He doesn’t hesitate. He pushes the door open, the chain snapping like a dry twig, and is inside the shop in one fluid, impossibly fast motion. He closes the door behind him, plunging us back into near-darkness, the only light the single lamp over the counter.
He crosses the space between us, his presence overwhelming, filling the small shop. The scent of him is everywhere. It’s intoxicating.
“Are you well?” he asks again, his voice vibrating in the charged air.
I try to answer, but a wave of dizziness so intense it buckles my knees washes over me. I would have fallen if he hadn’t reached out, his hands gripping my upper arms, holding me up.
His touch is cool, a shocking, blissful relief against my burning skin. I gasp, a full-body shudder racking me as a wave of pure, unadulterated need, so powerful it terrifies me, rolls through me.
“You’re burning up,” he states, his blue eyes intense as he scans my face, his gaze clinical and analytical. He leans in slightly, his nostrils flaring as he takes in my scent properly now that the ward is gone. The air crackles between us, thick with tension. His grip on my arms tightens, a possessive, grounding pressure.
He looks down at me, his face a mask of cold control. Then he asks the question, the one that confirms my deepest, most terrifying fear.
“Are you in heat, Omega?”
My knees buckle, the floorboards rushing up to meet me. The world tilts, a nauseating, swirling kaleidoscope of shadow and dim light. I don’t fall.
One moment I’m collapsing, the next I’m airborne, a gasp escaping my lips as an arm bands around my waist, another hooking behind my knees. He lifts me as if I weigh nothing. The scent of him engulfs me. My face is pressed against the cool, smooth fabric of his suit jacket, and for a dizzying, terrifying second, it feels like the safest place in the world.
He carries me through the darkened shop, his steps sure and silent on the creaking floorboards. He doesn’t head for the door; he moves toward the back. He kicks the door open, the bang of it against the wall making me flinch, and sets me down gently on the worn floral sofa that I sometimes nap on.
He straightens, his tall frame blocking out the light from the open door. “Suppressants,” he commands. “Do you have them? Somewhere in this mess?”
I can only shake my head, the movement sending a fresh wave of dizziness through me. “They’re at home.”
“Fuck,” he bites out, the curse devoid of real anger, more like a statement of a frustrating fact. He turns on his heel and walks to the floor-to-ceiling shelves that line one wall, where we keep my bulk herbs and less-used potions.
I watch, mesmerized, as he scans the labels, his long, elegant fingers trailing along the glass bottles. He doesn’t fumble. He doesn’t hesitate. He moves with an unnerving grace, a man completely in his element, as if he’s in his own apothecary, not mine.
“Who are you?” I gasp out.
“Silas,” he says, not turning around. His eyes are still scanning the shelves. He pauses, his fingers landing on a small, dark blue bottle. “Got it.”
He turns back to me, the bottle in his hand. He crouches down in front of the sofa.
“Sit up,” he orders. I struggle to obey, my limbs feeling like lead. He reaches out, his hand cool against my neck, and helps me, his touch firm but not rough. “This will help with the fever. It’s a cooling draught.”
“How do you know?” I ask, my voice trembling.
He meets my gaze, his arctic blue eyes intense. “I just do. Now open your mouth.”
It’s not a request. It’s a command that bypasses my brain and goes straight to my Omega instincts, making me want to obey. He brings the bottle to his lips, and with his teeth, he grips the glass stopper and pulls it free. The sight is so unexpectedly hot that a fresh wave of liquid heat pools in my core. I’m so far gone, so lost in this fever, that a man pulling a cork with his teeth is the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
A jolt of ice-water fear cuts through the haze. Silas. The same Silas June was just ranting about. The Council’s envoy. I let him in. I dismantled the protective ward for him.
“You should leave.”
“Not what you should be worrying about right now, sweetheart.”
He brings the open bottle to my lips. The scent of him is fucking fantastic, a dizzying cocktail that makes my head spin even more. His other hand comes up to cup the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, holding me steady because I’m swaying so badly.
As he leans in, his thigh presses firmly between my own, a solid, unyielding pressure against the throbbing ache at my core. A choked sound escapes me. It feels good. So good that, without conscious thought, my hips rock forward, a small, desperate grind against the hard muscle of his leg.
He stills. The bottle pauses an inch from my lips. He looks down, his gaze dropping to where my body is pressed against his.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I breathe, the lie tasting like ash on my tongue.
