Page 20 of Alpha Charmed

“It’s in our archives too. The redacted sections.” I flip through more pages, scanning Mathilda’s increasingly frantic notes. “I’ve seen references—gaps in the historical record, documents that end mid-sentence, entire centuries that seem to have been erased. I assumed it was poor recordkeeping.”

“It wasn’t.”

“No.” The word tastes bitter. “It was deliberate. Someone removed the evidence of what we used to be.”

More pages. More revelations.

“The pairings were celebrated,” I read. “Witch and shifter, magic and instinct, finding balance in each other. The Warding Lines were stronger then. The protections more complete. We didn’t just coexist—we complemented each other.”

“My pack elders react strangely when old magic is mentioned.” Caius turns a burned page with careful fingers. “Not confusion. Grief. As if they’re remembering a loss they can’t name.”

“Because they are. They’re grieving a history that was stolen from them before they were born.” I find another passage, this one underlined three times. “Listen to this: ‘Someone doesn’t want this known. I felt them watching. I have to tell someone before⁠—‘“

The entry ends mid-sentence. The next page is blank.

Mathilda never finished writing. Never got the chance to record whatever final piece of knowledge she’d uncovered.

Someone made sure of that.

“The Preservers.” Caius’s jaw tightens. “They’ve been protecting this secret for centuries. Removing evidence. Silencing anyone who gets too close to the truth.”

“And Mathilda got too close.” The pieces click into place. “She started remembering things she wasn’t supposed to remember. Started asking questions no one was supposed to ask.”

“Started threatening the careful lie they’ve maintained for generations.”

I lean my head back against the desk, staring at the cottage ceiling. Cracks spider-web across the plaster—age and settling, probably, though in Mistvale you can never be certain. Magic does strange things to architecture. Just last month, Ember’s candle shop spontaneously developed a second floor that only appears on Tuesdays.

“They killed her to protect this.” My voice sounds distant, even to my own ears. “They’ve been killing people to protect this for centuries. Anyone who remembers. Anyone who questions. Anyone who threatens their precious ‘natural order.’”

“It’s not natural at all.” Caius turns to me, his shoulder brushing mine. Not an accident this time—a deliberate pressure, offering comfort without demanding acknowledgment. “The separation between witches and shifters. The suspicion. The careful distance. It was manufactured. Enforced.”

“And we’ve been living by it. Fighting to maintain it.” Bitterness curls through my voice. “All those council debates about ‘appropriate boundaries’ and ‘respecting traditions.’ We were defending a lie.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have questioned it.” I meet his gaze. He’s closer than I realized—close enough that I can see the faint pulse at his throat. “All that careful distance, maintaining the proper protocols, pretending that⁠—”

I stop. The words catch in my throat, too dangerous to release.

“Pretending what?” The question comes out quiet, warmth creeping into his words despite his best efforts.

“Pretending that I didn’t notice you.” The confession slips out before I can stop it. “That your presence in council meetings wasn’t the only thing that made them bearable. That I didn’t spend years wondering what it would be like to⁠—”

I clamp my mouth shut. Too much. Too honest.

Caius doesn’t look away. “Why did you refuse my help at first? Really?”

The question shouldn’t surprise me. We’ve been circling this conversation for days—since the funeral, since Mathilda’s letter, since he showed up at my door at midnight and I let him in.

Since I stopped pretending I didn’t want him there.

“Because accepting help from you would mean admitting—” I pause, searching for words that won’t shatter the careful walls I’ve built. “That I can’t do this alone.” Another pause. Harder this time. “That I needed someone to see me as more than the coven leader. And the person I wanted to see me was the one person I couldn’t allow close.”

“Why couldn’t you allow me close?”

“Because you would have stayed.” The words hurt coming out. True things often do. “Because once I let you in, I wouldn’t want you to leave. And wanting things—needing people—that’s never ended well for me.”

Silence stretches between us. The cottage settles around us, old wood creaking in the morning warmth. Somewhere outside, birds are singing. The world continues its indifferent turning while my carefully constructed defenses crumble one confession at a time.