Page 21 of Alpha Charmed

“I’ve always seen you as more than the coven leader.” Caius’s voice is quiet. Certain. “From the first council meeting. The first time you looked at me like I was a problem you hadn’t yet decided how to take on.”

My laugh is surprised out of me—brittle and real. “That’s how you knew?”

“That’s how I knew you were paying attention.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “You’ve never looked at anyone else like that. Only me. I’ve been watching you pretend for years, Anouk. Watching you hide behind formality. I’ve been standing on the other side of your walls, hoping you’d eventually open a door.”

“I know.” The words come out barely above a whisper. “That’s what made you so dangerous.”

The admission hangs in the air between us. I can feel my magic responding to the moment—to him, to the vulnerability, to the terrifying possibility of being truly seen. Herbs I can’t even see are probably growing in the cottage.

Caius reaches up, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch is gentle, questioning—an invitation I could decline.

I don’t decline.

He doesn’t move away. His palm curves against my cheek, warm and steady.

“Caius—”

A knock at the cottage door.

We spring apart—or rather, I spring apart while Caius shifts with the fluid grace of someone who never makes undignified movements. By the time the door swings open, we’re both standing, a respectable distance between us, the journals spread innocently across the desk.

The perfect picture of colleagues conducting a murder investigation.

Grandmother Peach surveys us from the doorway. Her expression is knowing, her smile sharp enough to cut. In her hands, she carries a pie that smells devastatingly good.

“Oh good.” She steps inside without waiting for an invitation. “You’re both here. And you’ve found the journals, I see. Excellent timing.”

“Grandmother Peach.” I straighten my coat, attempting to recover my dignity. “How did you know we’d be here?”

“The mist told me. Also, Mrs. Broomfield saw you walking this direction and couldn’t wait to share the news at Sunny’s bakery.” She sets the pie on Mathilda’s cluttered coffee table with the ease of someone who belongs everywhere. “Word travels fast in Mistvale. Especially when it involves the coven leader and the wolf alpha visiting a dead woman’s cottage. Alone. Unchaperoned.”

The implication lands with the precision of a thrown dagger.

“We’re investigating.” My voice could freeze fire.

“Mmm.” Grandmother Peach produces plates and forks from absolutely nowhere—a trick that should be impossible even for witches. “Investigating. In my time, we just called it ‘courting under suspicious circumstances.’”

Caius makes a sound that might be suppressed laughter. I shoot him a glare that promises retribution.

“We should talk about Elder Cordelia.” Grandmother Peach cuts into the pie—peach, naturally, with a lattice crust that defies the laws of baking. “Assuming you’ve found what Mathilda was hiding. Assuming you understand what it means.”

“The Severing.” I accept a plate because refusing Grandmother Peach’s pie is like refusing gravity—theoretically possible but practically inadvisable. “A ritual that separated witches and shifters. Removed our history of partnership.”

“Manufactured the ‘natural order’ that the Preservers have spent centuries protecting.” Grandmother Peach settles into Mathilda’s armchair as if she’s always sat there. “Cordelia has been one of them for forty years. Maybe longer.”

“You knew.” Caius’s voice sharpens. “About Cordelia. About the Preservers on the council.”

“I suspected. Suspicion isn’t proof.” She takes a delicate bite of pie, chewing thoughtfully. “Mathilda was gathering proof. Getting close to exposing them all. And now she’s dead, and her journals are burned, and the Preservers think they’ve won.”

“They haven’t.” My magic flares—anger and determination and the fierce refusal to let Mathilda’s death mean nothing. “We have the journals. We have evidence.”

“You have fragments. Enough to know the truth, not enough to prove it to a skeptical council.” Grandmother Peach’s eyes are older than her face, sharp with centuries of observation. “Cordelia will deny everything. She’ll spin the story, question your objectivity, suggest that your… relationship with the wolf alpha has compromised your judgment.”

“There is no relationship.” The denial comes automatically. Too quickly.

Grandmother Peach’s smile deepens. “No? Then what were you doing when I knocked? Comparing scholarly notes on personal space?”

Silence. Damning, obvious silence.