15. Griffin
Weather Ward:
Hang a bell in a window. It rings when storms approach.
Her lip starts to tremble, a slight quiver that’s more devastating than any sob could be. I watch it, mesmerized by that small sign of her crumbling composure. It’s always been this way with her. She tries so hard to be strong, to be put together, but I’ve always been able to see the cracks.
“I know I fucked up,” she says, her voice barely audible, thick with unshed tears. “I know. And what can I do? I’ll do anything. I’ll tell everyone we broke up tomorrow. I’ll go to the tavern, the apothecary, I’ll tell Maggie at the station if I have to. I’ll fix this.”
The thought of her officially going unclaimed in this town causes a tight fist to form in my chest. I rub at it absently, the pressure doing nothing to ease the discomfort. It’s an instinctive reaction, one I didn’t expect, one I certainly don’t welcome.
Why should I care if the town knows she’s unbonded? It’s the truth, after all.
“I don’t know what to do. This is… it’s a mess, Caroline.”
“Tell me what to do,” she pleads, rubbing her temples in small, circular motions. “Just tell me, and I’ll do it.”
Now I can see the exhaustion in her face, the dark circles under her eyes, the way her shoulders slump with a weight I can only imagine. She’s been carrying this lie for three years, and it’s clearly taking its toll.
“Maybe you should get some rest,” I find myself saying, the words softer than I feel. “We can talk tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she says, her voice small. She stands, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand, though I don’t see any tears. Not yet, anyway.
I want to pull her into my arms. I want to tell her that everything will be okay, despite the fact that she’s the one in the wrong.
I want to protect her from the consequences of her own actions, just like I always have.
When will she stop having this power over me?
When will I be able to look at her without feeling this pull, this instinct to fix everything for her?
“I’ll see myself out,” I say, turning toward the door.
“Griffin,” she calls after me. “For what it’s worth… I’m sorry.”
“I know,” I tell her, without turning around.
I open the door and step out into the cool night air. The cold bites at my exposed skin, a contrast to the heated tension inside the house. I feel wrong leaving her in this state, wrong walking away when she’s clearly falling apart.
I understand the logic behind why she lied, I really do. The fear of being judged as an unbonded Omega, especially in a town like Willowbrook where such things still matter to so many. But a part of me is still hurt, still angry that she turned down my proposal.
I was ready to start a life with her. I was ready to love her for the rest of my life. I was ready to be hers.
Why wasn’t I enough?
“Fuck,” I say, pushing my fists into my eye sockets. “Fuck.”
I take a few steps away from her house, but I feel pulled back, like there’s an invisible string connecting us, one that refuses to be broken no matter how much distance I put between us. I need to make sure she’s okay. I need to know she’s not completely falling apart.
I turn back, my decision made. I open the door without knocking, stepping back into the warmth of her house.
And there she is, bent over the sofa, her face pressed into the cushion, her body shaking with silent sobs. Thistle is perched on the back of the sofa, looking at me with pissed-off eyes, his tail twitching with agitation.
He’s guarding her. Protecting her from me.
I close the door quietly, the click of the latch causing her to look up. Her face is blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed, and her scent has a sourness to it now, the tang of sadness.
She’s sad. I made her cry. I never want to make her cry.
I know I should leave. I know this will only complicate things further. But I can’t. I can’t walk away from her like this.
I walk to where she’s seated, watching me with those tear-filled eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says again.
“I know.”
I pull her into my arms, and she comes willingly, her body fitting against mine like it’s been waiting for this moment for three years.
She buries her face in my chest, her fingers clutching at my shirt, and I hold her tight, one hand stroking her hair, the other pressed against her back.
I can feel her heart beating against mine, fast and frantic.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, though it’s not. Nothing about this is okay. “It’s okay.”
She cries harder then, great, wracking sobs that shake her entire body.
I hold her through it, my own heart aching with a familiar pain.
This is the Caroline I know, the one beneath the carefully constructed facade.
The vulnerable, uncertain girl who stole my heart all those years ago and has refused to give it back.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasps, her words muffled against my shirt. “I’m so sorry, Griff.”
“I know,” I say again, because what else is there to say? “I know.”
We stand like that for a long time, the only sounds her sobs and Thistle’s occasional disgruntled meows. I can feel the tension slowly draining out of her, her body growing heavier in my arms as exhaustion takes over. I should let go. I should step away. But I don’t. I can’t.
When she finally pulls back, her face is a mess, her eyes swollen, her nose red. She looks beautiful, and that’s the most fucked-up part of all.
“I’m a mess,” she says, trying to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sob.
“You’re not a mess,” I lie, gently wiping a tear from her cheek with my thumb. “You’re never a mess.”
She looks up at me, her eyes searching mine, and for a moment, I think she’s going to say something else, something that will change everything between us again. But then she just nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement.
“I should… I should get cleaned up,” she says, stepping back and putting some distance between us. The loss of her warmth is jarring.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice rough. “Probably.”
I watch as she disappears into the bathroom, the sound of running water reaching me a moment later. I should go. I really should. This is too complicated, too messy. But my feet are rooted to the spot, my body refusing to obey the logical part of my brain that’s screaming at me to leave.
Thistle jumps down from the sofa and approaches me cautiously, his tail flicking back and forth. He sniffs my hand, then rubs against my leg, a silent truce offered. I scratch his head, and he rewards me with a low purr.
“At least someone on this planet doesn’t hate me right now,” I mutter.
The bathroom door opens, and Caroline emerges, her face washed, her eyes still red but no longer swollen. She’s changed into a fresh T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
“You’re still here,” she says, not as a question but as a statement of fact.
“I am,” I admit. “I should go, but…”
“But you don’t want to,” she finishes for me.
I shake my head. “No. I don’t.”
She nods, understanding passing between us without words. “Tea? Or something stronger?”
“Something stronger,” I say without hesitation.
She smiles, a small, tired smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I think I can manage that.”
As she moves toward the kitchen, I follow, my body acting on instinct.
Caroline opens the fridge, the cool light illuminating her face as she surveys the contents. “Well, the options are limited. I’ve got… some questionable-looking milk, a jar of pickles, and…” she leans in closer, “ah, tequila. And whiskey. Your pick.”
I watch her work, my eyes tracing the lines of her body. The long T-shirt she’s wearing rides up as she bends, revealing a sliver of her thighs, soft and pale in the dim light.
A memory hits me then: Caroline in my kitchen, years ago, her brow furrowed in concentration as she measured out herbs for some experimental tea blend she was creating just for me.
She was always trying new combinations, convinced she could brew the perfect potion for whatever ailed me.
I would lie and tell her they were amazing, even when they tasted like dirt.
She’s added more weight since then, her curves softer, more pronounced. Sexier. I clear my throat and look away, focusing on a water stain on the ceiling. Anything but her.
“The whiskey.”
She reaches up to the top shelf, her fingers just brushing against the bottle.
“I’ve got it,” I say, stepping forward.
“No, I have it,” she insists, stretching a little further.
The bottle slips from her grasp, crashing to the floor in a spray of glass and amber liquid.
“Fuck,” she says, staring at the mess.
We both crouch down to clean it up, our heads bumping together with a soft thud.
“Sorry,” I say, automatically reaching out to touch her forehead. My fingers brush against her skin, and in this position, I can see it—the faint, crescent-shaped bite mark on her neck. The night she let me claim her.
My body stirs, a familiar heat pooling in my stomach, a reaction I have no business having.
“You should get a broom,” I say, pulling my hand back as if burned. “I’ll pick up the pieces.”
“Okay,” she says, standing up.
This position, me on the floor looking up at her, her long legs on display… it’s too much. I can feel my resolve weakening, the carefully constructed walls I’ve built around my heart starting to crumble.
She walks to a small closet near the kitchen, returning with a broom and dustpan. I carefully gather the larger pieces of glass, my eyes scanning the room for her trash can. That’s when I see it—a small tin of aftercare tea, peeking out from under some crumpled tissues.
I hate how much I hate the thought of someone else touching her, of someone else being with her in that way.
“Got it,” she announces, returning with the cleaning supplies.
I toss the glass in the trash, making sure to bury the tin under other debris. More cleaning up, more silence. We wash our hands at the sink, standing side by side, the air thick with unspoken words.
“Will you drink something else?” she asks, drying her hands on a towel. “I might have some wine somewhere.”