The Omega's Reflex novel · Chapter 1 of 6
Chapter 1: The Herb
Wedding night in the Alpha's chambers. Rodrick's aphrodisiac herb is burning in the brazier. Marcus and Raven, drugged, finish the night; the bond flares real. Marcus's reflex fires and Rodrick, listening at the door, feels his own hand burn.
The herb was already smoking when they shut the door on us.
I smelled it first.
Sweet, thick, like honey left too long in a hot pan.
"Raven."
"I know."
He crossed the chamber and lifted the brazier lid with two fingers.
Purple ash curled up into the dark.
"Someone's been in here."
"It's our wedding night," I said.
"People are supposed to come in."
He looked at me over his shoulder.
"Not into the fire."
The room was the Alpha's chambers, and it was too big for two men.
A bed wide enough for four.
Black spruce walls.
One tall window holding a strip of golden light that was already going blue at the edges.
Snow had been falling since the ceremony.
I could hear it against the glass.
Raven set the lid back down.
He didn't put the fire out.
That was the first thing I noticed about the night.
He left it burning.
"You should sleep in the outer room," he said.
"I signed a contract."
"The contract says we marry."
"It doesn't say this."
"It says we try."
He stood with his back to me, one hand on the mantel.
I watched the width of him in the firelight.
Midnight-navy coat.
Shoulders that made the doorframe look small.
He had been kind to me for six hours.
That was more than anyone in his court had managed.
Then he turned around and I saw his face.
His pupils were blown wide.
A thin sheen sat on his forehead.
"Marcus."
"What."
"Get to the far side of the room."
I didn't.
I stood where I was.
The sweet smoke crawled down into my chest.
Something in my body turned over slowly, like a key.
Heat climbed my throat.
My hands went cold and my face went hot at the same time.
"There's no far side," I said.
He crossed the room in three steps.
He took my jaw in his hand and tilted my face up into the light.
He was checking me.
His thumb pressed just under my chin.
His hand was shaking.
His eyes were black.
"You're burning up."
"So are you."
"I know."
His voice came out scraped.
"I know what I am right now."
"Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
"Yes."
"Say it back."
"You want me," I said.
"And you're trying to decide if it's the herb or you."
"And I don't care which."
Something in his face broke open.
He kissed me.
His mouth came down on mine hard enough to hurt.
My back hit the spruce wall.
His forearm braced against the wood beside my head.
His other hand stayed at my jaw, holding my face where he wanted it.
I got my fingers into his coat and pulled.
Buttons went.
He caught my wrist and pinned it flat to the wall above my shoulder.
He held it there, easy, like it cost him nothing.
"Don't," he said against my mouth.
"Don't what."
"Don't make this worse."
"You're the one holding my arm."
He laughed.
It was a wrecked sound, low in his chest.
It moved through me.
Then he stopped laughing and took my mouth again, slower.
He let go of my wrist so he could get both hands on my coat.
Charcoal wool hit the floor.
The cream tunic after it.
His mouth dragged down my throat.
I tipped my head back against the wall and let him.
His teeth caught the cord of my neck.
I made a noise I didn't recognize.
He went still.
"Again," he said.
"No."
"Say it again."
I got a fistful of that black hair and pulled his head back and looked at him.
"Take me to the bed, Alpha."
He did.
He laid me down on the furs.
He stood at the edge of the bed and took his own coat off.
I watched him do it.
I have never in my life wanted anything the way I wanted that.
The bond hit when he came down over me.
I don't have better words for it.
There was a pull behind my ribs, a hook set into bone.
It was attached to him.
It had always been attached to him.
Every year I'd spent signing papers in a cold office had been me walking toward this bed.
His mouth was on my chest.
His hand was between my legs.
I couldn't hold still.
"There," I said.
"There, don't stop."
"Say my name."
"Raven."
"Again."
"Raven."
He pushed two fingers into me.
I arched off the furs.
He watched my face the whole time.
I tried to close my knees.
He put his palm flat on the inside of my thigh and pushed it back down.
"Stay open."
"That's not. I need."
"I know what you need."
He worked me open with his fingers, slow, unhurried.
The herb burned.
The snow came down.
I swore at him in three languages.
I got nothing back but his breath going ragged against my hip.
Then he turned me over onto my stomach.
"Hands," he said.
I put them up by the headboard.
He caught both my wrists in one of his and held them there.
The first push took the breath out of me.
I bit down on my own arm.
He pulled it away from my teeth.
"No. I want to hear it."
"Then fuck me properly."
He did.
He held my wrists down and took me from behind.
Deep and slow, and then not slow.
Every time I pushed back he pulled out and waited until I begged.
I begged.
I have never begged anyone for anything in my life.
The furs were wet under my face.
My knees had gone out.
He had one hand flat on my back, holding me down.
The other was still around both my wrists.
"Marcus."
"What."
"Say you're mine."
"I signed a contract," I said.
He slammed into me hard enough that the headboard knocked the wall.
I laughed.
Then I wasn't laughing.
"Say it."
"Yours."
"Say it again."
"Yours. Yours. Raven."
He came with his mouth against the back of my shoulder.
I came with his name still in my mouth.
The bond locked shut behind my ribs like a door.
We lay there for a long time.
The fire went low.
The window went fully blue.
He pulled out and turned me over and looked at me.
There was blood on the sheet.
He touched my face with the back of his hand.
"That was the herb," he said.
"Part of it."
"Part of it."
"You know it's not the herb."
He didn't answer.
He got up and brought me water.
He sat on the edge of the bed with his back to me.
I watched the muscles move under his skin.
I thought about how much I wanted to put my hand on him and how little right I had to.
Then the pain came.
It started in my left hand.
Sharp, hot, the way a rope burn feels the second day.
I looked down.
There was nothing there.
No mark, no red, nothing at all.
It got worse.
It spread up my wrist and into my forearm.
I sat up.
"What," Raven said.
"Nothing."
"Your face says otherwise."
I held my hand out in the firelight and turned it over.
Clean. Whole.
And it hurt like it was being held over a candle.
I knew this feeling.
I've known it since I was seven years old and my brother shoved me into a stove.
He screamed louder than I did.
The pain doesn't stay with me.
It goes back.
It always goes back.
"Marcus."
"It's fine."
"Your hand is shaking."
I closed it into a fist and looked past him, at the door.
There was a shadow under it.
A pair of boots, too wide to be a serving man's, standing on the other side of the oak in the corridor.
Standing very still.
I put my hand behind my back and smiled at my husband.
"Come to bed," I said.
He came.
Outside in the corridor, Rodrick lifted his own left hand into the torchlight.
There was a red burn across the palm, fresh and shining, in the shape of fingers that were not there.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then he knew.
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