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Chapter ten

Felix

The loft was silent except for the soft hum of Mira’s computers and the distant rumble of Kansas City waking up six floors below. I stood barefoot in the kitchen, watching steam rise from the espresso machine as it hissed to life. Five-thirty a.m. Still too early for anyone else to be awake.

My hands were steady as I went through the familiar motions—grinding beans, measuring shots, heating milk, all things that normally got me thinking about Sofia, the best barista this side of the Colorado River, and her mate, my twin, Derek—but my mind kept replaying the night before.

The way Annabella had moved during that bar fight, like she was dancing instead of fighting.

The moment when we’d found a coordinated rhythm, anticipating each other’s movements without a word.

My wolf had been quiet since then. Actually quiet. For the first time since joining the Council, since Milton, since everything went to hell with Derek, that constant restless energy had settled into something like peace.

Which was a massive fucking red flag.

I pulled a perfect shot and inhaled the rich aroma, using the routine to center myself.

This was supposed to be simple. Infiltrate the crew, gather intelligence, report back to Gideon and Talia.

I wasn’t supposed to be standing in their kitchen at dawn, memorizing the way Annabella took her coffee and feeling more at home than I had anywhere in years.

Gideon. Shit.

I’d been supposed to check in with him at midnight. I should have slipped away during the disruption at the bar, found one of my stashed burner phones—before this op started I’d hidden burner phones all across the city—and reported on the team’s activities.

Instead, I’d been too busy watching Annabella laugh. Really laugh, the sound bright and unguarded in a way that had carved itself into my memory like a brand.

I shook my head. I had to get my shit together. Annabella was a mark. A target. Nothing more than an intelligence objective with a file number. I was here to assess her operation, locate her vulnerabilities, and set up the Council’s eventual takedown of her cell.

I needed to check in with Gid, tell him about the sister—a detail suspiciously absent from Annabella’s file—and her mother’s mysterious illness.

Not much could take down a full-blooded werewolf, which raised serious questions about what exactly was wrong with her.

The Council doctors might have insights—treatments even—if I could get that information to Gideon.

Then there was the question of her father.

None of our files had her father in them.

Sofia and Jase had always said whoever he was had left before Annabella was born, but for her to have a full-blooded sister, the dad had to be back in the picture.

And Annabella had to know who he was. I wasn’t sure if it was at all relevant or not, but it was a thread I intended to pull when this mess was over.

Right now, I had more pressing concerns—like getting intel to Gideon without blowing my cover.

But I couldn’t slip out now. The others would be waking soon, and my unexplained absence would raise flags.

My wolf prowled restlessly at the thought of contacting Gideon, hackles raised in uncharacteristic resistance.

He didn’t want to reduce last night to sterile bullet points in an intelligence brief.

Didn’t want to dissect Annabella’s fighting style for tactical weaknesses or catalog her team’s capabilities like they were targets instead of…

Instead of what? People I was starting to care about? People who trusted me?

Fuck!

I was in deep shit.

The soft pad of bare feet against hardwood pulled me from my spiral.

Annabella appeared from the hallway, sleep-rumpled in a way that made my chest tighten.

Her dark hair was twisted into a messy bun with rebellious strands framing her face.

She wore simple black yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt with “Fearless” emblazoned across the front in faded gold lettering.

I blinked, doing a double-take at her shirt. Taylor Swift? Annabella—the woman who led guerrilla operations against the Wolf Council, who could incapacitate trained fighters without breaking a sweat—was a fucking Swiftie?

The cognitive dissonance nearly gave me whiplash. It was like discovering a hardened special ops commander collected Hello Kitty memorabilia.

Even half-asleep, she moved with instinctive caution, her back to the wall as she entered the open space, eyes automatically checking exits and potential threats before approaching.

The warrior in me recognized and respected the habit.

The wolf in me noticed something else entirely: a subtle shift in her demeanor, an almost imperceptible softening around her eyes and mouth.

Like last night’s fight had released some valve of pressure that had been building for too long.

She looked dangerous in an entirely different way this morning. Not as the guerrilla leader I was sent to neutralize but as the woman who could unravel everything I thought I knew about myself.

“You’re up early,” she said, her voice still carrying the notes of sleep.

“Old habits.” I slid her favorite mug across the counter—black ceramic with a chip on the handle she probably didn’t even notice. “Cappuccino, extra shot, no sugar.”

She blinked at the rosetta pattern I’d made without thinking (and had Sofia to thank for teaching me)—a delicate leaf design that had become second nature after weeks of making her morning coffee.

“How do you even remember that?”

Because I’ve been cataloging every detail about you for weeks.

Because I know you take your first sip from the right side of the mug and the rest from the left.

Because I’ve memorized the exact sound you make—part sigh, part hum—when the caffeine hits your system.

Because watching your eyes close when you taste something you love has become the best part of my mornings.

“I pay attention,” I said instead. Then, unable to resist pushing this fragile moment of normalcy further, I nodded toward her shirt. “Though I have to admit, I didn’t see the Taylor Swift thing coming.”

Annabella glanced down at her shirt as if she’d forgotten what she was wearing, then back up with an expression caught somewhere between defiance and embarrassment. A faint flush crept up her neck.

“Not a word to the others,” she warned, pointing her index finger at me with mock severity.

I drew a cross over my heart. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

She paused, then tilted her head with a suspicious look. “Wait. How do you even know what ‘Fearless’ refers to? Most guys would just see a random word on a shirt.”

Oh, shit.

I felt heat crawl up my neck as I realized my tactical error. “I… well…”

Her eyes widened, genuine delight spreading across her face. “Holy Goddess, mother of darkness.” She set her mug down with a decisive click. “Felix Masters, are you a secret Swiftie?”

“I am absolutely not—” I started, but her grin was widening.

“You totally are! Nobody recognizes album names unless they’re a fan.” She took a sip of her coffee, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “So, what’s your favorite song? ‘Love Story’? ‘You Belong With Me’? Wait! It’s ‘Shake It Off,’ isn’t it?”

“This conversation never happened,” I muttered, feeling my ears burn.

Annabella laughed, free and unguarded. “You keep my secrets, and I’ll keep yours.”

Annabella wrapped both hands around the mug, inhaling the steam like it was oxygen she’d been deprived of. When she looked up, something in her expression had shifted; the carefully maintained walls lowered just enough to let me glimpse what lay behind them.

“Listen, about last night…” she trailed off, her eyes focusing somewhere past my shoulder.

“Yeah?” I kept my voice neutral, even as my pulse kicked up a notch.

“That was…” She paused, seeming to search for words. “I can’t remember the last time I did something just because it felt right. Not because it advanced our goals or protected the team, or served some greater purpose. Just because, in that moment, it was what I wanted.”

The admission hit me harder than it should have. “And how did it make you feel?”

Her smile bloomed slowly—small but genuine, reaching her eyes in a way that transformed her face. “Alive. For the first time in years, I felt alive.”

Guilt twisted in my chest, sharp and vicious. She was offering me something rare and fragile: trust. Showing me parts of herself she kept carefully hidden from everyone else. And I was lying to her about everything that mattered.

“Annabella—”

“I know we can’t make a habit of it,” she continued, oblivious to my internal crisis.

“We have responsibilities. People counting on us. A mission that matters. But last night…” Her fingers traced the rim of her mug.

“Last night reminded me why we’re fighting.

Not just what we’re fighting against, but what we’re fighting for. ”

A new scent hit me—chamomile and rich earth with undertones of healing herbs.

Zeke appeared from the hallway, already dressed in his usual earth-toned layers.

He acknowledged us with a slight nod before moving directly to his sacred corner of the loft, where dozens of plants thrived under his care.

His morning ritual never varied: checking each plant, adjusting their positions to capture the optimal angle of early light filtering through the eastern windows.

“I should go get ready,” Annabella said, placing her mug in the dishwasher.

She moved toward her room, and I found myself transfixed by the effortless grace in her movements.

The confident sway of her hips wasn’t performative or self-conscious—just the natural rhythm of a body perfectly attuned to itself.

I imagined how those curves would feel pressed against me, how her smaller frame would fit against mine like we’d been designed as complementary pieces.