Page 57 of Heroes & Hitmen (Windy City Wolfpack #1)

Ares

Ten Months Later

Graduation ceremonies are a special kind of torture, and that’s not just my opinion– it’s science.

Thousands of people crammed into an auditorium for hours on end, sweating through formalwear, clinging to program pamphlets like they’re lifelines, all while trapped on plastic folding chairs listening to names mispronounced over a spotty PA system.

It’s a full-blown endurance trial, and I should know– I’ve been trapped in this seat for what feels like a hundred years.

My knees are cramped, one leg is asleep, and I’ve lost feeling in my left ass cheek.

I’ve been counting the names like a prisoner marking the days on a cell wall. There are, conservatively, six million graduates, but only one that matters.

I scan the program for the fifth– okay, maybe eighth– time, eyes snagging on the only name on the page I give a damn about.

I run a finger over the ink, thinking about everything it took to get her here– late nights, early mornings, the small matter of a public mate challenge that’ll be whispered about in pack gossip circles for decades.

Not to mention surviving my relentless campaign to convince her to add some protein to her diet rather than just loading up on sugar all the time.

I mean, we still disagree on that one, but I’ve won a few battles.

I feel like I’ve earned this seat.

The air is hot, thick with the electric hum of pride and anxiety. A thousand families hold their breath in anticipation, some of them shifters like us, tucked quietly among the humans. I recognize a few Chicago pack members scattered throughout the crowd, seamlessly blending in.

In the rows of graduates, Miley’s dark blonde hair catches my eye, styled in soft, shiny curls with a white satin bow tied beneath the edge of her cap. Elegant. Effortless. That’s my mate.

The dean sounds like he’s lost his will to live as he drones through the list, stumbling over every fifth name, but the audience perks up like clockwork each time they hear one of their own.

Every outburst is a little firework of pride– a dad whistling like he’s at a hockey game, a mom sobbing into her phone screen.

It makes me grin, because when they get to her name?

I’m gonna blow the damn roof off this place.

She made me promise not to make a scene, which is cute. She knows damn well I’m gonna do it anyway. There’s no universe where I’ll be anything but the loudest asshole in the room when they announce my girl.

Sitting here gives me too much time to think. Not about the graduation ceremony itself, but about us . About everything we’ve clawed our way through to get here.

It’s been almost a year since we blew up the plan and stuck the landing. Ten months of Miley cramming to finish her degree, me playing nice while working for her father. We don’t see Gage much, which is honestly ideal. We’ve managed to slip by under his radar, just the way we like it.

We still live in the same apartment in the Tower where the lies started and the truth took over.

We get regular visits from Miley’s sisters, and Will drops by from time to time to regale us with stories about the women he’s scorned.

But mostly, it’s just us, in our own little world high above the city.

It’s not all sunshine and sex. We argue. We piss each other off. But most days, we’re solid, and that’s what counts. Most days, she lets me make her breakfast, and I let her pretend she isn’t slowly turning me into a morning person.

The dean finally hits the R’s, and I snap to attention. Here we go.

Miley took my last name when we got married a few months back.

Most mated pairs in her pack do the whole human marriage thing to blend in, so I figured why the hell not?

I made a whole thing of it– a sparkly ring, a surprise proposal on the beach, champagne, the works.

Then we were at the courthouse the following week, changing her name from Beckett to Raines.

And yeah, it’s just ink on paper. But fuck , hearing it aloud? It never gets old.

“Miles Raines,” the dean calls.

Boom . That’s my cue.

I’m on my feet in an instant, cupping my hands around my mouth and letting loose the most obnoxious, full-volume, gut-deep howl I’ve ever produced– part wolf, part frat boy, all heart. It echoes off the rafters like a battle cry.

People turn. Someone gasps. I see Miley freeze mid-step on the stage, eyes locking on mine, and she gives me the tiniest withering shake of her head before marching forward.

Worth it.

She walks like she owns the damn stage. She may be wearing a shapeless black cap and gown, but with the way she moves, you’d think she was on a Paris runway.

Grace in motion, power under pressure. She takes the diploma, shakes the dean’s hand, and then turns to the photographer with a perfect camera-ready smile.

I howl again, even louder this time, and the guy next to me claps a hand to his chest dramatically like I’ve triggered a cardiac event.

Miley strides back to her seat, chin high, and I can’t stop staring. She’s got this glow about her; this calm, collected strength that floors me every time. I don’t register a single name that comes after hers– just the thrum of pride in my chest, a rhythm I’d match to hers any day.

Eventually, the last name is called and the place erupts, hats flying like confetti.

The procession of graduates files out, then their families surge to the aisles, desperate to get outside and find their grads.

I bulldoze my way through the masses, using height, shoulders, and sheer determination to reach mine.

Outside, the sun is blinding, the sidewalk a chaotic scene of black robes, hugs, and proud parents taking blurry photos.

I spot Miley perched on the edge of a planter, fiddling with the tassel on her cap, surrounded by a perimeter of personal space she’s carved out with nothing but body language.

She looks up, sees me, and the way her face lights up is better than any diploma.

I don’t slow down. I barrel toward her, scoop her off the ground, and spin her around while ignoring the shrieks of ‘ put me down, you maniac! ’, only obliging after she pinches my arm hard enough to say she means it.

“I thought I told you not to make a scene,” she admonishes once she’s back on her feet, straightening her robe and fixing her hair.

I’m grinning so hard it actually hurts. “Hey, that was only half as loud as I wanted to be,” I say, holding my arms open for her.

She rolls her eyes but steps in anyway, right where she belongs. I hold her close, breathe in her scent, and press a kiss to the top of her head.

“Thanks for coming,” she whispers.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, sweetheart.”

I want to tell her that I’d sit through a thousand more graduations if it meant watching her walk that stage.

That there’s not a single thing in this world I wouldn’t do to keep that look on her face.

But instead, I just hold her, because words don’t seem like enough to convey how much this girl truly means to me.

She wraps her arms around my neck, gorgeous eyes shining as she tilts her face upward and her mouth finds mine like she’s been waiting for this all day.

The kiss is fierce, breathless, fire and gravity rolled into one.

Her gown tangles in my hands, the cap slipping from her head, but fuck it. We’ve earned this.

When she pulls back, her hair’s a little wild, eyes alive, and I fall in love with her all over again.

“I can’t believe we did it,” she breathes.

“ You did it,” I say, running my hands down her back, heart swelling with pride.

She tilts her head, mischief and memory in her eyes. For a second, I see the girl who started all this– stubborn, terrified, brilliant– and then she grins like she owns the ending.

“How should we celebrate?” she asks brightly.

“I’ve heard rumors about a few afterparties,” I say slyly, raising a brow.

She scrunches her nose, shaking her head. “Pass.”

“Party for two, then?”

I offer my hand and she nods, slapping her palm into mine. “Take me home, Mr. Raines.”

“Not our home for much longer, Mrs. Raines,” I remind her with a wink.

We’re moving this weekend. The last month has been a blur of packing– boxes everywhere, our lives sorted and taped up. We’ve argued about what to keep, especially the absurd number of coffee mugs she’s hoarded. Spoiler: we’re keeping all of them.

Still, the thought of leaving that apartment hits harder than I thought it would. It’s where our story started. Where we pretended, where we stopped pretending. Where we figured out how to be a team. We’ve made memories there, built something special together.

“Then let’s make the most of it while we can,” she muses, those pretty eyes sparkling.

No complaints here.

I force her to pose for a couple pictures so I can send them to my family group chat and brag about how smart my mate is, then we walk to the parking lot hand in hand. Miley navigates the chaos of the crowd with calm precision, while I just feel lucky to get to walk beside her.

I drive us home with the windows down so the breeze can do its thing with her hair. She laughs when her tassel gets caught in her mouth, and I laugh too, because this is our life now– messy, loud, uncontainable– and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

When we get back to the apartment, we crash through the door like we’ve got hours to burn and no rules to follow. We bump into boxes and trip over shoes before I tackle her onto the couch, and suddenly nothing else matters.

Not the past. Not what comes next. Just the two of us tangled together, exactly where we belong.