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Chapter eight

Annabella

I paced the length of the loft’s main window for what had to be the hundredth time today, my reflection ghosting across the glass with each pass. Eight weeks. Eight fucking weeks since we’d taken Reynolds, and nothing. No new targets, no missions, no progress.

Simon’s voice echoed in my head: "Patience is a virtue for those who deserve nothing.

For those like us, who carry the burden of changing the world, impatience is righteous.

" He’d been drilling that into me since I was eighteen—that my anger was justified, that my frustration was a sign of my commitment to the cause.

Sometimes, I wondered if he deliberately kept me on edge, hungry for the next mission, the next target.

The moments when his approval washed over me after a successful operation were like drugs: brief, euphoric, and always leaving me desperate for the next fix.

But here we were, sitting around like we were running a book club instead of a revolutionary operation.

My wolf clawed beneath my skin like a furious storm trapped behind glass.

Years of practice had taught me how to lock her down, but during these stretches of inaction, she raged against my control with renewed fury.

The dull throb that usually haunted my joints had escalated to white-hot needles working their way through my muscle fibers.

Each day of forced stillness only made her more desperate to break free.

“You’re going to wear a groove in the floor,” Mira called from the sofa, eyes still glued to her tablet. Lydia sat next to her, head in one of her spell books as usual.

“Nothing. We have nothing. No new intelligence for fucking weeks,” I muttered, not breaking stride.

Duke paused in the middle of cleaning his favorite knife, a wicked curved blade that had seen plenty of action, and glanced at me. “These things take time, Annabella. We can’t rush—”

“Every day we sit here, the Council has time to regroup, time to hunt down more witches in the north, spout their lies about us. Ripple spreads further. More families get destroyed.”

And it was getting worse. The news reports were full of it: another attack in Kansas, three more conclave cities implementing “Shifter district” policies, human protesters marching on government buildings demanding Shifters be rounded up and put into camps.

War was coming; the Council was doing nothing about it.

The window for change, for getting rid of the Council and putting in place someone who could actually make a difference, was closing fast, and here we were, doing fuck all.

Felix strode from the kitchen, two steaming cups in his hands. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he said, offering me one. “We need to get out of here for a while. Clear our heads, then come back and look at it all with fresh eyes.”

I took a sip and nearly groaned. Perfect, as always. The man had somehow cataloged my coffee preferences like they were classified intelligence.

“What’s on that devious mind of yours?” I asked, eyeing him over the rim of my mug.

Felix’s lips curved into that half-smile that did funny things to my girly bits. “Zeke mentioned something about The Spinster’s Tooth. Thought maybe it’s time for my official initiation into the team’s sacred watering hole.”

“Did I hear Spinster’s?” Zeke burst from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, towel slung low on his hips, another draped over his head like a half-assed nun’s habit. “Hell, yes! I’ve been dreaming about their tequila for weeks. My liver’s getting bored.”

“Count me in!” Mira jumped up from the sofa so fast she nearly toppled. “Fair warning: I’m wearing my death-trap platforms. When we inevitably end up running from something, one of you muscle-bound heroes is carrying me.”

Lydia lowered her book with a sigh that could wilt flowers. “A bar? Really? We’re supposed to be lying low.”

“We’ve been trapped in this loft so long I’m starting to memorize the ceiling cracks,” I countered. “Felix is right. We need air that doesn’t smell like Duke’s protein shakes. ETD ten minutes.”

“Finally!” Mira punched the air and dashed to her room, already shouting about outfit options.

Duke’s grumble—something about “a terrible fucking idea”—lost all credibility as he shoved his arms into his jacket before I’d even finished speaking.

An hour later, I claimed the darkest corner booth of The Spinster’s Tooth, my back to the wall and eyes on the exits—old habits.

Decades of spilled beer, whiskey, and secrets had seeped into the scarred wooden floors, creating that distinct dive bar perfume that no amount of cleaning could ever erase.

Perfect. In places like this, shadows did more to hide your identity than any glamor spell ever could.

The Spinster’s Tooth had survived three Pack wars and two human gentrification attempts on the ragged edge of Westport, Kansas City’s oldest werewolf territory.

KC had once been the poster child for the conclave experiment, the shining example of humans and Shifters building something together.

Now, it was a jigsaw puzzle of territorial claims, each piece marked in blood and threats rather than on any official map.

Just fifty miles from the northern border, where practicing magic earned you a death sentence, KC had become a refuge for those of us who belonged nowhere else.

Not that it was any kind of paradise these days; just a different kind of hell with better drinking options.

I sipped my bourbon, letting the burn slide down my throat and temporarily quiet the constant ache of suppressing my wolf.

Through the grimy window behind Felix, the illuminated spire of the Liberty Memorial pierced the night sky—a monument to a human war that had nothing to do with our kind, yet somehow defined the skyline we all shared.

“—so there I am, dangling from the ceiling like some budget Mission Impossible knockoff,” Mira half-shouted over the bar noise, her tiny frame practically vibrating with energy as she recreated the scene with dramatic hand gestures.

“And in walks this mountain of a security guard, flashlight beam hitting me right in the face! I swear my heart tried to crawl out through my throat.”

Zeke threw his head back, laughing, the sound warm and infectious enough to draw glances from nearby tables. “Holy shit! What’d you do?”

“Only thing I could!” Mira’s eyes widened comically. “Channeled my inner corporate drone. ‘Just routine maintenance on the fire suppression system, sir!’” She mimicked adjusting an invisible tie. “‘Everything’s up to code, nothing to see here!’”

“And this paragon of security believed that ridiculous story?” Lydia’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline.

Mira snorted into her beer. “Hell, no! Man wasn’t paid enough to be that stupid.

I had exactly three seconds before he reached for his radio, so I bolted.

” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Had to escape through a maintenance vent that was basically a medieval torture device. My platforms—the limited edition ones—got stuck.” She pressed a hand to her heart, expression mournful.

“Had to leave them behind like fallen comrades. I literally held a memorial service for those boots.”

A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it. These moments were rare treasures—my team just being people instead of soldiers. Even Lydia had abandoned her usual rigid posture, one elbow propped casually on the table as she sipped her wine.

Duke shifted beside me, deliberately encroaching into my space.

Again. His shoulder pressed against mine, the third “accidental” contact in ten minutes.

His woody, smoke-tinged scent spiked with something possessive that made my wolf bristle.

He’d been pushing these boundaries for weeks.

I slid several inches away, the vinyl booth squeaking in protest, and fixed my eyes firmly on Mira’s animated storytelling.

Message delivered without a word: Not interested. Not ever.

My attention snagged on Felix across the table, where he was regaling Zeke with yet another improbable adventure.

Six weeks with us, and he’d somehow cracked open the steel-reinforced walls we’d all built around ourselves.

The team laughed more, shared more, relaxed more—all because of this green-eyed stranger with his easy smile and too-perfect timing.

Even I found myself letting my guard slip around him, a dangerous indulgence I couldn’t quite bring myself to regret.

Great leadership strategy: wondering if your team’s improved morale constitutes a security breach. Professional paranoia at its finest.

“So there I am,” Felix was saying, his eyes alight with a mischief that seemed too genuine to be faked, “stuck twenty feet up a pine tree, mountain lion circling below, and three park rangers combing the woods for—and I quote—‘a naked pervert running around the hiking trails.’”

Zeke nearly choked on his beer. “Hold up. Why were you naked?”

“Wasn’t the plan,” Felix laughed, the sound rich and unrestrained. “But when you’re a wolf and hear a bunch of humans with guns tramping through the underbrush? Your wolf brain says, ‘Shift back now,’ and your human brain doesn’t get a vote on the clothing situation.”

“Nature's ultimate dilemma,” Zeke laughed. “Be eaten by the cat or get arrested for public indecency.”

“Exactly.” Felix leaned forward, one hand gesturing expressively.

“Cat below wanting to eat me, rangers wanting to arrest me, and absolutely nothing between me and nature but my rapidly diminishing dignity.” He took a long pull from his beer, perfectly comfortable as the center of our attention.

“The rangers gave up at sunset, but the cat was patient. When it finally slunk off to find easier prey, I stole a space blanket from a campsite and hiked ten miles to town looking like a human-sized baked potato wrapped in tinfoil.”