He doesn’t respond, just brings the bottle to my lips again. I part them, and he tips the cool, silvery liquid into my mouth. It’s not unpleasant. It tastes of mint and wintergreen, and it feels amazing as it coats my tongue and throat, a soothing balm against the fire.
“Look at me, Caroline.”
My eyes are half-closed, my head lolling. “Mmm.”
“Look at me, damnit.”
The edge in his voice cuts through the fog.
I force my eyes open, really look at him. Up close, I can see the details of his face in the dim light. He has a pretty face. High cheekbones, a strong jaw. But his lips… they’re full, a Cupid’s bow that looks soft and utterly kissable. It’s a cute mouth on a severe face, a fascinating contradiction.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across those lips. “Well, you’re definitely not June, are you?”
“No,” I whisper.
His thumb comes up, brushing a stray strand of hair from my cheek. The touch is light, almost accidental, but an electric current runs through me. My breasts tingle, the peaks tightening into hard, painful points. A deep and aching throb starts between my legs.
I want those fingers. I want them rubbing on my clit, inside me. Fuck.
With a surge of what little strength I have left, I sit up, pulling away from his touch. The loss of contact is physically painful. “I’ll be fine,” I say, my voice shaking with a mixture of fear and arousal. “You really shouldn’t be in here.”
He leans back, a smirk playing on his lips. He runs a hand through his dark hair, messing up the perfect knot at the nape of his neck. “You could have just said thank you.” He pushes himself to his feet in one smooth motion. He gives me a mocking salute. “Try to stay out of trouble, Omega.”
And then he’s gone, melting back into the shadows of the shop, the front door clicking shut behind him.
I’m left alone, trembling. The fever is breaking, the intense fire receding to a low, manageable warmth. But my body still hums, a restless, tingling energy flowing just beneath my skin.
I reach for the small blue bottle he left on the table, my fingers fumbling with it. I hold it up to the light to read the neat, calligraphic label.
Feverfew, willowbark, lavender, and a touch of damiana.
My blood runs cold for the second time tonight. Damiana isn’t just for fevers. It’s a mild aphrodisiac. He knew exactly what he was giving me.
I let a stranger, a Council envoy, into my place of work while I was in heat. I drank a potion he handed me. What is wrong with me?
Just then, a loud, indignant meow cuts through the silence. Thistle marches in his tail held high. He stops, looks at me, and then flops onto his side, rolling around on the floor as if he hasn’t a care in the world.
I stare at him, my mind a complete blank. What the hell just happened?
Storm Charm:
Whistle thrice into the wind. The storm will turn away.
Istand on the pavement for a moment. My hand is still raised, fingers curled as if they still grip the shape of her arm.
The car is waiting. The driver opens the door before I reach it. I slide into the back, the leather cool against my suit jacket. The door closes with a thud, sealing me inside the quiet, climate-controlled space.
“Back to the hotel, sir?” the driver asks.
I don’t answer. I look at my hand. The one that touched her. I can still feel the impression of her skin, the shocking heat of it. A fever. An Omega’s heat.
The timing is a coincidence, a catastrophic one. It has to be. The universe isn’t so poetic, nor so cruel, as to orchestrate a meeting like that. It’s just bad luck. A variable I failed to account for.
But the scent…
It’s not just in my memory. It’s on me. A ghost of cinnamon and clove, something warm and sweet like honey, and underneath it all, the intoxicating perfume of an Omega in need. It clings to my sleeve, to my hand.
I bring my fingers to my nose, a gesture I make without thinking. The scent hits me again, and my body responds, a visceral pull in my gut, a stirring in my blood that has nothing to do with logic or strategy.
