by Lyra Evans
A flush of heat spread through his lower belly, his mind wandering back to the floor of Black Moon, to the way Connor licked his cock and slipped his fingers inside Oliver. With a shudder, Oliver tried to push the thought away, his cock already half-hard again. He didn’t have time to jerk off to mental images of Connor, though he spared a moment to be impressed with himself that he even could. A full weekend with Connor and Oliver still somehow had it in him to get hard in the shower? He’d have to tell Connor they needed to work him harder.
Unless he doesn’t want to see you since you bolted when he asked you to officially be his consort.
Guilt churned Oliver’s stomach again, and his growing erection flagged. Shaking the feeling loose, Oliver finished his shower and stepped out onto the mat. He wrapped himself in a thick, fluffy, purple towel that smelled faintly of lavender. Apparently Rory had been there a while. Long enough to do laundry, anyway.
Drying himself off, Oliver wrapped the towel around his waist and popped out to his room to dress. The door to Rory’s room was still closed, but it was nearly time for her to get up, he figured. She was much more regimented in her schedule than he was, though she often had to work late nights too. He didn’t know how she could manage to get up at six every day, regardless of when she got to sleep, but he thought maybe it was a Fae thing. He’d known someone else, once, who’d needed little sleep.
Oliver’s room was unusually clean. His bed was made, his clothes all put away in the closet or the dresser. A couple books sat, partially read, on his nightstand. One was a space-station adventure story Connor had lent him. The other was a cultural guide to Logan’s Court. The space-station story was pretty good. The cultural guide was not. It was clearly written by a Wizard who had very little personal experience with Logan’s Court and made it out to seem as though Werewolves were unsophisticated savages who spend all their time transformed and hunting small mammals. Needless to say it wasn’t much help to him on his visits, other than to give Connor a good laugh.
Oliver hung the wet towel on the hook behind his door and sat down on the bed, staring at his dresser. The spiraling fear Connor would leave him if he didn’t want to move their relationship forward had returned.
“I don’t mean to rush you…And I know I’m not going anywhere.”
Connor’s words replayed in his mind, like a record stuck on the same note. He’d implied that Oliver wasn’t fully in it, not for the long haul. And maybe Oliver had been trying to think of it as a short-term thing. Maybe looking at their relationship as a forever kind of commitment was beyond what Oliver could give right now. But Connor wasn’t interested in just having fun. Oliver knew that. Lane Irons, another Alpha from Logan’s Court, had made that clear during the Carmichael case. Connor had rebuffed a number of Wolf suitors because he was looking for more than a consort. He was looking for a mate.
Am I the ‘mating’ type?
There was a time Oliver would have emphatically said yes, absolutely. There was a time Oliver would have jumped at the chance to announce to everyone he cared about that he was in a relationship, that he had found his—mate? But that time was behind him now, and it seemed a distant dream, as if from another life. The line between then and now was a shattered glass, and Oliver could still see the spaces he hadn’t managed to repair.
With a heavy sigh, Oliver pulled on a pair of loose jeans and a plain t-shirt. He picked up a black, high-necked sweater to wear to work under his jacket, but the apartment was too hot to wear it yet. Rory kept the temperature set high. She said Oliver liked to live in an icebox, but he thought it was just because she liked him to wear fewer clothes. She liked to ogle him, and since she knew he was gay, he didn’t care much.
Collecting his phone from the bathroom where he’d left it, he decided he had enough time to make himself breakfast and went to the kitchen to take stock of the fridge. He found it packed with food and decided there were definite advantages to having Rory back. Temperature and ogling aside, she always ensured there was food and drink. When left to his own devices, Oliver often forgot to shop for groceries and ended up ordering takeout every night.
He grabbed the eggs and bacon from the fridge and turned on the stove. He was halfway through cooking the scrambled eggs when Rory made her entrance.
“Oh good,” she said from behind him, “You’re alive. I thought maybe you moved out or died without telling me and some burglar was looting the place.”
A smile pulling at his mouth, Oliver cocked an eyebrow and turned to her. Aurora Birch was short and curvy with brightly dyed, curly hair. She changed the colour every two weeks; today it was pink at the roots that faded to pale purple at the tips. Oliver was sure the only reason she got away with hair like that at her job was because she was both Fae and extremely confident. She probably told her bosses straight-faced it was their idea to dye it, and they agreed without even considering the possibility it wasn’t true.
“If you heard noises, why didn’t you come out to check?” Oliver asked. “Or call the police?” As he did not hear sirens in the distance, he suspected it was a safe bet to assume she hadn’t bothered.
“And get out of bed before my alarm went off?” she said, as though the idea was patently ludicrous. “The burglar can have the TV. I need every minute of my sleep, thanks. The whole building would have to be on fire for me to get out before my alarm. And even then, if I don’t see smoke, I’ll probably wait it out.”
Oliver rolled his eyes and shook his head, pulling the eggs off the cooktop and spooning them onto plates. He tossed a few slices of bacon onto each plate and set them both down on the island between him and Rory. She ambled over, still wearing her pajama shorts and a tank top, and settled onto one of the stools.
“So where in the name of the Firs have you—” she stopped abruptly as Oli leaned over to pass her a fork, her oak-brown eyes wide and trained on his neck. “So it is true!” She took the fork from him, while Oli stood bewildered, and stabbed at the pile of scrambled eggs. “You could have told me, you know. I mean, I’m a reporter, I could have—”
“You report on political news,” Oliver said, his look of confusion deepening. “Did I get wrapped up in a political scandal I don’t know about?”
Rory shot him a pointed look and took a bite of eggs. “Well, it is kind of political. Surely even someone as politically ignorant as you can see how this would qualify.” She chewed her eggs and shoved nearly a whole slice of bacon into her mouth. “I mean, I wouldn’t have done a story on it, obviously. We’re friends, that would be shit. But I could have tried to stifle the rumours or keep the story from being printed, but instead of sharing with me, I had to find out from the Daily Spell like everyone else—”
“What are you talking about?” Oliver asked, his confusion turning to frustration mingled with panic. “Find what out?”
Rory stopped eating and looked at him properly. Her expression shifted, her fork hanging midair in front of her mouth. “You really don’t… Oh Firs. Oak, Ash, Spruce, and Fern!” She popped off her stool and ran back to her room. Oliver stared at the empty space until she ran back holding a copy of the Spell from the weekend. Her face was stricken. “I’m sorry, Oli. I didn’t even think that you might not know. I should have realized, if you hadn’t—”
Oliver took the paper from her and felt his stomach drop. All the blood drained from his face as he read the headline.
WORTHY SECRETS—OLIVER WORTH’S GAY LOVERS
Beneath the words were photos of him. One of them was blurry, poor quality, and taken several months ago it seemed. He was barely recognizable, the photo taken from behind, as he stepped into the Nightshade Club, a gay bar on the edges of the clubbing district of Nimueh’s Court. The other photo was clearer, more recent, and pictured Oliver sitting his vigil in the hospital over Connor’s bed. He was only looking at Connor, the photo clearly taken through the closing hospital room door, but with the headline, the look on Oliver’s face could only be one thing.
Oliver felt t
he floor disappear from under him; his knees suddenly weak, he buckled. Just barely catching himself on the island counter, Oli saw Rory rush to him and help him over to a chair. He couldn’t breathe, his chest tight and throat closing. Oliver braced himself against the dining table, the newspaper sprawled out in front of his eyes.
“How?” was all Oliver could manage to ask, his voice strangled as he tried to force himself to breathe. All the fears that filled his mind after the conversation with Connor came flooding back, now louder and more persistent than ever. Everyone will have seen the article. Everyone at work, all the police, his Captain. His Captain.
Rory hesitated, then said, “a source. Apparently one of your one-night stands recognized you in the papers after the Carmichael case, and I guess they thought they could get some fame or money out of it.”
Oliver slammed his fist down on the table, the sound jolting Rory. But Oliver needed the pain radiating in his hand to ground him, to bring him back from the edge of his panic. It worked well enough in the short term, his breathing evening out slightly. He reached for the paper and opened it. There were more photos beneath the fold, and one of them was of a Wizard in his mid-thirties, with side-slicked brown hair and dull brown eyes. He had a somewhat smarmy look to him, but beneath that he was passably attractive. And Oliver did remember him now. The asshole who’d asked him if he was a cop the night he got the call for the Carmichael case.
Distantly, he heard his phone ring but ignored it. His eyes scanned the article for details but found few. Most of it was bullshit on the part of the asshole who’d talked to the press. He claimed he saw Oliver often at the Nightshade Club, though he’d only gone there rarely even before Connor and hadn’t been since. The asshole also claimed he’d slept with Oliver more than once, saying he was something like a ‘fuck-buddy’ until Oliver met Connor. From then on it was all speculation. Was Oliver in a relationship with Connor Pierce? Was he fucking his way around all Three Courts? Was Connor aware of Oliver’s promiscuous past? How would he feel when Oliver inevitably broke his heart?
Oliver fought the urge to vomit, shoving the paper aside and bracing himself against the table. He screwed his eyes shut and counted out his breaths.
“Oli, I’m so sorry,” Rory said. “I only found out about the story after print, otherwise I would have told that idiot Walker not to publish this.”
But Oli wasn’t listening anymore. His mind had settled on the last question of the article. Connor didn’t know much about Oliver’s past, about the extent of his one-night stands, about his ex. He hadn’t asked, and Oliver hadn’t volunteered the information. But what would Connor do now? Now it was out that Oliver wasn’t just gay but that he’d slept with half of Nimueh’s Court and some of Maeve’s Court? Would he ever look at Oliver the same way? Would he even still want to be—official?
I somehow doubt this is what he meant when he asked to make things public.
But it didn’t matter now. Oliver was outed, whether he wanted to be or not. And there was no going back.
Chapter 3
By the time Oliver pulled out of the parking lot of his building, there were already seven reporters huddled out front, waiting for him. They stood with their cameras and recording spells at the ready, all of them sporting some kind of topaz adornment, the preferred gemstone of all media Witches and Wizards. Oliver took a bracing breath, hands gripping the steering wheel as though it tethered him to life, and began inching his car forward. The boldest reporter was standing in the middle of the driveway, intent on blocking his exit until he got a sound byte from Oliver.
Oliver pressed down on the pedal slightly, speeding up as he approached the man in hopes it would spook the reporter, but the man called his bluff. Oliver was angry, but he was still police. He wasn’t going to run someone over just because they were being aggravating and inconvenient. He stopped the car just short of the man’s feet, and the asshole in his way had the nerve to look satisfied. A swarm of people approached the car then, shouting questions through the windows at him.
“Detective Worth, is it true you’re in a relationship with Connor Pierce of Logan’s Court?”
“Have you ever used your position as law enforcement to coerce someone into sex?”
“Have you ever traded sexual favours for dismissed charges?”
“How would you characterize your relationship with Mr. Pierce? Are you two merely friends with benefits or is it serious? Could you soon have a position adjacent Alpha in Logan’s Court?”
“How many sexual partners have you had since joining the police force? Has your promiscuous behaviour affected your work in any way? Does the Nimueh’s Court Police Department sanction your extracurricular activities?”
“Is that an obsidian collar? Was it a gift from Mr. Pierce? What does the collar mean in terms of Logan’s Court?”
“What’s your favourite sexual position? What’s your favourite brand of lubricant?”
“Have you disclosed your relationship with Connor Pierce to the Department? Did you have any contact with Connor Pierce prior to the Carmichael Case?”
The questions came from every angle and faster than he could make them out. From the most inane and invasive personal details to the most offensively inappropriate insinuations about abuses of power, the questions assaulted his mind like a hail of bullets on a brick wall. His head ached with the asking, with the absurdity of it all. He finally rolled down his window. A bouquet of recording spells was shoved into his face, and Oliver considered them blandly for a moment before turning on the Witches and Wizards holding them.
“It’s illegal to block driveways and roadways, except in the case of peaceful and lawful protest,” Oliver stated, staring pointedly at the man who’d forced him to stop in the first place. “Please move, or I will be forced to summon officers to bodily remove you from the premises.” The reporters hesitated, then finally shifted slightly to allow his car passage, all the while spewing more intelligible questions at him as he rolled up the window. “Thank you!” he called to them as he pulled into the street and drove away.
With his right hand, Oliver adjusted the collar of his sweater to better conceal the obsidian collar. He could have left it off, he realized, but somehow it didn’t seem right. He hadn’t removed it for longer than the time it took to clean it since Connor had gotten out of the hospital after the Carmichael case. Most of the time Oliver didn’t notice it at all, enjoying the increased fluidity of his magic, the power that pulsed from the black stones whenever he cast a spell. But now the weight of the obsidian felt magnified on his skin, dragging him backward by the neck to the vultures standing outside his apartment building.
They’d have to get over it—the reporters. Soon enough there would be more interesting news. Bigger news. Soon enough, they’d move on from Oliver’s sexual proclivities and what he did every weekend with Connor in Logan’s Court. Soon, everything would be back to normal.
Only, a keen reporter like Rory wouldn’t be standing outside Oliver’s apartment building. A keen journalist would be looking into anyone they could find that claims to have slept with Oliver, or seen him with Connor. And with just a little digging, they might find that Oliver spent every piece of his time off in Logan’s Court. Then maybe they’d consider crossing the border themselves to get a quote…
No. You can’t worry about that. No one in Connor’s pack would ever betray him. Turning on me, talking about me to reporters would count as a betrayal of the Alpha. Reporters wouldn’t get anything there.
Still, his fear nagged at him. As he pulled into the parking lot of the precinct, his stomach dropped out of him, his chest filled with an aching emptiness. There were more reporters out front, grouped in bunches around the various entrances and exits to the station, but they were held at bay by the wards around the parking lot. Oliver passed over the limits of the parking lot and rolled into his usual spot. Hands on the wheel, he pressed his forehead to his hands and shut his eyes.
Reporters were one thing. The
y could harass him however they wanted, show up where they wanted, and Oliver could handle them. It was the rest of the police—the officers and lieutenants and sergeants who now knew details about Oliver that Oliver didn’t know about the rest of them. It was an unbalanced playing field, and Oliver screwed up his courage at the thought.
With another steadying breath, Oliver shut his eyes and opened the door. The asphalt of the parking lot was wet, the snow melting steadily in the slightly warmer day. Spring was around the corner, now, though Oliver sometimes forgot it. Spending time in Logan’s Court had become a getaway from his world, from his life in Nimueh’s Court and the lack of a home he felt there. But Logan’s Court was further North, and the weather remained wintry there. He’d wondered if the Wolves of the Court preferred it that way—cold and crisp and clean—but Werewolves didn’t have the magic to pin down the seasons. They couldn’t stop spring from coming anymore than Oliver could go back in time and unwrite the article.
The precinct was buzzing with activity, as usual, when he walked in. The floor was dry here, thanks largely to the heating and drying charms laid into the entryway. Oliver felt the hiss of magic on his boots as they dried instantly. He unzipped his jacket, nodding vaguely to the officer behind the admittance desk. She was young and fair-haired. Oliver didn’t know her, and he tried very hard to pretend he hadn’t noticed the blushing chuckle she gave upon seeing him. Walking by, Oliver set his gaze just below that of eye-level, doing his best to avoid eye contact with anyone else. At least until he managed to slow his staccato heartbeat and get himself a cup of coffee. He anticipated needing quite a few bracing cups today.