11. Anouk #2
Caius is in practical clothes—dark shirt, worn pants, boots designed for forest terrain. His hair is slightly disheveled, as if he’s been running his hands through it.
He looks like he hasn’t slept any more than I have.
He looks perfect.
“The vote failed.” He says it without preamble, crossing the shop toward me.
“You know about that?”
“Elio has sources everywhere. Also, you’ve been radiating satisfaction all day. I could sense it from The Den.” He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his gaze. “Rhodes had thoughts. He always has thoughts.”
“Of course, he does.”
“Aslan wanted to storm the council chamber and make dramatic declarations. Torin talked him down. Barely.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Leire sent approximately forty more exclamation-heavy messages. I’m told the punctuation was excessive even by her standards.”
“Speaking of The Den.” I lean against my workbench, aiming for casual and probably failing. “How was your morning? Besides sensing my political victories from across town?”
His expression shifts—amusement mixed with what might be embarrassment. “The alphas were exactly as insufferable as you’d expect.”
His mouth twitches.
Despite myself, I laugh. “The universe should be concerned.”
“The universe should be very concerned.” His expression softens. “How are you? Really? Beyond the political victories and the gossip network and the apparently endless stream of townspeople offering opinions?”
“I’m…” I pause, searching for the right word. “Processing.”
“Same.” He steps closer. “I just wanted to be here.”
“Why didn’t you come earlier?”
“Because you needed to handle the council meeting yourself. And because if I’d shown up during the vote, I would have done something inadvisable.” His jaw tightens. “Like challenge Cordelia to single combat for insulting my mate.”
The word ‘mate’ lands between us, heavy with meaning.
He doesn’t move away. “I didn’t plan it.”
“Neither did I.” I let my hands rest on his chest, feeling the hum of awareness where the claiming mark sits beneath his shirt. “But I’m not sorry it happened.”
“Neither am I.”
Silence stretches.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“Now?” He steps closer. I let him. “Now we find out who killed Mathilda. We expose Cordelia. We stop the Preservers.”
“That’s the investigation. What about…” I hesitate. The word feels strange in my mouth, vulnerable in ways I’ve trained myself to avoid. “What about us?”
“Us.” The word is warm in his voice. “I’ve been circling ‘us’ for far too long. I can handle a bit longer while things settle.”
“What if I don’t want you to handle it?”
His eyes darken. The room heats another degree.
“Then you need to tell me. Clearly. So there’s no misunderstanding.”
I close the distance between us. My hands fist in his shirt. My body presses against his with a desperation I’ve spent years suppressing.
I meet his gaze. “I want this. Whatever it means. However complicated it gets.”
He kisses me.
He kisses like a man who’s been starving and finally allowed to eat. I match his intensity, my carefully constructed walls crumbling under the assault, my magic surging with joy instead of chaos.
His hands slide into my hair, loosening the updo I’d assembled this morning. Strands fall around my face. I don’t care. His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw to the claiming mark on my shoulder, and the sensation sends sparks racing through every nerve.
“That’s new.” His voice is rough, wrecked.
“I can’t help it.” I’m laughing—actually laughing, the sound foreign to my own ears. “You do things to my magic.”
“Good.” He pulls me close again, his forehead pressing against mine. “I’ve been hoping for years to see you lose that iron grip.”
“Then you should stop being so damned restrained.”
His response is another kiss—deeper this time, more thorough. His hands map the curves of my back like he’s memorizing territory. I arch into his touch, letting myself want without calculation for the first time in years.
We end up on the small sofa I keep in the corner of my workroom, tangled in each other in ways that make rational thought impossible. He’s warm and solid and real, his hands gentle despite their strength, his mouth devastating in ways I hadn’t let myself imagine.
“Stay.” The word slips out between kisses. “Tonight. Stay with me.”
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “Are you sure?”
“I’m done being sure about everything.” I trace the line of his jaw with trembling fingers. “I want to make a decision with my heart instead of my head.”
“Anouk.” He cups my face in his hands. “I’ve wanted this. If we do this—”
“If we do this, everything changes.” I finish the thought for him. “I know. I want it to change.”
His smile is slow, transforming his serious features. “Then I’m staying.”
We don’t make it to the bedroom that night. The shop is closed, the wards are up, and the world outside can wait until morning. We stay on that small sofa, wrapped around each other, talking and kissing and learning all the things we’ve denied ourselves for too long.
He tells me about his grandmother’s reaction when he returned to pack territory last night—how Sylvana simply looked at the claiming mark and said, “About time. I was beginning to think I’d have to orchestrate an intervention myself.
” I tell him about the council meeting, about Cordelia’s barely contained fury, about the vote that almost ended my tenure as coven leader.
“She’ll try again.” His voice is quiet, his hand tracing patterns on my back.
“She will. But not tonight.” I press closer, savoring the feel of him. “Tonight, she doesn’t matter. None of them do.”
His hands never stop moving—tracing my face, smoothing my hair, mapping the claiming mark on my shoulder with reverent attention. I learn the texture of his skin, the sound of his laugh, the way his whole body relaxes when I touch him.
The herbs arrange themselves into increasingly elaborate displays. The potions brew themselves to perfection. My magic hums with stability and contentment and the fierce satisfaction of finally, finally having what I want.