31. Caroline
Spell of Heat:
Three parts daisy petals, one part ghost pepper, steep with a cinnamon stick. Drink under a full moon.
Iwake up in a nest of foreign fabric.
It takes me a moment to place where I am—my own bedroom, my own bed—but the sheets have been stripped and replaced with a haphazard pile of men’s clothing.
Damon’s flannel, soft and worn from years of washing.
Griffin’s T-shirt, carrying a trace of smoke and cedar.
Silas’s button-down, still faintly crisp even after four days of chaos.
I’m naked underneath it all.
The memories surface in fragments. Not a flood, but a slow tide—pieces rising one by one, each one making my face burn hotter.
Griffin’s hands on my hips in the shower.
Damon pinning me to the mattress while I screamed his name.
Silas’s mouth between my thighs, his tongue doing things I didn’t know a tongue could do.
Three Alphas, four days, more orgasms than I can count.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my face into the nearest shirt. It smells like all of them. Like me, too. Like sex and sweat and something deeper.
The door opens. I don’t look up.
“It’s just me.” Griffin’s voice. “I brought water.”
I hear the soft thud of a glass being set on the nightstand. The mattress dips as he sits on the edge of the bed. His hand finds my back through the pile of clothes, his palm warm and broad, and he strokes down my spine in a motion so gentle it makes my throat tighten.
“You awake?”
“Mmm.”
“How do you feel?”
I consider the question. My body aches in places I forgot existed. There’s a soreness between my legs that’s almost pleasant, a dull throb that reminds me of everything that happened. My skin feels oversensitive and raw.
But underneath all of that, there’s something else. A hollowness. An emptiness that doesn’t make sense when I spent the last four days being filled.
“Weird,” I say.
“Weird how?”
“Just weird.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Silas says that’s normal. The drop after a heat. Your body is recalibrating.”
I crack one eye open and peer up at him. He looks rough—stubble darker than usual, shadows under his eyes, a scratch down his shoulder that I don’t remember making. But his expression is soft. Tender in a way that makes my chest ache.
“You stayed,” I whisper.
“Of course I stayed.”
I push myself up onto my elbows. The nest of clothes shifts around me, and the air hits my bare skin, cool and unfamiliar. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. I want to crawl back under the fabric and never come out.
Griffin seems to sense it. “You hungry?”
“Not yet.”
“You need to eat something. Silas made soup.”
“In a minute.”
He nods and doesn't push. That's one of the things I've always loved about Griffin—his ability to read me, to know when to push and when to back off. The years apart didn't change that.
“Can you help me to the bathroom?” I ask. The words come out small, and I hate how small they sound.
He doesn't comment on it. He just stands, pulls one of the larger shirts from the nest—Damon's flannel—and wraps it around me, buttoning it enough to cover me. Then he lifts me like I weigh nothing and carries me down the hall.
The bathroom is small and warm. The mirror is fogged, the tub still damp from someone’s recent shower. Griffin sets me on the closed toilet lid and turns on the tap in the sink, testing the temperature.
“I can wash you,” he offers. “If you want.”
I nod.
He wets a washcloth and kneels in front of me.
His hands are steady as he unbuttons the flannel, pushing it off my shoulders, exposing my skin inch by inch.
I fight the urge to cover myself. He’s seen every part of me over the last four days.
He’s been inside every part of me. There’s no logical reason to feel shy now.
But I do. I feel shy and exposed and so overwhelmingly aware of the marks covering my body. The bite on my collarbone, already fading to purple. The bruises on my hips where hands gripped too hard. The tender spot between my thighs.
Griffin notices me looking. His gaze follows mine, and his jaw tightens—not with anger, but with something that looks like regret.
“I was too rough,” he murmurs.
“You weren’t.”
“Caroline—”
“You weren’t, Griffin. I asked for it. All of it. I wanted it.” I meet his eyes. “Don’t apologize for giving me what I needed.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he nods and brings the washcloth to my neck, wiping gently.
The fabric is warm against my skin, and I close my eyes as he works his way down my shoulders, my arms, the dip of my collarbone.
He’s careful around the marks, skirting them with a tenderness that makes something crack open in my chest.
When he reaches my breasts, I suck in a breath. My nipples tighten under the warm cloth, and Griffin pauses, his hand hovering.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out breathier than I intend.
He continues. The washcloth drags across my skin, over the swell of my breasts, and my back arches on its own. He notices. Of course he notices. His thumb brushes the underside of my breast, and the washcloth drops into the sink.
“Griff—”
“I know.” His voice is rough. “I know.”
His hand slides up, cupping my breast, his thumb finding my nipple and rolling it slowly. I gasp, my head falling back against the toilet tank. His mouth follows his hand, pressing hot kisses down my jaw, my neck, the curve of my shoulder.
“This isn’t—” I start.
“I know.” He kisses the bite mark on my collarbone, his tongue flicking over the bruised skin. “I just need to touch you. Can I?”
I nod because I can’t form words.
His free hand slides down my stomach, over my hip, between my thighs. I’m sore—achingly sore—but when his fingers find my clit, the discomfort dissolves into something warmer, something that spreads through my pelvis like honey.
“You’re still so wet,” he breathes against my throat.
“The heat—”
“Is it over? The heat?”
“I think so. I don’t know.”
He slides one finger inside me, and I moan. It’s a small sound, barely audible over the running water, but Griffin makes one of his own in response—a low, hungry noise that vibrates against my neck.
“Does this feel good?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me if it doesn’t.”
I nod again. He adds a second finger, and the stretch makes me whimper. Not from pain—or not just from pain. From the fullness, the pressure, the way his fingers curl inside me and find that spot that makes my vision blur.
He kisses me as he fucks me with his fingers. His tongue slides against mine, swallowing my gasps, and his thumb circles my clit in a motion so precise it’s almost clinical. Except nothing about this feels clinical. Everything about it feels like worship.
I come with his name on my lips, my body clenching around his fingers, my hand fisted in his hair. He works me through it, drawing out every last wave, until I’m trembling and boneless on the toilet lid.
He pulls his fingers out slowly and brings them to his mouth. He looks me in the eye as he licks them clean, and the sight of it sends a final, weak pulse through my core.
“Good?” he asks.
I laugh. It’s shaky. “Yeah. Good.”
He kisses my forehead, then finishes washing me with the cloth he retrieved from the sink. When he’s done, he wraps me back in Damon’s flannel and carries me to the living room.
Damon and Silas are already there. The couch cushions have been returned to their rightful place, and someone has lit a fire in the small fireplace. Thistle is curled up on the armchair, his eyes open and watching me with what I can only describe as feline judgment.
Silas appears beside me with a cup of tea. I take it with both hands, wrapping my fingers around the warmth. It smells like chamomile and something earthy, and when I take a sip, it tastes like comfort.
“How are you feeling?” Silas asks, settling onto the couch across from me.
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
“That’s fairly standard.”
Griffin sits on my other side, his thigh pressing against mine. Damon takes the armchair, displacing Thistle, who meows in protest before hopping onto the floor and weaving between my ankles.
“June called,” Damon says.
My stomach drops. “When?”
“Yesterday. She was checking on you. Wanted to know why you hadn’t shown up for your shift.”
I close my eyes. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her you were indisposed.”
“Indisposed.” The word tastes sour. “So she knows.”
“She suspected before I called. She'd already sent you a heat kit.”
I groan and bury my face in my tea. “Right. She’s going to have questions.”
“She had questions,” Damon says. “I answered them. Vaguely.”
“What does ‘vaguely’ mean?”
“It means I told her you were experiencing an unexpected biological event and would be unavailable for the next few days. She asked if you needed anything. I told her we had it handled.”
“We.” I lift my head. “As in…?”
“All three of us. She didn’t seem surprised.”
Great. So now my boss knows I spent the last four days getting railed by three Alphas. Fantastic.
“What’s happening in town?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. “With the storm. The Rift.”
Damon leans forward, elbows on his knees. “The storm passed two days ago. Minor flooding on the east side, some downed trees, a few broken windows. My deputies handled most of it. The Rift flared again last night, but it was smaller than before. The wards held.”
“The wards held?”
“I reinforced them. Twice. They’re solid for now.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “And Dahlia? Is she okay? You mentioned that you had run into her during the storm.”
Damon and Silas exchange a look.
“Dahlia is fine,” Silas says carefully. “She’s with her family. June has been keeping an eye on her.”
“Did you…” I hesitate. “Did you talk to my mom?”
Another look between them. This time it’s Griffin who answers.
“I called her,” he says. “Day one. Told her you were staying with a friend during the storm.”
“She believed that?”
“She didn’t ask questions. She just said to tell you she loves you.”