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Chapter nine

Annabella

A nnabella

Felix was already halfway across the bar before my decision fully registered, moving with the liquid precision of a wolf who’d spotted wounded prey.

The rest of my team exchanged loaded glances—Mira’s eyes widening with delight, Zeke’s mouth quirking in anticipation, Lydia’s perfect eyebrow arching in judgment, and Duke’s jaw clenching hard enough to crack teeth.

We didn’t do impulsive. We didn’t do unplanned. Every operation we’d ever run had been mapped down to the second, each team member’s movements choreographed, contingencies layered three deep. That calculated approach was how I’d kept us alive and undetected for years.

But something about the look in that kid’s eyes had got to me.

The fear, the helplessness. The way his shoulders curved inward like he was trying to fold himself into nothing.

The resignation in his eyes that said he knew exactly what was coming and had already accepted the pain. It was too familiar.

My wolf surged against her restraints, responding to my rising anger with her own—a feral rage that clawed at my insides, demanding release. I forced her back down, but the effort sent jagged pain splintering through my ribcage, stealing my breath for half a second.

“No civilians in the crossfire, understand?” I slid from the booth, already shifting into command mode. “Duke, watch our six. Lydia, keep it subtle.”

Lydia nodded once, her manicured fingers already dancing beneath the table in the precise, economical movements of a spell-weaver who knew exactly how much power to use; not a fraction more or less than needed. That precision was why I’d recruited her.

A muscle ticked in Duke’s jaw as he positioned himself with sight lines to both exits.

“This is a mistake,” he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear. There was something else in his voice, too—jealousy, maybe, that I was following Felix’s lead instead of his advice.

Maybe it was a mistake. But I was already committed.

Felix moved with a casual confidence that screamed danger to anyone paying attention; the kind of relaxed grace that only comes from absolute certainty in your ability to handle whatever comes next.

He rolled his shoulders once, twice, like a dancer loosening up before a performance rather than someone walking into a five-against-one confrontation.

The ambient noise of the bar dimmed as if someone had slowly turned down a volume knob. Glasses paused halfway to lips, conversations stalled mid-sentence, as other patrons sensed the shift in the room’s energy—that electric anticipation before violence erupts.

“Territory rules are simple,” one of the Murphy twins growled, fingers digging deep enough into the kid’s shoulder to leave bruises. “You don’t belong here.”

“Bartender,” Felix called out cheerfully, deliberately brushing against Cole as he wedged himself into the space at the bar. “Another round for my friends.”

Cole pivoted slowly, nostrils flaring as he caught Felix’s scent.

Up close, he was younger than I’d initially pegged him—maybe twenty-five.

His designer jacket reeked of new leather and wealth.

But his eyes were cold, calculating, merciless—they belonged to someone who’d discovered early that hurting others was his favorite form of entertainment.

“Who the fuck are you?” Cole demanded, his voice carrying that distinctive Westport Pack accent—part old money Kansas City, part carefully practiced intimidation.

Felix’s smile was all teeth and challenge, a baring of fangs disguised as friendliness.

“Me? Just another Packless piece of trash passing through.” He nodded toward the trembling kid.

“Though I have to say, five wolves against one terrified teenager seems a bit excessive.” His voice dropped to a stage whisper.

“What’s next on the agenda, beating up week-old puppies? ”

Oh good, he’s going with the “antagonize the violent sociopaths” strategy. This should end well.

The kid’s eyes widened with a mixture of terror and disbelief, like he couldn’t comprehend someone intentionally drawing this kind of heat.

Cole’s jawline hardened to granite, his gaze flicking between Felix and me as I positioned myself against the counter—close enough to jump in when things inevitably went sideways but not crowding Felix’s play.

I caught the kid’s eye and subtly tilted my head toward where Zeke had stationed himself by the door. The kid wasn’t completely frozen by fear—he understood immediately, inching away from the Pack’s circle of attention as Felix escalated the situation.

“You’re interrupting Pack business,” Cole growled.

“Didn’t realize bullying was official Pack business these days. Corporate restructuring, hmm? Harassment now falls under which department—PR or executive outreach?”

Cole stepped closer, invading Felix’s space while his Packmates fanned out to surround him. “This is Westport territory. Every street, every business, every pathetic drinking establishment.”

“Interesting. I’ve noticed the wolves most obsessed with marking territory are usually compensating for… other shortcomings.” His gaze dropped pointedly below Cole’s belt. “Performance anxiety issues, perhaps? Or just… naturally disadvantaged?”

And there it was. No backing down now. Felix had just nuclear-bombed any possibility of a peaceful resolution by questioning not just their authority but their masculinity—the ultimate trigger for wolves like these who built their entire identity on dominance displays.

A muffled snort of laughter from a corner booth hung in the sudden silence.

Cole’s face flushed dark with rage, the scent of his anger sharp enough to make my eyes water—hot metal and aggressive musk flooding my senses.

Behind him, his Packmates shifted their weight to the balls of their feet, hands curling into fists.

“You’ve got a big mouth for someone outnumbered five to one,” Cole snarled, pupils contracting to pinpoints.

Felix’s smile transformed into something feral. “And you’ve got an awfully big mouth for someone who needs four backup dancers to handle one scared kid.” His eyes glittered with challenge. “What happened? Forget how to fight without your cheerleading squad?”

That’s when Cole threw the first punch.

Felix moved like he’d choreographed the entire fight in advance, slipping under Cole’s wild haymaker with insulting ease.

Instead of countering, he simply pivoted, letting Cole’s momentum carry him face-first into the solid oak bar.

The crack of cartilage against wood sent a collective wince through the room before absolute silence fell.

For exactly one heartbeat.

Then chaos erupted.

One of the Murphy twins launched at me, a front kick aimed squarely at my sternum.

I caught his ankle mid-trajectory, my fingers digging into the pressure point below his calf muscle while giving his leg a precise, anatomically creative twist. His eyes widened with the sudden realization that he’d made a catastrophic error in judgment.

His body rotated through the air, a perfect gymnast’s flip that ended with an ungraceful splat against the sticky floor, the impact forcing air from his lungs in a wheezing gasp.

The stocky enforcer lunged for Felix from behind, arms outstretched for a bear hug that would have crushed ribs.

Without even looking back, Felix sidestepped with balletic timing, casually extending one foot at ankle height.

Basic physics did the rest. The wolf’s considerable mass transformed into forward momentum, sending him crashing into a nearby table and catapulting someone’s half-finished whiskey directly into the lap of a bearded human built like a brick wall.

The man—easily six-five and sporting the kind of beard that suggested either lumberjack or assassin as career options—stood with ominous slowness. He examined his soaked jeans with the calm deliberation of someone mentally calculating cleaning costs versus hospital bills.

“Well, shit,” he rumbled, voice like gravel under tires. “These were my good pants.”

I had half a second to wonder if collateral damage to civilian wardrobes violated my “no innocents harmed” directive before the man hefted his pool cue like a Louisville Slugger.

The hardwood connected with the enforcer’s temple with a sound like a melon being split, dropping him instantly to the floor.

“Annabella, duck!” Mira’s voice sliced through the commotion.

Pure instinct took over. I dropped into a crouch as a bottle of premium tequila sailed over my head and shattered against the jawbone of the wolf trying to flank me. The impact sprayed liquor and blood in equal measure as he staggered backward.

Mira stood triumphantly atop a table, her rainbow hair haloed in the bar lights, already reaching for her next improvised weapon—a basket of bar pretzels. It exploded against the youngest wolf’s face, creating a shrapnel cloud of salt and hard bread that had him coughing and pawing at his eyes.

“I’ve always wanted to do that!” she yelled gleefully, grabbing a serving tray to use as a shield.

Across the room, Duke maintained his position by the door, arms crossed, expression thoroughly unimpressed—Switzerland in a leather jacket.

His neutrality lasted precisely until Felix executed a perfect spin throw, sending a wolf careening directly into a nearby server carrying a tray of drinks.

The collision created a spectacular liquid explosion, most of which seemed magnetized to Duke’s prized leather jacket.

The transformation was instant and terrifying. Duke’s face shifted from professional detachment to murderous intent with no stops in between.

“This,” he said with deadly quiet, “is hand-tooled Italian leather, you absolute asshole.”