Page 24 of Heroes & Hitmen (Windy City Wolfpack #1)

Ares

I’m definitely being punished.

For the first two weeks I was here, I only got called out on an assignment once– and for something that actually required my particular set of skills. Now, I’m getting called to do the Alpha’s bitch work every other day.

Surveillance. Escort runs. Shadowing some low-level pack runner as if he’s suddenly going to get ambushed in broad daylight.

Today’s assignment? Watch a cargo shipment arrive at the docks and make sure it gets unloaded without issue. Riveting stuff. Because clearly, moving stacks of shrink-wrapped crates is a high-risk security threat that demands having a sniper on standby.

Orders are orders, though, and Alpha Gage wants eyes on everything lately– especially mine.

Ever since I pulled the whole ‘Surprise! We’re fated mates!

’ stunt with his daughter, he’s been keeping me on a tight leash.

Probably thinks keeping me busy will prevent me from fucking up his plans for the spectacle he’s intent on making out of our mating– the gala, the ceremony, the whole fake fairytale.

Joke’s on him, because assignments like this give me plenty of time to think of ways to fuck shit up.

Too much time, really.

The upper floor of this abandoned building I’m in feels like a goddamn oven.

There’s no AC, no breeze– just thick, stale air and peeling walls trapping in the summer heat.

It’s so goddamn sweltering up here that my t-shirt’s soaked through, the fabric clinging to my back like a second skin.

My palms are slick on the rifle stock, and there’s a fly that keeps landing on my face like it wants to get shot.

A bead of sweat trickles down my temple and I wipe it away irritably, shifting my grip and leaning back in to peer through the scope.

Below, a handful of workers are unloading the crates from a shipping container, hauling them into a box truck with the assistance of a forklift. There are no threats in sight. No shady figures lurking in the wings, no signs of anything amiss. Which begs the question– why the hell am I even here?

Oh, right . Because I opened my big mouth and claimed Miley Beckett as my mate.

Not that I regret it. Not for a second.

But still, fuck my life.

Boredom sets in fast. Since nothing notable is happening on the docks, I take my eye off the scope for a moment to glance down at the digital display on my phone.

Miley should be getting out of class right about now.

She’s got a break before her next one, which means she’ll probably hit the library or the cupcake place near campus.

Good thing I know her schedule like the back of my hand since I can’t be physically present to keep an eye on her these days.

The bullshit assignments her father keeps sending me out on are getting in the way of my master plan to win her over.

All week, we’ve been passing like ships in the night– a few exchanged words in the morning while we get ready, a charged moment when we scent one another before leaving the apartment.

Purely to keep up appearances, of course.

Not that it feels like a chore when I’ve got my hands on her body and she’s trying not to tremble beneath my touch. I look forward to our morning scenting sessions a little too much.

Evenings are hit and miss. Sometimes she’ll sit with me in the living room, but most nights she shuts herself in the bedroom to study– the same bedroom she still won’t let me sleep in, no matter how many times I ask.

I keep trying. She keeps saying no.

Hasn’t stopped me from sneaking in when the couch or floor becomes unbearable, though.

She’s a deep sleeper. Also– surprise of the century– an aggressive snuggler.

She rolls over in her sleep and tucks herself right against me like it’s instinct.

Like her wolf’s already made the decision that she’s too scared to face herself .

Of course, she has no idea. I’m always gone before she wakes up, but it’s getting harder to leave the warmth of her curled up against me each time. Not to mention the way my wolf pitches a fucking fit whenever I slip away. Something’s definitely gotta give with this whole sleeping situation.

There’s still no notable action below, so I swipe open my phone to check my messages, irrationally hoping there’s one waiting from Miley even though I know there won’t be.

She never texts first, and half the time she doesn’t even reply– not unless I poke at her just right, say something that gets so deep under her skin she has no choice but to bite back.

Now that I think about it, that’s basically been my entire strategy with her. Poke the bear until she shows her teeth.

No message from Miley, but there’s one from Will.

Will

You free Saturday? Haven’t seen your smug face in a while, and I still need to meet that mate of yours.

I glance through the scope– still clear– then look back down to thumb out a quick reply.

Could be. Depends on how much I piss off your Alpha between now and then.

Closing out of our text thread, I scroll down to my one with Miley, shooting her a message.

Any plans for Saturday? I’ve got a friend who wants to meet up.

Chances are fifty-fifty as to whether she responds, but I keep the thread open just in case, returning my attention to the docks below.

My phone vibrates a minute later.

Miley

Have fun.

I can’t help but roll my eyes. Really should’ve seen that one coming .

My eyes flicker between my phone and the window as I type out another message.

He wants to meet you, babe. Promise it won’t kill you to come down from the Tower and mingle with the commoners. Could be a good PR opportunity, too, make this whole thing look more legit.

I give it a few minutes, but she doesn’t reply. Guess I’ll have to send another text, just to provoke her.

Gonna take your silence as a yes, I’ll let my buddy know we’re on for Saturday.

The little grey bubbles immediately appear on my screen, indicating she’s typing. Got her.

I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you.

Hey, more than two words. She’s chatty today.

You in the library again? Try not to let the musty book smell erase all the hard work I put in this morning.

You mean your daily excuse to manhandle me?

You’re not exactly fighting me off, babe.

Our scent sessions might be the highlight of my day.

That’s tragic. You should probably get a hobby.

I’ve got one. It’s you. Full-time obsession. No benefits package yet, though, which feels rude.

Keep dreaming, stalker.

God, I’ve missed this. She’s funny when she lets herself be. Witty in that dry, cutting way I love.

Already am, about the way you tasted after that cupcake the other day.

That message earns radio silence. Too far . I stare at my screen, thumb hovering as I debate whether to keep pushing. She always does this– engages until the moment it feels dangerous. Until it gets real. Then she shuts the door and bolts the lock.

Not that I blame her.

She’s got her reasons to be guarded, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop trying to scale her walls anytime soon. I just need to get her to see things the way I do. Make her realize the two of us are meant to be, written in the stars by fate.

It’s not just wishful thinking on my part. All the signs are there– I feel it in my blood, in my bones. In the way my wolf calms when she’s near, the way her scent registers like a drug.

Mine.

There’s no way she doesn’t feel the pull between us, but she’s nothing if not stubborn. She refuses to believe this could be real. So, I’ll just have to keep trying to win her over.

Or die of blue balls.

Those little silk pajama sets she wears are fucking obscene, and there’s only so much a guy can take before he snaps.

A loud bang sounds from the docks below, yanking me back to the present.

I drop my phone and refocus immediately, every sense sharpening as I peer through the scope of my rifle.

My heart rate spikes, finger light on the trigger.

There’s a crate lying sideways on the ground, the men gesturing to it wildly as they bicker amongst themselves.

Looks like it fell from the forklift as they were trying to load it. Just a dumb accident, not a threat.

Idiots.

I exhale slowly and lower the rifle again as my phone buzzes from the floor. Bending forward to pick it up, I swipe open the screen to check my messages.

Not Miley, just Will.

Will

Let me know if you’re down to grab a few beers, then.

I fire off a thumbs up emoji in response, then lean forward again, peering through the scope to watch as the workers below finish up. Truck doors close, engines rev. Mission complete. No bullets fired.

Not that I ever expected to use any today.

This wasn’t about security, it was about control. About reminding me who’s really pulling the strings. It’s annoying as fuck, but I’ve played this game long enough to know that even puppets can cut their strings when the time’s right. That’s the key to this entire scheme– timing .

I’m in the midst of packing up when my phone vibrates again. Glancing down, I expect to find another text from Will, but imagine my surprise when it’s from her .

Miley

I’m free Saturday night. Don’t make it weird.

I stare at the screen for a beat too long, lips pulling into a grin. The message is casual, seemingly benign, but I can read between the lines. This is her version of an olive branch– one I’ll gladly take.

Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart. You bring the sarcasm, I’ll bring dessert.

Her reply is quick.

As long as it’s not cupcakes. Turns out, those lead to bad decisions.

A low laugh escapes me as I sling my rifle over my shoulder and grab my gear bag, pushing to my feet.

Cupcakes, kisses, whatever– it doesn’t matter. She said yes, and this might just be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. A chance to get her out of her own head, lower her defenses.

And once she’s comfortable, once she starts to trust me, I’ll get her hooked on something a hell of a lot more dangerous than sugar.