Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Sacred Clay
Cass
Pain came first. Then heat. Then the slow, horrible awareness that he was somewhere unfamiliar and his body was doing things he couldn’t control.
Cass tried to open his eyes, but the light stabbed through his skull like shards of glass.
Everything hurt—his head, his stomach, the deep cramping ache that radiated from somewhere low in his abdomen and pulsed outward in waves.
And there was wetness…so much wetness, soaking through his robes, pooling beneath him on whatever surface he was lying on.
Don’t think about it. Don’t let them see.
He didn’t know who “them” was. He didn’t know where he was.
Fragments of memory swam up through the fog: Lilac’s Jeep. The wildflowers. Granny Lu’s sharp voice. Riot’s arms catching him.
“He’s waking up.” The voice was unfamiliar. Male. Gentle.
Something cold pressed against his lips.
The shock of it made him gasp, jerking him fully into his body with brutal clarity. Ice. Water. The chill was so startling, for a moment he couldn’t process what he was supposed to do with it.
“Small sips,” the voice said. “Don’t try to drink too fast.”
Cass forced his eyes open, blinking against the light until the blur resolved into a face.
Oh.
The person holding the glass was... beautiful wasn’t the right word.
Beautiful was what Brother Matthias called the sacred geometries of Elysian architecture.
This was something else entirely. Dark hair that caught the light like polished wood.
Warm amber eyes that seemed to glow with their own inner fire.
Features that managed to be both delicate and strong at the same time.
Something tugged at his memory. Something about a marketplace. Tired eyes and fresh bruises and—
He stared too long. He knew he was staring too long. But his thoughts were moving slow and thick, and by the time he realized he should probably say something, the beautiful stranger was already smiling.
“There you are,” the stranger said. “Can you drink a little more?”
Cass managed a sip. The cold water traced a path down his throat, and he hadn’t realized how raw it was until the relief hit him. He made a small, grateful sound and tried to reach for the glass himself.
“Easy,” the stranger said, steadying the glass. “You’ve been out for about an hour. Your fever’s still pretty high.”
An hour. Cass tried to process that. An hour of being unconscious, of being vulnerable, of other people having to take care of him while he lay there soaking through his clothes.
Another cramp rolled through him, vicious and deep, and he bit his lip hard to keep from crying out.
He curled forward, pressing a hand against his abdomen, trying to breathe through discomfort the way Brother Matthias had taught him during meditation.
“Keep breathing through it,” the stranger said, and there was something knowing in his voice. Something that suggested he understood exactly what Cass was feeling. “It’ll pass. Just breathe.”
When Cass uncurled enough to look around, he realized he was in a small bedroom.
Simple wooden walls, a worn quilt beneath him, curtains drawn against what looked like darkness outside.
The wetness beneath him had soaked into the bedding.
He could feel it, cooling and shameful against his skin.
Whoever owned this bed was going to have to wash everything, and the thought made his face burn with embarrassment on top of the fever.
I’m ruining their things. I’m ruining everything.
And that’s when he noticed the bracelet.
It was on the beautiful stranger’s wrist, half-hidden by his sleeve—a familiar pattern of clay beads strung on hemp cord. The same design Cass had been carrying in his recruitment supplies for months. The same sacred clay that Brother Matthias had blessed for spiritual focusing.
Something clicked in his heat-scattered memory.
“Oh!” Cass tried to sit up, a spark of recognition cutting through the misery. “I remember you! You were in the marketplace, months ago.”
Hands pressed down on his shoulders from behind—smaller than Riot’s, the touch steady but firm. “You should stay seated.”
But Cass was already twisting, trying to see who was behind him while keeping the familiar stranger in view. “He was in the Neutral Zone and he looked so tired and beat up and—”
He stopped, studying the stranger’s face more carefully now.
There were still bruises—fresh ones, actually, mottled purple and yellow across his collarbone where his shirt had slipped.
Small abrasions around his wrists, like healing rope burns.
But his expression was completely different from the haunted, hollow look Cass remembered from that brief encounter.
He looked happy. Settled. Like someone who had finally stopped running.
“Now you look well-rested and beat up,” Cass said. “That’s an improvement, right?”
The stranger’s cheeks flushed a soft pink. “I... thank you? I think?” He ducked his head—a surprising gesture for someone so striking. “I’m Orion. And that’s Dante behind you.”
Cass turned carefully to see the person who’d been holding his shoulders.
He was tall, with dark hair, sharp gray eyes, and posture that reminded Cass of the Gensyn operatives he’d occasionally seen in the Neutral Zone, controlled and dangerous, like a blade wrapped in silk.
But his expression was guarded in a way that felt personal rather than corporate, his eyes flicking towards the closed door of the room.
“Nice to meet you both,” Cass said, trying to remember his manners. “I’m—well, I guess you probably already know who I am. Did Riot tell you about...?”
Another cramp hit, sharper than the last, and he had to stop talking to breathe through it. He pressed his legs together tighter, as if that could somehow stop it, and focused on breathing until the cramp released.
“It’s okay to not be okay,” Orion said quietly. He’d moved closer, crouching down so he was at Cass’s eye level. “Heat hurts. You don’t have to pretend.”
The kindness in his voice made Cass blink rapidly, trying to keep the tears from spilling over, and he managed a nod.
“Where’s Riot?” he asked, looking around the room as if expecting the Berserker to materialize from the shadows. “Is he okay? Did something happen?”
Orion and Dante exchanged a look. It was quick—just a flicker of eye contact—but Cass caught it. Concern. Wariness.
“You don’t need to worry about that right now,” Dante said. His voice was careful, measured. “The important thing is getting you through your heat safely.”
“Riot’s a good guy,” Orion added, and there was something complicated in his tone. “We know about the suppressant situation. But you’re safe here, okay? You don’t have to be afraid.”
Afraid?
These kind, well-meaning strangers were talking about Riot like he was a threat to be managed. A danger to be contained. They thought Cass was worried about being hurt.
Why?
“No,” Cass said, pushing himself up despite the way his head spun. “No, you don’t—I need to see him. I need—”
His legs wobbled dangerously. The room tilted. For a horrible moment Cass thought he was going to collapse again, but then Orion was there, catching him under his arms with surprising strength for someone smaller than him.
“Easy, easy—”
“I’m sorry.” Cass’s voice came out thin, desperate. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I just need to—”
The scent hit him mid-sentence and stole the rest of his words.
Storm winds and ozone. Clean and electric and achingly powerful.
It wasn’t the same as Riot’s scent—didn’t make his brain feel wrapped in warm honey or make his body surge with that desperate, hungry ache.
But it was good. It was safe. It made something deep in Cass’s chest unclench in a way he’d never experienced before.
He didn’t make a conscious decision to move closer.
His body just... did it. Leaning into Orion’s space, pressing his nose against the curve of the other Omega’s neck where the scent was strongest and breathing deep.
Something in him settled at the contact.
Some of the fever-wrong-empty feeling eased as he inhaled that storm-and-lightning smell, like it was grounding.
Like when he held hands with Honey when they were kids.
“You smell like rainy weather,” Cass murmured against Orion’s neck. “The good kind. Like right before a storm breaks, when everything feels... clean.”
“Um,” Orion said, his whole body going rigid. “What are you—”
Cass nuzzled closer, rubbing his cheek against Orion’s shoulder without quite meaning to. His body was doing things again—things he couldn’t control, things that felt necessary even though his brain couldn’t explain why.
“Dante.” Orion’s voice rose into a higher register. “Dante, he’s—what is he—”
“He’s scenting you.”
Dante’s voice had dropped an octave. When Cass glanced up, still pressed against Orion’s shoulder, he found the Alpha watching them with undisguised interest. Those gray eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide, and he’d tilted his head like he was trying to memorize every angle.
“It’s a comfort behavior,” Dante continued.
“During heats or high stress, Omegas seek out other Omegas for... this. Scent sharing. Grounding.” A slow smile curved his lips.
“I used to watch from the observation deck at the Ateliers. Before heats, the Omegas would all pile together. Grooming each other. Scenting. Touching everywhere.” He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on where Cass was pressed against Orion. “It was... educational.”
“You’re such a creep,” Orion snapped. His arms had finally moved, settling awkwardly around Cass’s back. “I know what Omega scenting is. I’ve just never—it’s not something I—”
“He’s clearly having a difficult time, just let him.” Dante’s grin was entirely too pleased. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.” The grin softened slightly. “Hold him tighter. He’s shaking.”
Orion’s arms tightened around Cass, less awkward now, more protective. The scent intensified with the closeness, and Cass felt some of the desperate edge ease from his breathing.
“You must not be from somewhere with cuddling,” Cass said slowly, trying to make sense of what they were saying. He wasn’t sure what an Atelier was, but if Orion was like Riot, maybe he was originally from Gensyn territory? “Riot was weird about cuddling too. It’s okay.”
“You cuddled…with Riot?” Orion asked, sounding confused. “How are you still…alive?”
The words hit something raw in Cass’s chest, because even as Orion’s scent helped ease some of the panic, Cass was achingly aware of what was missing.
Who was missing. The hollow ache that had been temporarily quieted roared back, and Cass felt his body clench around nothing—desperate, empty, wanting.
Orion’s arms were kind, but they weren’t the arms he needed.
“Where’s Riot?” he asked again, pulling back to look at Orion’s face. “Please. I need to see him.”
“Cass, he’s a Berserker. A modified Berserker. You know what that means, right? The episodes, the—”
“He’s never hurt me.” It came out simple and certain, because it was simple and certain. Riot had only ever been gentle with him, even when his eyes turned gold and he looked frustrated, he’d always touch Cass like he was something precious. “Please, I want to see him.”
“Cass—” Dante began.
Another cramp seized him, and this time he couldn’t hide the sob that escaped.
The pain was getting worse, not better. The emptiness was becoming unbearable—a physical ache, a void demanding to be filled.
Fresh slick leaked between his thighs, and the shame of it mixed with the agony until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
But underneath all of it, cutting through like a beacon—
Strawberries and cream.
“I can smell him,” Cass gasped. “He’s here. He’s—”
He was moving before anyone could stop him, following that thread of scent like a lifeline. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else—someone operating on pure instinct, drawn forward by something that bypassed rational thought entirely.
“Cass, wait—”
He was already at the door, yanking it open. A short hallway. The strawberry scent was stronger here, mixed with other smells—unfamiliar pheromones, something sweet and chemical that made his nose wrinkle. Hot chocolate. Apples. Cordite.
The hallway opened into a larger room—mismatched furniture, windows showing darkness outside, a worn couch against one wall.
Cass had a brief impression of people turning toward him before his attention narrowed to a single point.
Riot. Sitting there, his head in his hands, Lilac was beside him, leaning close, speaking in rapid Spanish.
And there were two other men in the room—both massive, both radiating that same dangerous energy gold eyes, like Riot’s, but softer—a faint glow rather than the bright burn he’d come to associate with Riot.
He was halfway across the room when the cramp hit—the worst one yet, vicious and deep, ripping through his abdomen hard enough to tear a cry from his throat. His knees buckled. He grabbed the back of a chair to keep from falling, dimly aware of voices behind him, of Orion calling his name.
You’re fine. You’re—
He wasn’t fine. He was very obviously, publicly, humiliatingly not fine. His robes were soaked through and clinging. His face was wet with tears he didn’t remember crying. And everyone in this room could probably smell how sweaty he was.
But Riot was right there.
Riot’s eyes were blazing—not the soft reflection of the others, but that bright, burning gold Cass had seen in the hotel stairwell. In the car. Every time Riot looked at him like he was something to be devoured.
“Riot.” The name came out broken. Desperate. Pleading.
He watched something shatter behind those golden eyes—watched the careful control crack and something raw surge up in its place. Riot’s hands were white-knuckled on his own thighs, every muscle locked, his whole body trembling with the effort of staying seated.
“Cass, you shouldn’t—you need to go back—”
But Cass was already moving, crossing the remaining distance on legs that threatened to collapse with every step, drawn forward by something stronger than pain or shame or the knowledge that he was making a scene in front of strangers.
He needed Riot.
Everything else could wait.