The car pulls over onto the gravel shoulder, the engine quieting to a low purr.
“Pack my things at the hotel,” I say. “Have them ready in the lobby in one hour. And give me privacy. I’m not to be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.”
The intercom clicks off. Silence. Absolute. I’m alone in the back of the car, with nothing but the moonlight and the scent on my clothes and the infuriating, persistent ache in my groin.
I undo my tie, the silk whispering against my collar. I unbutton the top two buttons of my shirt. It doesn’t help. The feeling is internal, a fire in my blood that no amount of loosening clothing can extinguish.
I reach into my breast pocket and pull out a handkerchief. It’s white linen, monogrammed with my initials. A symbol of order and propriety. I stare at it for a moment, then my hand moves with a will of its own. I unbuckle my belt, the metal latch a loud sound in the quiet car. I unzip my trousers. My cock springs free, hard and flushed, the head already slick with pre-come.
This is pathetic. A man in my position, reduced to this in the back of a car like a teenager. But the alternative is to walk into the hotel like this, hard and distracted, broadcasting my weakness to anyone with a keen enough sense. And that’s not an option.
I lean my head back against the seat, my eyes closing. I don’t think about Kayla. I don’t think about any of the other women I’ve had. That would be a pointless exercise. There’s only one face in my mind’s eye. Only one scent in my memory.
Caroline.
I wrap my hand around my cock and start to stroke, my movements slow at first, then faster, more demanding. I picture her standing in the doorway of the shop, her face flushed, her hazel-green eyes dazed with fever. I remember the feel of her skin, the shocking heat of it. I remember the scent of her arousal, that bright, sharp note that cut through everything else.
I imagine what it would have been like. To have not left. To have stayed. To have laid her back on that sofa. To have unbuttoned her jeans, to have peeled them down her legs. I would have found her wet, ready. I would have sunk into that heat, that tight, welcoming heat. I would have fucked her with hard, deep strokes, claiming her, marking her. I would have made her scream my name.
My hand moves faster, the friction building. The pressure at the base of my spine coils, tight and hot. I can almost smell her scent in the car with me, a phantom perfume of cinnamon and clove and honey.
It’s overwhelming. It’s everything.
My orgasm rips through me. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound, the taste of blood on my tongue. I come into the handkerchief, hot, thick pulses of release that seem to go on forever.
For a moment, I just breathe, my chest heaving. The buzzing under my skin has stopped, replaced by a hollow, echoing quiet. The physical pressure is gone, but the mental one is worse than ever.
I open my eyes and look at the handkerchief in my hand. Ruined. A perfect symbol of what just happened. My discipline, my control, all of it soiled by a chance encounter with a freckled Omega from a backwater town.
I feel no satisfaction. No relief. Only a cold, stark anger at myself. At her. At this entire fucking town that keeps twisting my mission into something I don’t recognize.
I tuck myself back into my trousers, zipping up and refastening my belt. I fold the handkerchief with a precision that feels absurd, given the circumstances, and place it in my pocket. I’ll dispose of it later. Erase the evidence. As if I can erase what happened. As if I can erase her from my head.
I pick up my phone. This time, I don’t hesitate. I pull up Helena’s contact. The mission hasn’t changed. The objectives are the same. But the landscape has shifted. June Finch is no longer the primary target. She’s a means to an end. The real prize, the real problem, is the Omega. The one with the scent that can bring a man like me to his knees.
I start typing a new report. A revised assessment. The game has changed. And I’m a man who adapts. I will get her. I will break this town. And I will enjoy it.
I will be the Council’s will, made flesh and bone.
Willowbrook will not break me.
Circle of Union:
Three candles, three breaths, one spark. Together, stronger.
The ground is frozen, cracking under my boots with every step. It’s not snow, but a black hoarfrost that covers everything, swallowing the light from the moon. The town is behind me, a distant collection of dark, silent shapes. Ahead of me, the tree line is a gaping maw.
And they’re there.
Silas stands at the edge of the woods, a figure of black against the deeper black of the trees. He isn’t looking at me. His attention is on the woman he’s holding by the arm. Caroline’s struggling, her feet slipping on the icy ground. She’s wearing the same jeans she wore yesterday, the same thin sweater.
She must be freezing.
I run, but the ground feels like mud, pulling at my legs, slowing me to a crawl. I can’t reach them. I can hear her, a sound that cuts through the silence. It’s not a scream. It’s my name.
“Damon!”
