“That’s okay,” Damon says.
“You don’t have to explain anything,” Griffin adds.
Silas leans forward, his forearms on his thighs. “You might feel a drop in your system. The heat produces a chemical high—endorphins, oxytocin, a few other things. When it ends, those levels crash. It’s normal to feel… hollow. Or sad. Or confused.”
“I know.” I do know. June explained it to me years ago, back when my heats were still unpredictable and terrifying. “It doesn’t make it suck less.”
“No. It doesn’t.” Silas stands. “I made some potions for you. They’re in the kitchen. One for the cramping, one for the emotional drop, one for sleep if you need it. They’re labeled.”
“You made potions?”
“Part of the training.” A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Turns out I’m actually useful for something other than playing at the Council’s bidding.”
The self-deprecation in his tone makes my chest ache. I reach out and touch his hand as he passes. He stops, looks down at my fingers on his wrist, and then covers my hand with his other palm.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You don’t need to thank me.” He squeezes my hand once and then disappears into the kitchen.
Damon is watching me. His gaze is warm, the same look he gave me the night of the storm when he cupped my face and promised to find Thistle. Protective. Steadfast.
“Amara called too,” Damon says. “She got back to town yesterday and started asking questions because you weren’t answering your phone. I told her you were safe, but I promised I'd let her know as soon as you were up for visitors.”
“Damon.”
“Yeah?”
“I need Amara.”
He nods. No hesitation, no questions, no awkwardness. Just understanding.
“I’ll get her,” he says. “She’s been waiting for me to say you were ready.”
He stands, grabs his phone from the coffee table, and steps onto the back porch. Through the glass, I can see him pacing, the phone pressed to his ear, his free hand running through his hair.
Griffin shifts beside me. His arm slides around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. I lean into him without thinking, my face pressing against his chest.
Thistle jumps back onto the armchair and curls into a ball, his tail wrapping around his nose. The fire crackles in the hearth. Silas clatters around in the kitchen, and somewhere outside, Damon is bringing my best friend to me.
All at once, the hollowness in my chest doesn’t feel quite so big.
The back door opens, and I hear Amara before I see her.
“Where is she?”
“Living room. Easy?—”
She rounds the corner, and the first thing I notice is that she’s in pajama pants and a rain jacket, her hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head. No makeup. She must have thrown clothes on the second Damon called.
Her eyes find me on the couch, and she stops dead.
“Oh, Caroline.”
She crosses the room in three strides and drops to her knees in front of me. Her hands find my face, tilting it left, then right, her eyes scanning every inch of my skin. I know what she’s looking for—the marks.
They’re visible even in Damon’s flannel. A bruise peeking above the collar. A bite mark on my wrist that I don’t remember getting.
“I’m okay,” I say.
