Page 13 of Heroes & Hitmen (Windy City Wolfpack #1)

Ares

I’ve never had trouble sleeping. I’m the kind of guy who can pass out anywhere– on a couch, in a truck bed, once in the middle of a hallway at a party after too many shots and too few regrets. Usually, my head hits the pillow and I’m gone in sixty seconds.

Not tonight.

I’ve been staring at the ceiling for over an hour now, counting the slow rotations of the fan and listening to my own heartbeat thump out a rhythm I can’t settle into. My muscles twitch. My skin feels too tight. My inner wolf won’t shut the hell up.

Maybe I just need a drink. That usually does the trick.

I kick the sheet off and climb out of bed, padding barefoot to the kitchen in my boxers. Yanking the refrigerator door open, I hope for a miracle, but I’m met with nothing but condiments, sketchy leftovers, and an empty beer shelf.

Shit.

I check the cabinet above the fridge. The expensive whiskey I was gifted when I arrived is still inside, my hand closing around the neck of the bottle and lifting it out.

It’s light as air– barely a splash left– and that’s when I remember finishing it off last night.

Damn. I huff out a disappointed breath as I slam the empty bottle down onto the counter, the mocking thud echoing through the empty kitchen.

So much for drinking myself to sleep.

Accepting defeat, I grab a bottle of Powerade from the fridge instead, nudging the door closed and heading back toward my room.

The city glitters outside the windows with its skyline made of stars and steel, but even the killer view can’t settle the unease twisting in my gut or my restless wolf clawing at the inside of my chest.

I pause in the doorway, staring at my bed. The crisp white sheets, the view from the window beyond it, the deafening silence.

I don’t want to get back in.

I know I won’t be able to sleep because every time I close my eyes, I see Miley. Standing in the elevator, pale and dazed, like she wasn’t fully in her body. Clutching her elbows like she needed to hold herself together or she might come apart.

Something was definitely wrong.

The spark in those violet-grey eyes was dimmer than I’ve ever seen it, and her vanilla and freesia scent was tainted with something unnatural. Sterile, like a hospital or a morgue.

There’s something seriously fucked up going on in this pack.

Giving up the fight for sleep, I throw on sweats and a hoodie, stuff some cash in my pocket, and head out into the night. I don’t know where I’m going exactly, just that I need to move and breathe some fresh air.

The city streets are quiet when I step outside.

A few cabs blur by. The bodega on the corner is still open, buzzing with flickering fluorescent lights.

I make my way there and duck inside, greeted by the scent of ancient mop water and burnt coffee.

The guy behind the counter doesn’t even look up from his phone as I grab a six-pack from the cooler– nothing fancy, just something cold– and hand over a crumpled twenty.

The bottles clink against each other as I walk back to the Tower, the weight of the six-pack comforting and familiar in my grip. I’m nearing the entry doors when one of them swings open and a dark figure slips out into the night.

She’s got her hoodie up and head down in an obvious effort to be incognito, but I’d recognize Miley anywhere. My wolf perks up instantly, lips breaking into a grin.

She doesn’t see me– just pivots and takes off in the opposite direction, weaving between pockets of shadow as if it’s a well-practiced routine. Quick, like she’s got somewhere to be and doesn’t want anyone following.

So, naturally, that’s exactly what I do.

In the week and a half that I’ve been observing her, she’s never broken routine. Then again, I haven’t been keeping watch at night, assuming she was the type to be tucked in bed by nine.

This is new. Unexpected. Thrilling.

What are you up to, sweetheart?

Excitement thrums through my veins as I track my prey through the quiet downtown streets.

It’s not subtle– there’s no sound to cover my footsteps except the occasional hum of a passing car or the sharp bark of a dog in some high-rise penthouse– but Miley doesn’t glance back.

She has to know I’m following, but either she doesn’t care or she wants me to.

I’m choosing to believe it’s the latter.

The city’s asleep, but we aren’t. The bottles in the six-pack clink softly as I trail her through the streets and underpasses until the lights thin out and the buzz of traffic fades behind us.

The air changes, growing cooler as we head east toward the lake.

Miley slips past a weather-worn sign that warns the beach is closed from 11pm to 6am, ignoring the city ordinance as she steps over a low fence like it’s not even there.

I don’t hesitate to follow my little rule-breaker, pausing at the edge of the sand and glancing around.

Nobody else is out here– just the two of us and the sound of the waves lapping gently against the shore, the wind sweeping a cold chill off the lake.

Miley makes her way over to a patch of shadow and drops down onto the sand, pulling her knees up to her chest and staring out at the lake.

The breeze ruffles the hair around her face, coaxing the strands out of the dark hood of her sweatshirt. She looks so small. So still.

The sand crunches beneath the soles of my boots as I stride out to join her, but she doesn’t look up. Which only confirms that she’s been aware of me following her this whole time.

“Still stalking me?” she asks as I approach, voice flat but laced with that dry, razor-edged humor I’ve grown so fond of.

I chuckle and drop down to sit beside her, the beer bottles clinking faintly as I settle in the sand. “You say stalking, I say checking in,” I drawl, shooting her a smirk as I pull a beer from the cardboard sleeve and thrust the bottle in her direction. “Have a drink with me?”

Her eyes drop to the beer, nose wrinkling in distaste. Plush lips part, as if her refusal is on the tip of her tongue, but then she hesitates, gaze lifting to collide with mine.

“Why not?” she remarks with a shrug, taking the bottle from my hand and popping the cap.

A victorious grin splits my face as I pull another beer from the six-pack for myself, popping it open and taking a swig.

A comfortable silence settles between the two of us as we sip our beers, watching the lake lap lazily at the shore ahead.

In the distance, a police siren wails and fades, but out here, the city feels far away even though it’s right at our backs.

Eventually, I ask, “So, you gonna tell me what happened today?”

Miley’s content expression immediately dims, brows drawing together until a little crease forms between them. She doesn’t answer right away, taking another sip of beer as she pulls her knees tighter to her chest, eyes fixed on the dark water.

“I had my procedure,” she finally responds, her voice so soft it’s barely audible.

“What procedure?”

“The serum extraction. For my pairing.”

I jerk back, her admission landing like a slap. “The fuck?”

She heaves a sigh like she doesn’t want to explain, but I’m not about to let her off that easily. My mind’s spinning, brain struggling to rationalize what she’s saying.

Mate bonds are sacred in shifter culture.

They can only be formed beneath the light of the full moon, sealed by exchanging bites to release and deposit the mating serum that bonds wolves as mates for life.

If Miley’s saying what I think she’s saying– that her pack extracts the serum and injects it– then that goes against the fucking laws of nature.

It strips our wolves of the most important choice they’ll ever make.

“Do I really have to spell it all out?” she mumbles bitterly, tipping back the rest of her beer.

“Yeah,” I scoff. “I’m gonna need you to tell me exactly what the hell that means, because it sounds fucking insane.”

Miley huffs out a breath, dropping her empty bottle into the sand. “Gonna need another drink, then,” she says, turning at the waist and holding out a hand in demand.

I’m quick to pull another beer from the cardboard sleeve and hand it over, my pulse thrumming harder with every beat of silence that persists.

She takes her sweet ass time twisting off the cap and taking a sip, throat bobbing with a delicate swallow as she swipes a thumb against the corner of her mouth.

“Matings here are just as regimented as everything else,” she begins, her voice strained.

“Alpha has complete control over them, from sanctioning who will mate with who to when it’s done.

We have quarterly pairing ceremonies to seal bonds.

There was trouble in the past with getting some wolves to cooperate, so our scientists found a way around the traditional method of sealing mate bonds.

Extracting the serum, then swapping it.”

“You’re joking,” I sputter, shaking my head. “That’s not how mate bonds are supposed to work.”

“Welcome to the Windy City Wolfpack,” she mutters.

My stomach twists. “So they manufacture mate bonds here?”

“It’s more facilitated than manufactured,” she replies dryly. “Clean and efficient, exactly how Alpha likes it.”

“What about fate?”

“What about it?”

“If the Alpha just pairs people, how do they find their fated mates?” I question, my inner wolf rioting at the thought of those bonds being severed before they can even form.

Some humans believe in the concept of soulmates, but for shifters, that kind of connection is real, written in the stars by fate.

For those stars to align, a few things need to happen– we need to be in wolf form, under the light of the full moon, and within scent proximity.

If that occurs, then fate will pull us together like gravity, solidifying the bond the moment our eyes meet.

Miley snorts a laugh, waving me off. “Fated mates are a fairytale.”

“No they’re not,” I scowl.

My parents are fated mates. My siblings and many of my friends have found their fated mates.

They all say the feeling of forming that bond is indescribable, the connection stronger than anything they’ve ever felt.

But if a shifter bonds with a chosen mate before they find the one fate intended for them, the tie is severed– neither will ever know who they were truly meant for.

“They’re so rare they may as well be,” she grumbles.

“Not where I’m from,” I say, my jaw tightening. “In my pack, mating is more than a goddamn business transaction. It actually means something. ”

Miley swallows thickly, sadness tinting her violet-grey gaze. “Must be nice to have that luxury.”

My inner wolf claws at the inside of my chest with the urge to comfort her, to make her feel better somehow.

I slide closer, tossing an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in. She stiffens at first, then relaxes into it, her small body melding against the sharp lines of my much larger one. She turns her head to meet my eyes, and I can’t help myself. I lean in slowly, giving her time to stop me.

She doesn’t, so I fucking go for it. Our lips collide, my hand coming up to push her hood back and wrap around her nape, holding her in place while I claim her mouth.

Her lips are soft and supple, salty from the beer.

My tongue slides against them before delving into the warmth of her mouth, a fierce wave of possessiveness coursing through me.

Mine.

Miley Beckett may be promised to someone else, but I don’t give a shit. I want her.

Her fingers knot in my hoodie as she presses her body closer, kissing me like she’s drowning and I’m the last breath she’ll ever take.

I slide my hand up her back underneath her sweatshirt, the warmth of her soft skin bleeding into my palm, sparks blooming between our skin.

My lips coast down the curve of her jaw, kissing a path down her neck as she pants against me, back arching as I start to lower her into the sand.

My teeth skim her pulse point and she stiffens, palms pressing against my chest as she whispers, “Stop.”

My body goes rigid.

She gives me a shove and I pitch myself backwards, giving her the space she’s asking for while my brows raise in question.

“I can’t do this,” Miley grits out, shaking her head adamantly as she scrambles backwards in the sand. “I can’t…”

I sit up fast, hands raised. “Hey, it’s okay…”

“No, it’s not,” she snaps, pushing to her feet and brushing sand off her leggings with sharp, agitated movements. “This can’t happen, Ares. I’ve told you so many times, what’s it gonna take for that to finally sink in?”

“A fucking mark on your neck,” I bite out as I slowly rise to stand.

She crosses her arms angrily. “Well in two days, I’ll have one. ”

“Not if I can help it,” I snarl.

Miley throws her head back on a bitter laugh. “What do you think you’re gonna do, Ares? Tell Alpha that I can’t be paired with Elias because you want me for yourself?”

“Yeah,” I fire back, puffing out my chest.

“What about what I want?” she demands, jabbing her index finger into her sternum, eyes wide and wild. “How is that any different from what Alpha’s already making me do?”

I snap my mouth closed, my inner wolf whining in my mind.

It’s different. She knows it’s different. But the way she’s looking at me right now…

Miley flips her hood up, wrapping her arms around herself as she starts backing away. “Don’t follow me,” she murmurs with a faraway look in her eyes. “You have to just forget me, Ares.”

I hold her gaze, meaning it with my whole chest when I reply, “Never.”

But for now, I let her walk away. I stand there in the sand for a long time after she’s gone, nursing a beer that I don’t even want anymore while the cold air bites at my skin through the fabric of my thick hoodie.

My wolf is quiet now, but it doesn’t feel like peace.

It feels like mourning.