroline,” I breathe out. The name feels small and insignificant, a child’s name spoken in the face of a god.
“Caroline,” he repeats, his gaze sweeping over me, from my flushed face down to my bare feet. His nose wrinkles, a slight, almost imperceptible movement of distaste. Or maybe it’s something else. Analysis. “Are you feeling well?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, my voice a reedy whisper. The world starts to tilt again, the edges of my vision blurring. I stumble back, my hand flying out to brace against the doorframe, the wood rough against my palm.
He takes a step forward, his hand reaching for the doorknob. He curses under his breath, a low sound of frustration as his hand meets an invisible barrier. The ward. He can’t get through. He presses his palm flat against the air, a flicker of impatience crossing his perfect, severe features.
“You don’t look fine,” he says, his voice losing some of its smooth calm. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”
“I’m okay,” I insist, but the words are a lie, and we both know it. My head is swimming, my thoughts a mess. Where is my phone? I need to call Damon. Or my mom. Or… shit. What the hell is going on?
Panic starts to claw at my throat, making it hard to breathe.
“Explain it to me,” he commands, his blue eyes locking onto mine, holding me captive. “The ward. How does it work? What’s the trigger to dismantle it?”
“Why should I?” I manage to ask, my thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. The defiance is weak, but it’s there.
“Because you’re standing there burning up from the inside out, and I’m the only person in this town who might be able to tell you why,” he purrs. “Now, explain it.”
His tone leaves no room for argument. It’s not a request. It’s an order.
And some part of me, the part that’s drowning in heat and confusion, responds to it on a primal level.
The logical part of my brain knows it’s a risk, a terrible one, but the other part of me, the Omega part, sees a powerful Alpha offering answers in a world that has suddenly become terrifying and unknown.
“It’s… it’s a keyed resonance,” I say, the words feeling thick and clumsy on my tongue. “It takes two people. One on the inside, one on the outside. Both have to speak a counter-charm and press their palms to the barrier at the same time.”
He nods once, a curt, businesslike gesture. “I’m on the outside. What’s the phrase?”
I tell him. It’s a simple string of words, a reversal of the activation charm.
I place my shaking hand against the invisible wall of the ward.
It feels warm, humming with a vibrant, thrumming energy that makes my teeth ache.
He mirrors my position on the other side of the door, his palm flat against the same spot.
The heat of his hand is a phantom sensation against my skin.
“On three,” he says.
I nod, my breath catching in my throat, my heart hammering.
“One. Two. Three.”
We speak the words together. A flash of blinding white light erupts from the point of contact, so bright I have to squeeze my eyes shut. The air crackles with static electricity, the smell of ozone sharp and clean. The humming energy of the ward vanishes. The barrier is gone.
He doesn’t hesitate. He pushes the door open, the chain snapping like a dry twig, and is inside the shop in one fluid, impossibly fast motion. He closes the door behind him, plunging us back into near-darkness, the only light the single lamp over the counter.
He crosses the space between us, his presence overwhelming, filling the small shop. The scent of him is everywhere. It’s intoxicating.
“Are you well?” he asks again, his voice vibrating in the charged air.
I try to answer, but a wave of dizziness so intense it buckles my knees washes over me. I would have fallen if he hadn’t reached out, his hands gripping my upper arms, holding me up.
His touch is cool, a shocking, blissful relief against my burning skin. I gasp, a full-body shudder racking me as a wave of pure, unadulterated need, so powerful it terrifies me, rolls through me.
“You’re burning up,” he states, his blue eyes intense as he scans my face, his gaze clinical and analytical.
He leans in slightly, his nostrils flaring as he takes in my scent properly now that the ward is gone.
The air crackles between us, thick with tension.
His grip on my arms tightens, a possessive, grounding pressure.
He looks down at me, his face a mask of cold control. Then he asks the question, the one that confirms my deepest, most terrifying fear.
“Are you in heat, Omega?”
My knees buckle, the floorboards rushing up to meet me. The world tilts, a nauseating, swirling kaleidoscope of shadow and dim light. I don’t fall.
One moment I’m collapsing, the next I’m airborne, a gasp escaping my lips as an arm bands around my waist, another hooking behind my knees.
He lifts me as if I weigh nothing. The scent of him engulfs me.
My face is pressed against the cool, smooth fabric of his suit jacket, and for a dizzying, terrifying second, it feels like the safest place in the world.
He carries me through the darkened shop, his steps sure and silent on the creaking floorboards. He doesn’t head for the door; he moves toward the back. He kicks the door open, the bang of it against the wall making me flinch, and sets me down gently on the worn floral sofa that I sometimes nap on.
He straightens, his tall frame blocking out the light from the open door. “Suppressants,” he commands. “Do you have them? Somewhere in this mess?”
I can only shake my head, the movement sending a fresh wave of dizziness through me. “They’re at home.”
“Fuck,” he bites out, the curse devoid of real anger, more like a statement of a frustrating fact. He turns on his heel and walks to the floor-to-ceiling shelves that line one wall, where we keep my bulk herbs and less-used potions.