Chapter 20: Cassian's rough hands tremble as he helps Chester drink the bitter fertility draught, his usual arrogance replaced by naked fear when Morri warns 'This'll make the pup's magic surge - she'll need constant touch to stabilize it.' Without hesitation, Cassian strips off his shirt and pulls her against his bare chest, his skin prickling with the shared energy.
The air in the apothecary shop was thick enough to taste—dried mugwort, crushed wormwood, the sharp tang of charged quartz. Sunlight struggled through dusty windows, cutting beams through the motes of powdered dragonbone on the air. Chester worked at a scarred oak table, her movements precise, her focus absolute. A simmering copper cauldron emitted a steady plume of silver vapor that smelled of blackberries and cold moonlight.
“Prenatal stabilizing draught,” Morrigan stated from the shadows between two shelves. She wasn’t asking. The old warlock emerged like a wraith, his gnarled fingers tracing the rim of a jar of nepenthe tears. His eyes, the color of a bruise, fixed on Chester. “A bit advanced for a common weekender’s ailment.”
Chester’s hand didn’t shake as she added three drops of tincture of moonflower. “Standard preventive care. For a friend.”
“The friend who smells of Alpha wolf and carries the scent of new life?” Morrigan moved closer, his voice a low rasp. “The one who now wears the mating mark of Cassian Blackwater on her neck? I have nostrils, girl. And eyes.” He stopped on the other side of the table. “The question isn’t what you’re brewing. It’s why. And for whom.”
She met his gaze, a flicker of defiance in her dark eyes. “It’s my business.”
“It becomes pack business. And when it involves an Alpha known for taking what he wants without concern for consequence, it becomes my business.” He leaned forward, the scent of old magic and slowed time rolling off him. “You are a witch of minor power, working a mortal job. He is a storm. Tell me truthfully, before these herbs bind their purpose to your will… is this your choice? Or are you anchored here by his command?”
The door to the shop blew open with a force that shook the bottles on their shelves. A gust of pine, cold river rock, and furious wolf flooded the room, dispelling the delicate herbal aromas.
Cassian stood in the doorway, backlit by the harsh afternoon sun, his frame filling the space. His eyes went straight to Chester, a visual scan so intense it felt physical. Then they swung to Morrigan. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
“Anchored?” Cassian’s voice was deceptively calm. He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut. His boot heels were loud on the wooden floor. “Is that what you’re asking her?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He walked to Chester, putting himself physically between her and the warlock. His hand came to rest on the curve of her shoulder, his thumb stroking her neck just below his mating mark. “She’s here because she’s meticulous. Because she cares about doing things right. Not because I commanded her.”
Morrigan didn’t back down. “Many find your… enthusiasm… command enough, Alpha.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped to the simmering potion, then back to Chester. The raw, unguarded look that had graced his face at dawn flashed again, just for a second. When he spoke again, the calm was gone, replaced by a gravelly, emotional honesty that seemed to surprise even him.
“You want to know if she’s forced?” He didn’t raise his voice. He let the ache in it do the work. “I’d burn the world before forcing her. I’d chew off my own paw before seeing that light in her eyes go out.” He looked from Morrigan to Chester, his green eyes shimmering. “She is the choice. The only one that’s ever mattered.”
The silence in the wake of his words was profound. The humming magic in the room seemed to still. Morrigan studied him, his ancient eyes narrowing, probing. He saw the fierceness, yes. But he also saw the tremor in the Alpha’s hand where it touched the witch. He saw the way the wolf’s entire being was oriented around her, a fixed point in his universe.
The warlock straightened, giving a curt, almost imperceptible nod. “See that you remember that feeling when the council howls. The draught will be ready in an hour.” He turned and vanished back into the labyrinth of shelves.
The breath Chester hadn’t realized she was holding left her in a shaky rush. Cassian’s arm slipped around her waist, pulling her back against the solid wall of his chest. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply.
“I could smell his accusation from the training grounds,” he muttered against her skin, his voice muffled. “The doubt. It pissed me off.”
“He was protecting me,” she whispered, leaning into him.
“I know.” He turned her in his arms. His eyes searched hers. “But I’m the only one who gets to do that.” His mouth came down on hers, not gentle, but reaffirming. A kiss of ownership and desperate reassurance. She could taste his fear beneath the anger—the fear of losing this, of her doubt, of the world undermining what was so new and terrifyingly fragile.
When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. “Let’s go home.”
He didn’t take her to the Pack House. He took her to the den—a private, wood-paneled suite in the oldest part of the building, lined with books and dominated by a huge fur rug before a stone fireplace. It smelled overwhelmingly of him, of cedar and musk. He locked the door.
The intensity from the apothecary hadn’t dissipated; it had coiled tighter, looking for an outlet.
“They’re all going to question it,” he said, shucking his jacket. His movements were brisk, restless. “The council. The other packs. They’ll see your quiet magic and think I settled. They’ll see the pup and think it’s a political consolidation.” He stalked towards her, his gaze burning. “They don’t know what you are. What you do to me.”
“Show me,” Chester said, the words leaving her before she could reconsider.
A feral grin touched his lips. He closed the distance, his hands tangling in her wavy black hair, tilting her head back. “You want me to show you how fucking desperate I am for you? How the thought of anyone, anyone, thinking you’re less than everything makes me want to tear flesh from bone?”
“Yes.”
He growled, a pure animal sound, and his mouth crashed down on hers again. This kiss was all tongue and teeth, a claiming. He walked her backwards until her legs hit the edge of a wide, low divan. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “On your knees. Over the arm.”
A shiver, hot and liquid, went through her. She obeyed, bending over the padded arm of the divan, the soft leather cool against her belly. He yanked her skirt up, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her underwear and wrenching them down her thighs.
The cool air hit her exposed skin, followed by the blistering heat of his gaze. She felt open, vulnerable.
“Look at this perfect cunt,” he breathed, his voice thick. He dragged a single, calloused finger through her folds. She was already wet. “This is mine. This is where my heir is growing. And it weeps for me.” He smeared her wetness, circling her clit, making her gasp and push back against his hand. “You hear me? It weeps because it knows who it belongs to.”
She heard the rustle of his clothes, the clink of his belt. Then the broad, blunt head of his cock was nudging against her, testing. He pushed in, not slowly, but not with brutal force—a steady, inexorable invasion that stretched her, filled her deeply.
“Fuck,” he hissed, seating himself fully, his hips flush against her ass. He leaned over her, blanketing her body with his, one arm wrapping around her waist, his hand splaying possessively over her lower stomach. His other hand fisted in her hair. “You feel that? Every inch. I’m in so deep I might as well be in your soul.”
He began to move. A hard, driving rhythm that rocked her whole body forward with each thrust. The angle was relentless, hitting a place inside her that made sparks dance behind her eyelids.
“You think a forced mate takes me like this?” he grunted in her ear, his breath hot. “You think a political bride gushes around my cock, so fucking tight and willing?” He punctuated each question with a deep, grinding surge of his hips. “You cling to me. Your greedy little cunt sucks me right back in.”
It was raw, filthy, degrading—and it shattered her. The words, the carnal truth of them, combined with the overwhelming physical sensation, broke the last of her tension. A sharp cry tore from her throat as her orgasm slammed into her, a wave of intense, crackling pleasure that started in her core and radiated out to her fingertips.
Her internal muscles clenched around him, spasming, and that was all it took.
Cassian roared, a sound of pure victory and surrender. He held himself deep, his body rigid as he pumped his release into her in hot, endless pulses. The feeling of it, of him marking her inside again, perfect heat spilling into her, triggered a second, smaller ripple of bliss that left her trembling.
He collapsed over her, his weight a solid comfort, his face buried in the junction of her neck and shoulder. They stayed like that, connected, for long moments, the only sounds their ragged breaths and the crackle of the fire.
Slowly, he softened and slipped from her body. He turned her, gathering her limp form into his arms and sinking onto the divan, cradling her in his lap. He didn’t speak. He just held her, one hand stroking her hair, the other resting on her belly.
The fire popped. Somewhere in the house, a door closed.
“I meant it,” he said quietly, his voice rough with spent emotion. “I’d burn it all for you.”
She believed him. And the terrifying, exhilarating part was, looking at the fierce, vulnerable honesty on his face, nestled here in the heart of his scent, she knew she’d help him strike the match.