5. Anouk #2
“It’s not natural at all.” Caius turns to me, his shoulder brushing mine. Not an accident this time—a deliberate pressure, offering comfort without demanding acknowledgment. “The separation between witches and shifters. The suspicion. The careful distance. It was manufactured. Enforced.”
“And we’ve been living by it. Fighting to maintain it.” Bitterness curls through my voice. “All those council debates about ‘appropriate boundaries’ and ‘respecting traditions.’ We were defending a lie.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have questioned it.” I meet his gaze. He’s closer than I realized—close enough that I can see the faint pulse at his throat. “All that careful distance, maintaining the proper protocols, pretending that—”
I stop. The words catch in my throat, too dangerous to release.
“Pretending what?” The question comes out quiet, warmth creeping into his words despite his best efforts.
“Pretending that I didn’t notice you.” The confession slips out before I can stop it. “That your presence in council meetings wasn’t the only thing that made them bearable. That I didn’t spend years wondering what it would be like to—”
I clamp my mouth shut. Too much. Too honest.
Caius doesn’t look away. “Why did you refuse my help at first? Really?”
The question shouldn’t surprise me. We’ve been circling this conversation for days—since the funeral, since Mathilda’s letter, since he showed up at my door at midnight and I let him in.
Since I stopped pretending I didn’t want him there.
“Because accepting help from you would mean admitting—” I pause, searching for words that won’t shatter the careful walls I’ve built.
“That I can’t do this alone.” Another pause.
Harder this time. “That I needed someone to see me as more than the coven leader. And the person I wanted to see me was the one person I couldn’t allow close. ”
“Why couldn’t you allow me close?”
“Because you would have stayed.” The words hurt coming out. True things often do. “Because once I let you in, I wouldn’t want you to leave. And wanting things—needing people—that’s never ended well for me.”
Silence stretches between us. The cottage settles around us, old wood creaking in the morning warmth. Somewhere outside, birds are singing. The world continues its indifferent turning while my carefully constructed defenses crumble one confession at a time.
“I’ve always seen you as more than the coven leader.” Caius’s voice is quiet. Certain. “From the first council meeting. The first time you looked at me like I was a problem you hadn’t yet decided how to take on.”
My laugh is surprised out of me—brittle and real. “That’s how you knew?”
“That’s how I knew you were paying attention.
” The corner of his mouth lifts. “You’ve never looked at anyone else like that.
Only me. I’ve been watching you pretend for years, Anouk.
Watching you hide behind formality. I’ve been standing on the other side of your walls, hoping you’d eventually open a door. ”
“I know.” The words come out barely above a whisper. “That’s what made you so dangerous.”
The admission hangs in the air between us. I can feel my magic responding to the moment—to him, to the vulnerability, to the terrifying possibility of being truly seen. Herbs I can’t even see are probably growing in the cottage.
Caius reaches up, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch is gentle, questioning—an invitation I could decline.
I don’t decline.
He doesn’t move away. His palm curves against my cheek, warm and steady.
“Caius—”
A knock at the cottage door.
We spring apart—or rather, I spring apart while Caius shifts with the fluid grace of someone who never makes undignified movements. By the time the door swings open, we’re both standing, a respectable distance between us, the journals spread innocently across the desk.
The perfect picture of colleagues conducting a murder investigation.
Grandmother Peach surveys us from the doorway. Her expression is knowing, her smile sharp enough to cut. In her hands, she carries a pie that smells devastatingly good.
“Oh good.” She steps inside without waiting for an invitation. “You’re both here. And you’ve found the journals, I see. Excellent timing.”
“Grandmother Peach.” I straighten my coat, attempting to recover my dignity. “How did you know we’d be here?”
“The mist told me. Also, Mrs. Broomfield saw you walking this direction and couldn’t wait to share the news at Sunny’s bakery.
” She sets the pie on Mathilda’s cluttered coffee table with the ease of someone who belongs everywhere.
“Word travels fast in Mistvale. Especially when it involves the coven leader and the wolf alpha visiting a dead woman’s cottage. Alone. Unchaperoned.”
The implication lands with the precision of a thrown dagger.
“We’re investigating.” My voice could freeze fire.
“Mmm.” Grandmother Peach produces plates and forks from absolutely nowhere—a trick that should be impossible even for witches. “Investigating. In my time, we just called it ‘courting under suspicious circumstances.’”
Caius makes a sound that might be suppressed laughter. I shoot him a glare that promises retribution.
“We should talk about Elder Cordelia.” Grandmother Peach cuts into the pie—peach, naturally, with a lattice crust that defies the laws of baking. “Assuming you’ve found what Mathilda was hiding. Assuming you understand what it means.”
“The Severing.” I accept a plate because refusing Grandmother Peach’s pie is like refusing gravity—theoretically possible but practically inadvisable. “A ritual that separated witches and shifters. Removed our history of partnership.”
“Manufactured the ‘natural order’ that the Preservers have spent centuries protecting.” Grandmother Peach settles into Mathilda’s armchair as if she’s always sat there. “Cordelia has been one of them for forty years. Maybe longer.”
“You knew.” Caius’s voice sharpens. “About Cordelia. About the Preservers on the council.”
“I suspected. Suspicion isn’t proof.” She takes a delicate bite of pie, chewing thoughtfully. “Mathilda was gathering proof. Getting close to exposing them all. And now she’s dead, and her journals are burned, and the Preservers think they’ve won.”