“I grew up in that world. Warlock for the Council by twenty-five. Rune magic is my specialty. So when a town like Willowbrook starts having problems with the Rift, they don’t send a politician. They send me. To assess, to report, and if necessary, to act.”
“So all those questions at the apothecary, at the town hall, about the Omegas, about the Rift, that was you assessing?”
“Yes. But it’s not what you think. The Council sees this town as a problem. An asset with a liability. They see the Rift as athreat to be contained. They see the unregistered Omegas as a disease. They want a simple solution.”
“And you don’t?”
“I see a town that’s surviving.” His gaze drifts toward the window. “People trying to live their lives. I see you, and…” He exhales, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s not as simple as I thought it would be. My job is to give them a report that fits their narrative. But being here, talking to you…” He trails off for a moment. “It complicates things.”
The man from the Council, the one with the cool eyes and precise words, seems to be gone. In his place is someone else.
I turn my head, my cheek pressing against his shirt. A need to offer comfort rises in me, strange and instinctive. I reach up and cover his hand where it rests on my arm, my fingers threading through his.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For the distraction. For telling me the truth, even when it was hard to hear.”
His hand turns under mine, his fingers closing around my palm. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. The rain drums against the windows.
“Do you hate me?”
The question is quiet. Not fragile—Silas doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to do fragile—but there’s something raw underneath it.
“I’m slightly annoyed,” I say honestly. “But I know you were being a soldier. I don’t think you came here aiming to hurt anyone. You’ve got a lot of complicated thoughts in your head right now. I understand what that feels like. And you stayed behind to keep me company while two other Alphas went out in a storm to find Thistle. You were ready to go out there yourself. So no. I don’t hate you, Silas. You’ve got a lot to unpack about yourself and the Council, but that’s yours to figure out.”
He’s quiet. His thumb moves across my knuckles, like he’s not aware he’s doing it.
“Griffin was out there too,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “He was.”
“Does he?—”
“He and I have history. It’s complicated.” I don’t elaborate. There’s no need, and right now, I don’t want to. “Why?”
Silas is quiet for another beat. Then: “No reason.”
It’s a lie. I can hear it in the way the words come out too flat, too quick. But I let it go. Because his hand has tightened around mine, and his breathing has changed, and under the comfort of his scent, the banked fire in me is starting to glow again.
“Caroline.” My name in his mouth does something to me. “I’m going to do something, and I need you to tell me to stop if you want me to.”
My pulse picks up. “What are you going to do?”
Instead of answering, he shifts. His hand slides from mine to my jaw, turning my head. His face is close. This close, I can see flecks of silver in his blue eyes, the slight part of his lips.
I don’t tell him to stop.
He kisses me.
His mouth covers mine, and there’s nothing hesitant about it. His fingers thread into my hair, his other arm locking around my waist and pulling me against him. I gasp, and he takes the opening, his tongue sliding past my lips. He tastes like rain and something darker underneath, something that makes my whole body arch toward him.
The rain, the storm, Thistle, my own shame—all of it burns away. There’s only him. The pressure of his mouth. The grip of his hands. The fire he banked roars back, a focused, hungry blaze, and I’m the fuel.
This time, when I move to straddle him, he lets me.
Spell for Tangled Hearts:
Rose petals and clove in hot water. Drink when love grows confusing.
She tastes like honey and rain. That’s my first thought. Her mouth moves against mine, and I’m drowning in it. The sweetness of her spreads across my tongue, mixes with something sharper underneath. Salt from her skin. The remnants of the storm still clinging to her hair and her clothes.
