Thrice Blessed Witches Of Rykerwood

Rain didn’t fall in Rykerwood; it stayed-thin sheets of it suspended in the summer air like misty glass, carrying the sharp ozone bite of magic and the sweet, bruised breath of jasmine. At Fort Kenyon’s edge, Orion Hastings stood inside that haze with suppressants already sunk into his skin, scent blockers clinging under his collar like a second throat. He could feel the Fort’s perimeter wards thrumming against his bones-clean, controlled energy-and it made his stomach twist because the wards were meant for threats that didn’t care about his name.

His handler’s radio crackled again. “Hastings. Confirm status.”

Orion stared at the dark line of trees beyond the floodlit fence and gave the only kind of answer he’d learned to give: calm. “In position.”

The lie tasted like metal. He’d been in position for hours, body still, jaw tight, pretending the ache in his chest was boredom instead of longing. Not for someone he could admit to-never that. Longing was dangerous; it made choices messy. But the moment Marco’s scent had brushed the air in Sagewood a week ago-pine and ozone, rich as a promise-Orion had carried the memory like a fever. He’d swallowed it down with suppressants and prayer, only to feel it flare again every time the wind shifted.

Tonight, the shift came with footsteps on wet gravel and the hiss of a ward seal being tested. Orion’s gaze flicked to the path between the outer lights, where a figure moved through the rain-mist like he owned it.

Marco.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in Orion’s sector, not at the edge of Rykerwood where human hunters occasionally slipped past the outer wards and left their own kind of blood behind. Marco’s presence made everything tilt-like gravity had changed direction. Orion’s fingers curled around the strap of his satchel until the fabric bit his palm.

Marco stopped a few paces away, rain beading on his dark hair, his uniform crisp in a way Orion could never manage. “You’re late,” Marco said, voice low enough that it didn’t carry.

Orion didn’t look away. “I’m on time.”

Marco’s mouth twitched, almost amusement, almost something else. He stepped closer, and Orion’s blocked senses still caught the truth beneath the chemicals-woods and heat and that subtle masculine edge that never failed to make Orion’s pulse misbehave. Marco’s eyes tracked Orion’s throat, where the scent-blocker patch sat like a pale bruise under his collar. “You’ve been taking more than usual.”

Orion’s throat tightened. “It’s summer. The air’s thick.”

“The air’s thick,” Marco echoed, slow, like he was tasting Orion’s excuse. Then he lifted a hand-not toward Orion’s face, not like a touch meant to soothe, but like a question. “Can I see?”

Orion’s instinct was to step back. To refuse. To protect the secret that kept him breathing in a place he didn’t belong. He kept his body steady anyway, because Marco had never been the type to demand; Marco only waited until people broke on their own. Still, Orion’s heart beat hard enough he could feel it through his ribs.

Marco’s fingers brushed the collar seam, light as rain on skin. The contact should have been nothing-just fabric, just a check. But Orion’s body reacted like it had been asked to remember. His suppressed scent flared against the blockers in a tight, angry bloom, a sweet floral note that didn’t belong in a soldier’s perimeter. The chemical patch warmed under Marco’s touch, as if it could feel the truth pushing to the surface.

Orion sucked in a breath, too quick. “Don’t.”

Marco withdrew his hand immediately, the movement controlled, but his gaze sharpened. “That wasn’t about the patch,” he said. “That was about you.”

Orion hated that Marco could read him through lies. Hated it because it made Orion want to stop lying, and wanting was how Omegas got caught. “You’re not supposed to be here,” Orion repeated, because it was easier than admitting the tremor in his voice.

Marco’s eyes flicked past Orion to the treeline. Somewhere out there, witch hunters had been reported-human hunters with forged witch-cards and a grudge that never faded. They didn’t understand the rules of magical countries, but they loved testing them. “I’m here because your perimeter ward is failing,” Marco said. “And because you’re standing too close to it.”

Orion forced himself to look away from Marco’s face and toward the faint shimmer at the fence line. The ward had a translucent seam-like sunlight caught between glass panels. It flickered. Not loudly. Not yet. But Orion could feel it, the way a muscle twitched before it tore.

“Someone touched it,” Orion murmured.

“Someone tried.” Marco’s gaze returned to Orion’s. “You didn’t notice until now.”

Orion’s jaw clenched. He had noticed. He’d felt the tremor in the wards hours ago, but he hadn’t moved because moving meant leaving his post-and leaving his post meant giving away the reason he’d been assigned here in the first place. Fort Kenyon wasn’t built for Omegas....