27. Silas
Spell for Tangled Hearts:
Rose petals and clove in hot water. Drink when love grows confusing.
She tastes like honey and rain. That’s my first thought. Her mouth moves against mine, and I’m drowning in it. The sweetness of her spreads across my tongue, mixes with something sharper underneath. Salt from her skin. The remnants of the storm still clinging to her hair and her clothes.
I pull back just enough to breathe, and her scent hits me full force. Honey and cinnamon, but hotter now, thick with the musk of her heat. It coats the back of my throat, and my cock jerks painfully against my zipper.
“Silas,” she whispers. My name in her mouth sounds different. Softer. Like she’s tasting it the same way I’m tasting her.
I don’t answer. I can’t. Words have left me.
I dip my head and press my mouth to her throat, right where her pulse hammers beneath the damp skin.
She tastes like rainwater here, clean and cool against my lips, but the heat of her blood burns just below.
I drag my tongue up to her jaw, and she makes a small, broken sound that goes straight to my groin.
Her shirt is still damp from the storm. I can feel it through mine, the thin fabric clinging to her skin. I pull back and look down at her. Her chest rises and falls in short, shallow breaths. The lace of her bra is visible through the wet cotton, the dark peaks of her nipples straining against it.
I lower my head and take one into my mouth through the fabric.
She bucks against me, a gasp tearing from her lips.
Her hands fly to my hair, her fingers tangling in the strands and pulling.
I don’t stop. I suck at her through the wet shirt and lace, the texture strange and maddening against my tongue.
Her nipple hardens even more, pressing into my mouth like it’s seeking me out.
I move to the other one, giving it the same attention, and she whimpers, her hips grinding down against my thigh.
“Please,” she says. “Silas, please.”
I lift my head. Her eyes are glazed, fever-bright. Her lips are swollen from my kiss, parted, wet.
“We can wait,” I tell her. My hands rest on her hips, stilling her movements. “If you want to wait, we can wait.”
She stares at me like I’ve spoken a language she doesn’t understand.
Then her hands drop from my hair to my shirt, and she starts pulling at the buttons.
Her fingers are shaking, clumsy, and she only manages to get two undone before she makes a frustrated sound and just tugs, sending one button skittering across the floor.
No. She doesn’t want to wait.
I help her. I shrug out of my shirt, and her palms flatten against my chest, her touch tentative, then bolder.
She traces the lines of muscle, the scars I’ve collected over years of Council work.
Her fingertips find a mark on my ribs—an old rune burn—and she pauses, but doesn’t ask. I’m grateful for that.
Then her hands move lower, to my belt. She fumbles with the buckle, and I reach down to help her, but she bats my hands away.
She wants to do this. Her fingers work the leather free, then the button, then the zipper.
She pushes the fabric down just enough to get her hand inside my boxers, and when her fingers wrap around my cock, I swear I see stars.
“Fuck,” I hiss through my teeth. Her hand is small and hot, and she strokes me once, twice, experimentally, like she’s learning the shape of me.
“You’re so hard,” she breathes.
“That’s what you do to me.” I don’t know where the words come from.
I’ve never been one for dirty talk—sex has always been a physical release, efficient, controlled.
But with her, everything I’ve kept locked down is spilling out.
“You have no idea how good you smell right now. How badly I want to be inside you.”
She moans, her grip tightening. I can feel the base of my cock already swelling, the knot beginning to form. It’s too soon—I haven’t even touched her yet—but my body doesn’t care. My body has decided she’s mine.
I reach down and still her hand. “My turn.”
I lift her off my lap and set her on the couch beside me.
Before she can protest, I’m on my knees on the floor, pulling her legs apart.
Her pants are still on—too many layers, too many barriers.
I make quick work of them, dragging her damp leggings and underwear down her legs in one motion.
She kicks them off, and then she’s bare from the waist down, and the scent of her hits me like a drug.
Slick coats her inner thighs, glistening in the dim light. Her cunt is flushed and swollen, her folds slick and gleaming. I’ve read about this in Council training manuals—clinical descriptions of Omega physiology, diagrams and data points. I’ve fucked several Omegas before, but never one in heat.
None of it prepared me for the reality of her.
None of it prepared me for the way my mouth waters, the way my hands tremble as I grip her thighs and spread her wider.
I lean in and drag my tongue up her slit.
She cries out, her back arching off the cushions. Her taste floods my mouth. I lick into her again, deeper this time, and her hips jerk upward, chasing my mouth.
“Silas—oh fuck—”
I don’t let up. I work my tongue against her, finding the bundle of nerves at the top and circling it.
She’s making sounds I’ve never heard from a woman before—desperate, wrecked, like she’s falling apart and doesn’t know how to hold herself together.
I slide one finger inside her, and she clenches around me so hard I groan against her flesh.
“You’re so wet,” I murmur against her clit. “So fucking wet for me. Is this all from the heat, or is this because you want my cock?”
“Yes,” she gasps. “Both. I don’t know. Just—please—”
I add a second finger, curling them inside her, and her whole body shudders. I can feel her walls fluttering around me, the slick making it easy to move. I pump my fingers in and out as I suck on her clit, and she’s writhing now, her hands in my hair, her thighs trembling on either side of my head.
I pull my mouth away and bite down on the soft skin of her inner thigh.
Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to mark.
I watch as the skin blooms pink where my teeth scraped it, the faint indentations rising to the surface.
I bite again, higher up, and then again, creating a trail of marks up the inside of her thigh.
Each one makes her whimper, her body jerking like she can’t decide whether to move toward me or away.
“Mine,” I hear myself say. The word comes from somewhere deep, somewhere primal. Not the Council envoy. Not the disciplined soldier. The Alpha.
I work my fingers faster, pressing against the spot inside her that makes her gasp the loudest. My tongue circles her clit, and I can feel her getting close—her walls clenching around my fingers, her thighs shaking harder.
“Don’t stop,” she begs. “Don’t stop, I’m gonna—”
I don’t stop. I suck harder, curl my fingers just right, and she breaks. She comes with a cry that’s almost a scream, her whole body going rigid, then shaking apart. I keep going, drawing it out of her, until she pushes weakly at my head, her oversensitive body unable to take any more.
I sit back on my heels and look at her. She’s sprawled on the couch, her skin flushed from her cheeks to her chest. Her eyes are half-lidded, dazed. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
“Silas,” she says, the word wrecked. She reaches for me, and I climb back onto the couch, over her, bracing my weight on my forearms. “I need you inside me.”
I reach down and push my pants down further, kicking them off. My cock bobs free, the knot at the base already swollen to half its full size. I wrap my hand around it, stroking, trying to ease some of the pressure. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps except her.
Caroline’s eyes drop to my lap, and she goes still. “That’s… you’re already…”
“I know.” The words come out rough. “I can’t control it. Not with you.”
She reaches down and wraps her hand around my cock, and I hiss. Her thumb brushes over the swelling at the base, and I nearly lose it right there.
“It’s so big,” she whispers.
Her words send a surge of possessive satisfaction through me. I line myself up with her entrance, the head of my cock nudging against her slick folds. I don’t push in. I wait.
She looks up at me, and there’s a question in her eyes. I answer it by holding still, giving her the choice.
She rolls her hips up, taking the tip of me inside her.
We both freeze.
She’s tight. Unbearably tight. The heat of her grips me like a fist, and I have to clench every muscle in my body to keep from slamming forward.
“You okay?” I manage.
She nods, but her eyes are wet. Tears slide from the corners of her eyes, tracking down her temples into her hair. I lean down and lick them away, tasting salt and rain and her.
“So stretched,” she breathes. “You’re so… I feel so full, and you’re barely even inside me.”
“I’ll be gentle. Tell me if it’s too much.”
I push in a little further, and she gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders. I keep going, inch by inch, giving her time to adjust. Her walls flutter around me, slick and hot, and by the time I’m fully seated inside her, I’m shaking with the effort of holding back.
“Move,” she says. “Please, Silas. Move.”
I pull out and slide back in, and the friction is incredible—her slick coating my cock, her walls gripping me, the swollen knot at my base bumping against her entrance with every thrust. She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper, and I set a pace that’s just on the edge of too much.
Her nails rake down my back, and I feel the sting of them cutting into my skin. The pain only feeds the fire. I thrust harder, deeper, and she meets me, her hips rising to match every stroke. One of my hands slides between us, my thumb finding her clit and pressing in tight circles.
“You feel so good,” I tell her, my mouth against her ear. “So tight around my cock. You’re taking me so well, Caroline. Such a good Omega.”
She whimpers at that, her walls clenching around me. I can feel her approaching the edge again, and I’m not far behind. The knot is swelling fast now, too big to slip in and out easily.
“I’m close,” she gasps.
“Me too.” I circle her clit faster. “Come for me. I want to feel you come on my cock.”
She shatters. Her orgasm rips through her, her whole body convulsing, and I can’t hold back anymore. I thrust forward one final time, and the knot pushes past her entrance, swelling inside her, locking us together.
The sensation is overwhelming. I come with a growl that doesn’t sound human, spilling into her in hot waves. Her walls pulse around me, milking every drop. I can’t move—the knot holds us fused—and I don’t want to. I don’t ever want to pull out of her.
I collapse onto my forearms, careful not to crush her.
My face is buried in her neck, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, fast and wild, gradually settling.
Her hands come up to rest on my back, her fingers tracing the scratches she left, gentle now, almost apologetic.
I lift my head and look at her. Her face is flushed, her lips kiss-swollen, her eyes still wet. She looks ruined in the best possible way.
And something shifts inside me.
It’s not just the post-orgasm haze. It’s not just the knot still binding us together. It’s something deeper, something that settles into my bones like it’s always been there, waiting. My Alpha brain isn’t just purring in satisfaction—it’s roaring.
Mine. This woman is mine. My mate. Protect her. Love her. Keep her safe.
I’ve had sex with countless women over the years. Quick encounters in Council quarters, names I barely remembered by morning, bodies that meant nothing beyond the physical release. This isn’t that.
I press my mouth to her forehead, then her cheek, then the corner of her lips. She turns her head and catches my lips in a kiss that’s soft and unhurried, her tongue sliding against mine. I kiss her back, drinking her in, and my hand comes up to cup her face, my thumb stroking her cheekbone.
I pull back just enough to watch her—watch the way her eyelashes flutter when I trail my lips down to her jaw. Watch the way her breath catches when I shift and the knot tugs inside her. Watch the way she looks at me… like I’m her man.
“I didn’t plan this,” I say against her mouth. “Coming here. Staying. Any of it.”
“I know,” she whispers.
“The Council—”
“Shh.” She presses a finger to my lips. “Not now. Just… stay. Stay like this.”
So I do. I stay locked inside her, my knot keeping us joined, and I kiss her, then I suck a mark into the curve of her neck where her shoulder meets her throat. She tilts her head to give me better access, and something about that—about her offering, her trust—makes my chest ache.
The rain keeps falling outside. The storm keeps raging. But in here, in this small house, in this woman’s arms, everything is still.
I don’t know what happens tomorrow. I don’t know what my report will say, or what the Council will do when they realize I’m not giving them the narrative they want. I don’t know how I’m going to walk away from her, if I even can.
But right now, she’s in my arms, and she’s mine.
And that’s enough.