26. Caroline
Rune of Confession:
Drawn on oak, secrets spill like water.
The door clicks shut behind us, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet of my home. Outside, the rain is a physical presence, a wall of water hammering against the windows and roof. The storm has trapped us. My heat has trapped me. With him.
Silas shrugs out of his wet coat, draping it neatly over the back of one of my dining chairs. His movements are precise, economical. He takes in the living room with a sweeping glance. “You have a lovely home, Caroline. It’s very… you.”
I don’t know what that means. I just start pacing. The length of my sofa, to the kitchen doorway, and back again. My skin is on fire, a prickling and insistent heat that has nothing to do with the temperature in the room. Every nerve ending feels exposed, raw.
Silas doesn’t pace. He walks to the sofa and sits, placing his hands on his knees.
He watches me, his gaze calm and analytical.
It should be unnerving, but the sheer presence of him in my space is doing other things to me.
His scent, a complex mix of clean rain, sandalwood, and something uniquely him, something dark and spiced, fills the air.
It clings to the furniture, seeps into the fabric of my home, marking it.
My mouth waters. A deep and pulling ache starts in my glands, a frantic pulse in my throat that begs for a bite, for his claim. The throbbing between my legs intensifies, making my knees feel weak.
I want him.
I want him to fuck me.
I want to bend over my sofa and have him drive his cock into me until I can’t remember my own name.
What is wrong with me?
Griffin is out there in this storm, looking for my familiar. Damon is with him.
And all I can think about is the Alpha sitting on my sofa, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the dark stubble on his jaw. I shake my head, as if I can physically dislodge the images, the raw scenarios playing out in my mind.
Thistle must be terrified, cold, and alone. And here I’m, a prisoner of my own biology, fantasizing about a man I barely know.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask, my own voice too high, too thin. “Water? Tea?”
“No, thank you,” he says, his tone even. “Do you have any wolfsbane?”
I stop pacing and stare at him. “Wolfsbane? No. Why would I have that? It’s poisonous.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The movement shifts his scent, sending a new, more potent wave of it directly to me.
“It’s a powerful neutralizer. In small, controlled doses, it can help dampen the effects of a heat. Take the edge off.” He looks up at me, his dark eyes seeming to see right through my flimsy composure. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking, Caroline, but I can guess. Your scent keeps intensifying.”
A hot wave of shame washes over me, so intense it is almost dizzying. He knows. He can smell my lust, my depraved thoughts, as clearly as if I’d shouted them. “Sorry,” I whisper, dropping my gaze to the floor.
In a fluid motion, he’s standing. “Don’t apologize.” He crosses the space between us in two long strides. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s a natural response.”
I risk a look up at him. He is so close. I can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead. “Do I smell bad?”
“On the contrary. Your scent is delectable, sweetheart.”
“Really?”
He nods.
“What do I smell like?” The question is out before I can stop it, breathless and bold.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he reaches out and takes my hand.
His fingers are cool against my burning skin.
He gives a gentle tug, and I stumble forward, my body colliding with his.
He’s a wall of muscle and heat as he brushes his nose down my jawline in a feather-light and devastating touch.
I can feel the rough scrape of his stubble and the warmth of his breath against my ear.
“Your heart is beating so fast,” he murmurs, his words a vibration against my skin. My nipples pebble, rubbing against the lace of my bra, each movement sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core. I lean closer, tilting my head to give him better access, a silent offering.
“Fuck, Omega,” he breathes.
“You smell so good, too,” I manage to say, the admission torn from me.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and this time the smile is real, a knowing, confident curve of his mouth. “I know.”
I look into his eyes, then trace the slope of his nose with my gaze, memorizing the full shape of his lips. I want to taste them.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his tone a low rumble that I feel in my bones.
“That day. At the apothecary. I wanted you.”
He curses under his breath. His hand tightens on mine. “What exactly did you want, Caroline?” he presses, his gaze intense and demanding.
“Your cock.” The word is obscene, but it is the truth.
His other hand comes up, twisting into my hair at the nape of my neck. He gives a possessive tug, and I feel it all the way to my toes. It’s a spike of pure pleasure that makes me gasp. “I have thought about you a lot since then,” he admits.
“You did?” I ask, my Omega side purring in satisfaction, preening under his admission.
He nods, his eyes darkening. “I had to pull over a few blocks away and jerk off in the back of my car. The thought of your scent, of you…”
He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t have to. And now, that’s all I can think about. His cock.
What would it look like? Feel like? Taste like?
I haven’t even realized I’m staring at the front of his trousers until he uses the hand in my hair to tip my face back up. His eyes are hooded, burning with a dark fire.
“You’re quite transparent, you know,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Sorry,” I say again, though I’m not sorry at all. I’m fascinated.
He chuckles as he lets go of my hair. He brushes his thumb over my cheek, then across my lower lip, tracing its fullness. I think I might combust right there on the spot.
“You need a distraction,” he says. “And I have an idea.”
He leads me back to the sofa, his hand a warm pressure on the small of my back. He sits down first, and then, without a word, I’m straddling him, my knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his thighs. The pressure against my aching center is a profound relief.
My hands go to the buttons of his shirt, my fingers fumbling and desperate to feel his skin against mine.
He catches my wrists, stopping me. He brings my clenched fists to his lips and kisses each one, a gesture at odds with the wild energy thrumming between us. I can’t help it; I roll my hips, grinding down against the hard ridge of his erection.
“Shit,” he hisses, hands tightening on my wrists. “New strategy.”
In a move both swift and gentle, he shifts me, pulling me sideways until I’m settled on his lap, my back against his chest, my head tucked under his chin. Intimate, but not sexual. Comforting.
A shaky laugh escapes me, but it dies when a hum starts in his chest. The vibration travels through my back, silencing the frantic noise in my head.
Then words join the hum. The melody is old, full of a sorrow that feels clean.
It wraps around me, pushing back the desperate energy of the heat until something like peace settles in its place.
“Of all the money that e’er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm that e’er I’ve done,
Alas, it was to none but me.
And all I’ve done for want of wit,
To mem’ry now I can’t recall.
So fill to me the parting glass,
Good night and joy be with you all.”
The song ends. The only noise is rain outside. The fire inside me hasn’t gone out, but it’s no longer a wildfire. It’s a hearth, contained and warm.
“What was that?” I ask, the words barely there.
“A lullaby,” he answers, his chin resting on my head. “My mother sang it.”
“That’s lovely,” I say. “Are you and she…?”
I can’t finish the question.
He understands. “We were close. It sometimes feels like she was the only person who ever understood me.”
“Were? You’re not close anymore?”
“She died.” He goes silent for a beat. “When I was ten.”
“I’m sorry.”
He smiles sadly. “It was a long time ago, sweetheart. I promise I’m okay now.”
I don’t push, but the silence stretches, comfortable in a way I wouldn’t have expected. The rain fills it. His thumb traces absent patterns on my arm.
“What about your father?”
“He’s closer to my sister than me. Especially after she joined the Council as a high-ranking member. I think he’s grooming her to take over as a regional representative.”
I knew Silas worked for the Council, but I had no idea it ran in the family. “I thought you were also a regional representative. Isn’t that why you came to town?”
“No.” There’s a note of finality in his tone. “I’m an envoy. The person they send to check up on things.”
“An envoy?”
“It means I’m not a politician. I’m a tool.
” He says it without self-pity. Just fact.
“The Council in Chicago has a structure. High Chancellor Nicholas Whitlock at the top. Below him, regional representatives. They hold the real power, make the long-term decisions. Elected, or born into it. There are also a few chosen witches who work alongside the Council. That’s where Helena is.
But between you and me, the Alpha Council is archaic.
They’d never allow Omegas or Betas to join them. ”
“That’s sexist.”
“That’s the system. Omegas are enslaved to their biological desires, and Betas have no power against Alphas. That would make them easy to manipulate.”
I go still against him. “Enslaved? Is that what you really think?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “Sorry. I explained that wrong. But imagine—there’s an emergency meeting and the Omegas are unavailable because of their heat.
They can’t control that. And the Alphas can barely function in their proximity in that state, so…
a long time ago, it was decided that Omegas serve alongside the Council instead of as part of it. ”