16. Caroline
Spell Against Anger:
Tie a single, tight knot in a piece of leather. Carry it in your pocket. The anger is stored in the knot until you can release it safely.
The first thing I’m aware of is the light. It’s not the gentle, hazy gray of a normal Willowbrook morning. It’s almost brittle, slicing through a gap in my curtains and landing directly on my eyelids.
I groan, rolling over and burying my face in my pillow, which smells faintly of lavender, detergent, and something else. Something musky and male.
Something that smells like Griffin.
My eyes fly open.
The events of last night crash into me with the force of a physical blow.
The knock on the door. The look on his face.
The argument, the tears, the broken bottle of whiskey.
And then… the kitchen counter. His hands on my thighs, his mouth on me, the way my body responded like a switch had been flipped, igniting a fire I thought had long since turned to ash.
Holy fuck. The memory sends a jolt through me, a hot, embarrassing pulse that makes my cheeks burn.
What the hell does this mean?
I sit up, the sheets pooling around my waist. My body feels different.
Not sore, not exactly, but… used. Sated.
There’s a pleasant ache between my legs, a lingering echo of his touch.
I feel invigorated, buzzing with a nervous energy that has nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the man who was in my kitchen just hours ago.
I press my palms to my cheeks. They’re hot. This is a mess. A complete and utter disaster. We didn’t resolve anything. We just added a new, complicated layer to an already convoluted history.
I check the time on my phone. 6:47 a.m. Too early to call Amara.
Far too early. I wouldn’t even know what to say.
“Hey, Griffin came over last night, we had a huge fight about the lie I’ve been telling for three years, and then he went down on me on the kitchen counter.
How was your night?” She’d have a field day.
She’d also probably kill me.
I swing my legs out of bed, my bare feet meeting the cool wood floor. Thistle, who has been sleeping peacefully at the foot of the bed, lifts his head and lets out a demanding meow.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m moving,” I mutter, shuffling toward the kitchen. “Your highness awaits.”
The kitchen is a minefield of memories. The counter where he held me. The floor where we both knelt, our heads bumping together. The spot on the floor where the whiskey bottle shattered. I can still smell the faint, sweet scent of it under the cleaner I used last night.
I take a deep breath and push the images away. Focus, Caroline. Just get through the morning.
I fill Thistle’s bowl with the expensive salmon paté he prefers, the one that costs a fortune but is the only thing he’ll deign to eat.
He rubs against my legs, purring like a motorboat, before diving in.
I watch him for a moment, a small, fond smile touching my lips.
At least someone in this house is uncomplicated.
I start the coffee maker, the familiar gurgle and hiss a comforting sound in the quiet house. While it brews, I hop in the shower. The hot water cascades over my skin, and I tilt my head back, letting it wash over my face. I can still feel the ghost of his hands, the phantom pressure of his mouth.
I soap my body quickly, almost clinically, trying to scrub away the sensation, the memory. It doesn’t work. If anything, the heat of the water just makes it more vivid. I turn the temperature to cold, gasping as the icy spray hits my skin. That’s better. That’s something I can feel other than him.
Back in my bedroom, I face the wardrobe.
What does one wear to work after a night like that?
Something professional, to remind myself that I have a job, a purpose outside of being a woman who makes terrible decisions with her ex-boyfriend.
I settle on a simple, long-sleeved black dress and a crisp white apron. Practical. Unremarkable. Safe.
I drink my coffee standing at the counter, staring out the window at the waking town.
The streets are quiet, a few early risers hurrying to their jobs, the lanterns along the main street still glowing in the pre-dawn light.
Everything looks so normal, so peaceful.
It’s hard to believe that just the other night, the Rift was surging, that I was at the center of a storm of both magical and emotional proportions.
I take another sip of coffee, the bitter liquid a welcome jolt to my system. I have to go to work. I have to face the day. I have to pretend that my world isn’t currently being torn apart and put back together in a completely new, terrifying configuration.
The walk to Foxglove & Finch is usually one of my favorite parts of the day. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke from chimneys just now being stirred to life. I love the way the town looks in the morning, the old buildings bathed in the soft, golden light.
But today, the walk feels different. Every shadow seems to hold a secret, every passerby’s glance feels like they know. They know about the lie. They know about Griffin. They know what I did. It’s irrational, I know, but the feeling persists, a prickling sensation on the back of my neck.
As I approach the apothecary, I see a familiar figure standing outside the door.
It’s Clive Harper, our delivery man, holding a cardboard box and looking uncharacteristically grim.
That’s not a good sign. Clive usually looks like he’s just won the lottery, even when he’s delivering something as mundane as restocking supplies.
“What’s going on, Clive?” I ask, as I get closer.
He jumps, turning to face me. “Caroline. Thank the stars. You might want to brace yourself.”
“Brace myself for what?”
He just gestures toward the door with his head. “Hear for yourself.”
And then I hear it. The shouting. It’s muffled by the thick wood of the door, but there’s no mistaking June and August, and they are not happy.
I push open the door, the little bell above it chiming in a way that feels almost mocking. The scene inside is even worse than I imagined. The apothecary, usually a haven of calm and quiet industry, is in a state of turmoil.
Jars have been knocked over on a shelf, their contents spilled across the polished wood.
Tessa, the new apprentice, is standing near the back room, her face pale, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and frustration.
And standing in the middle of it all, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth, is Deputy Simon Gallagher.
“—and I’m telling you, June, I don’t make the rules, I just follow them!” Simon is saying, his hands held up in a gesture of placation.
“I don’t give a damn if the order came from the High Priestess of the Chicago Coven herself!” June shoots back, her face flushed with fury, her usually neat bun coming loose. “you’re not coming into my place of business and demanding sensitive information about my employees!”
“It’s not just your employees, it’s all unbonded Omegas in town,” Simon says. “It’s a directive from the Council. We need the names.”
My stomach drops. They know. They know about me. This is it. I’m going to lose my job. I’m going to be exposed as a fraud.
“Why?” August demands, stepping forward. He’s usually the more level-headed of the twins, but right now, his jaw is set, his eyes cold. “Why does the Council need a list of every unbonded Omega in Willowbrook? What possible purpose could that serve?”
“It’s for statistical purposes,” Simon says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “To assess the potential risk factors associated with the Rift.”
“Bullshit,” June snaps, slamming her hand down on the counter. Tessa flinches. “This is about that damned TrueBond app, isn’t it? They want to round us up like cattle and ship us off to the highest bidder.”
“That’s not what’s happening,” Simon insists, but his gaze flickers away, and I know he’s lying. Or at least, that he’s not telling the whole truth.
“Then tell us what is happening,” June growls. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like the Council is overstepping its authority. Again.”
“I’m just trying to do my job, June,” Simon says, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Damon wants this list on his desk by noon.”
“Then you can tell Damon that he can have this list when he pries it from my cold, dead hands,” June says. “Now get out of my shop.”
Simon opens his mouth to argue, then seems to think better of it. He looks at Tessa, who is still standing by the back room, her knuckles white where she’s gripping the doorframe. He looks at the mess on the floor. He looks at me, his eyes filled with a weary apology.
Then he turns and walks out, his shoulders hunched, the picture of a man who has lost a battle he never wanted to fight. The door closes behind him, leaving a tense, heavy silence in its wake.
“Well,” August says finally, breaking the silence. “That was fun.”
“Fun?” June scoffs, already starting to clean up the spilled herbs. “That was a violation, August. A direct violation of our privacy and our autonomy.”
“I know,” he says, his voice softening as he looks at his sister. “I know. But what are we going to do? He’s just following orders.”
“He’s a dog following the wrong master,” she mutters, her anger still simmering. “And Damon… I expected better from him.”
My heart is still pounding, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs.
I’m trying to process it all. The directive.
The list. The Council’s involvement. And then I realize something.
June wasn’t talking about me. When she said “my employees,” when she looked at Tessa with that protective fury…
she was talking about the new apprentice.
Tessa is an unbonded Omega.
A wave of relief washes over me so intense it makes my knees weak. I’m not the one they’re after. Not yet, anyway. But the relief is quickly followed by a new wave of dread. For Tessa. For all the unbonded Omegas in this town.