19. Caroline #3
I watch, mesmerized, as he scans the labels, his long, elegant fingers trailing along the glass bottles. He doesn’t fumble. He doesn’t hesitate. He moves with an unnerving grace, a man completely in his element, as if he’s in his own apothecary, not mine.
“Who are you?” I gasp out.
“Silas,” he says, not turning around. His eyes are still scanning the shelves. He pauses, his fingers landing on a small, dark blue bottle. “Got it.”
He turns back to me, the bottle in his hand. He crouches down in front of the sofa.
“Sit up,” he orders. I struggle to obey, my limbs feeling like lead. He reaches out, his hand cool against my neck, and helps me, his touch firm but not rough. “This will help with the fever. It’s a cooling draught.”
“How do you know?” I ask, my voice trembling.
He meets my gaze, his arctic blue eyes intense. “I just do. Now open your mouth.”
It’s not a request. It’s a command that bypasses my brain and goes straight to my Omega instincts, making me want to obey.
He brings the bottle to his lips, and with his teeth, he grips the glass stopper and pulls it free.
The sight is so unexpectedly hot that a fresh wave of liquid heat pools in my core.
I’m so far gone, so lost in this fever, that a man pulling a cork with his teeth is the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
A jolt of ice-water fear cuts through the haze. Silas. The same Silas June was just ranting about. The Council’s envoy. I let him in. I dismantled the protective ward for him.
“You should leave.”
“Not what you should be worrying about right now, sweetheart.”
He brings the open bottle to my lips. The scent of him is fucking fantastic, a dizzying cocktail that makes my head spin even more. His other hand comes up to cup the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, holding me steady because I’m swaying so badly.
As he leans in, his thigh presses firmly between my own, a solid, unyielding pressure against the throbbing ache at my core. A choked sound escapes me. It feels good. So good that, without conscious thought, my hips rock forward, a small, desperate grind against the hard muscle of his leg.
He stills. The bottle pauses an inch from my lips. He looks down, his gaze dropping to where my body is pressed against his.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I breathe, the lie tasting like ash on my tongue.
He doesn’t respond, just brings the bottle to my lips again. I part them, and he tips the cool, silvery liquid into my mouth. It’s not unpleasant. It tastes of mint and wintergreen, and it feels amazing as it coats my tongue and throat, a soothing balm against the fire.
“Look at me, Caroline.”
My eyes are half-closed, my head lolling. “Mmm.”
“Look at me, damnit.”
The edge in his voice cuts through the fog.
I force my eyes open, really look at him.
Up close, I can see the details of his face in the dim light.
He has a pretty face. High cheekbones, a strong jaw.
But his lips… they’re full, a Cupid’s bow that looks soft and utterly kissable.
It’s a cute mouth on a severe face, a fascinating contradiction.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across those lips. “Well, you’re definitely not June, are you?”
“No,” I whisper.
His thumb comes up, brushing a stray strand of hair from my cheek. The touch is light, almost accidental, but an electric current runs through me. My breasts tingle, the peaks tightening into hard, painful points. A deep and aching throb starts between my legs.
I want those fingers. I want them rubbing on my clit, inside me. Fuck.
With a surge of what little strength I have left, I sit up, pulling away from his touch. The loss of contact is physically painful. “I’ll be fine,” I say, my voice shaking with a mixture of fear and arousal. “You really shouldn’t be in here.”
He leans back, a smirk playing on his lips. He runs a hand through his dark hair, messing up the perfect knot at the nape of his neck. “You could have just said thank you.” He pushes himself to his feet in one smooth motion. He gives me a mocking salute. “Try to stay out of trouble, Omega.”
And then he’s gone, melting back into the shadows of the shop, the front door clicking shut behind him.
I’m left alone, trembling. The fever is breaking, the intense fire receding to a low, manageable warmth. But my body still hums, a restless, tingling energy flowing just beneath my skin.
I reach for the small blue bottle he left on the table, my fingers fumbling with it. I hold it up to the light to read the neat, calligraphic label.
Feverfew, willowbark, lavender, and a touch of damiana.
My blood runs cold for the second time tonight. Damiana isn’t just for fevers. It’s a mild aphrodisiac. He knew exactly what he was giving me.
I let a stranger, a Council envoy, into my place of work while I was in heat. I drank a potion he handed me. What is wrong with me?
Just then, a loud, indignant meow cuts through the silence. Thistle marches in his tail held high. He stops, looks at me, and then flops onto his side, rolling around on the floor as if he hasn’t a care in the world.
I stare at him, my mind a complete blank. What the hell just happened?