34. Caroline
Potion of Grounding:
Steep oak bark and sage. Drink during storms.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I reach for it over the arm of the couch, careful not to jostle Amara, who’s curled against my side with Thistle wedged between us. The cat is purring so loudly I can feel the vibration through the cushion.
Damon: Heading back in an hour or two. Don’t wait up.
I set the phone down and check on Amara. Fast asleep. Her mouth is slightly open, one hand resting on Thistle’s back. She ate two slices of pizza and passed out mid-sentence during the movie—some kind of romantic comedy that neither of us was really watching.
Griffin emerges from the kitchen with a paper towel in one hand and the pizza box in the other. He’s put on a shirt—mine, actually, one of my oversized sleep shirts. He looks ridiculous. He looks good.
“Amara out?”
“Completely.”
“I’ll put the other pizza in the oven. Keep it warm for when Damon and Silas get back.”
“Good idea.”
He disappears into the kitchen again. I carefully extract myself from the couch, sliding out from under Amara’s dead weight and stepping over Thistle without waking either of them. The cat opens one eye, assesses the situation, and closes it again.
In the kitchen, Griffin is transferring the remaining pizza to a baking sheet. The counter is a mess—napkins, empty cups, a garlic butter container. I grab a dish towel and start wiping down the surfaces.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says.
“I want to.”
We work in silence for a few minutes. Him at the oven, me at the counter.
The domesticity of it strikes me in a weird way.
Griffin Clarke in my kitchen, wearing my shirt, putting pizza in my oven while I wipe crumbs off my counter.
Six months ago, I would have bet money this would never happen again.
“Griffin.”
“Yeah?”
“How are you?”
He glances over his shoulder. “I’m good.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He closes the oven and sets the timer. Then he leans against the counter, arms crossed, and looks at me. Not in the hungry, heat-fueled way he’s been looking at me for the past four days. Something steadier.
“I know what you mean,” he says.
“Things have changed. In the last few days, everything has—”
“Changed. Yeah.”
“And I need to know if you’re okay with that. Not just the sex part. All of it. Sharing me. Being here with Damon and Silas. Because if you’re not—”
“I’m in love with you.”
The words hang in the air between us. Plain. Simple. No fanfare, no buildup, no dramatic pause. Just the truth, laid out like he’s been holding it behind his back for years and finally decided to show me.
“I’ve been in love with you since we were seventeen,” he says.
“I didn’t stop when I left. I didn’t stop when you wouldn’t come with me.
I didn’t stop when I tried to move on and couldn’t.
Every woman I’ve been with since you has been a poor substitute, and I knew it, and I did it anyway because I thought maybe if I kept trying, I’d eventually find someone who made me feel the way you do. ”
My hand has stopped moving on the counter. The dish towel hangs limp in my fingers.
“Griff—”
“I’m not saying this to pressure you. I’m not saying it because I think it changes anything between us right now.
I’m saying it because you asked how I am, and that’s the answer.
I’m in love with you, and being here with you these past few days—that’s the closest I’ve felt to whole since I left Willowbrook. Even with two other men in the room.”
I set the dish towel down. My throat feels tight, my eyes stinging, and I have to look away for a moment because I don’t want to cry in my kitchen at ten o’clock at night.
“Caroline.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.”
“I’m not. I’m just… processing.”
He pushes off the counter and crosses the small space between us. He doesn’t touch me. He just stands there, close enough that I can smell him—smoke and cedar and something underneath that’s just him.
“Take your time,” he says.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and laugh, shaky and wet. “God. I’m a mess.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“You’re biased.”
“Extremely.”
I look up at him. His face is open, unguarded in a way I haven’t seen since we were young. Before life got complicated. Before I broke his heart, and he broke mine right back.
“Go on a date with me,” I say.
His eyebrows rise. “What?”
“A date. You and me. Dinner somewhere that isn’t my living room. No heat, no other Alphas, no four-day orgies. Just us. Like normal people.”
“Normal people,” he repeats, and there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Or as close to normal as we can manage.”
“Caroline. Are you asking me out?”
“Yes. I am. Right now. Officially.”
He laughs. A real laugh, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look his age instead of like he’s been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Then he cups my face in his hands and kisses me.
It’s soft. Not desperate, not hungry, not fueled by pheromones or biology or the frantic energy of a heat. Just his mouth on mine, warm and unhurried, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. I lean into it, my hands finding the front of his shirt—my shirt—curling into the fabric.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“Yes,” he says. “I’ll go on a date with you.”
“Good.”
“I’d say yes to anything you asked.”
“Even dishes?”
“Even dishes.”
I laugh again, and this time it comes out easier. Lighter. He kisses me once more, a quick press of lips, and then steps back.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask. “With all of this. With everything that’s changed.”
He looks at me. That same open expression. That same steadiness.
“I’m sure,” he says. “I’ve waited years to be back in your life, Caroline. I’m not going to let a few complications scare me off.”
“Complications. That’s one word for it.”
“It’s the only word that fits in mixed company.”
I grab the dish towel again and return to the counter. Griffin starts stacking the empty cups. From the living room, I can hear Amara’s soft snoring and Thistle’s continued purring.
“Griff?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m glad you came back.”
He pauses, a cup in each hand. Then he sets them down and comes over to me, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
“Me too, sweetheart. Me too.”