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Chapter seventeen

Felix

T he news anchor on the TV was discussing another Ripper Pack attack in Kansas City.

Three humans dead, two critically injured—the fifth such incident this week involving what authorities were calling “flash mob” raids.

Coordinated strikes where multiple packs of rippers would hit a neighborhood simultaneously, overwhelming local police response while they ransacked homes and businesses for anything they could sell to feed their addiction.

I sat on the sectional sofa next to Mira, who was dissecting a croissant while providing colorful commentary on the reporter’s bias about Shifter containment policies.

“—and of course, not one fucking word about Armour Hill,” she was saying around a mouthful of pastry. “Human authorities rounded up every Shifter in the district yesterday. Transported them out in actual cages. Kids, elderly, nursing mothers—all treated like animals. In fucking cages.”

Zeke nodded from his position on the floor, back against the couch, long legs stretched toward the TV.

“The Wolf Council’s ordered Shifters not to resist or retaliate.

They’re trying to prevent full-scale war, but humans are exploiting the non-aggression directive.

They’re systematically clearing whole neighborhoods. ”

“They just loop footage of ripper attacks 24/7, which whips humans into a panic, which justifies more of these fucking genocidal ‘containment measures.’” She made air quotes with pastry-dusted fingers. “It’s a perfect propaganda machine.”

Duke was at the opposite end of the sectional, feet up on the coffee table, occasionally grunting agreement with Mira’s observations.

Lydia had claimed the reading chair by the windows, morning light casting her in dramatic silhouette as she paged through a leather-bound volume titled Advanced Spellcraft: Binding Rituals , though I caught her glancing up whenever ripple was mentioned.

Annabella sat cross-legged on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, her tablet balanced on her knees as she scrolled through past mission reports.

The picture of casual morning routine. But after six weeks of constant observation, I’d learned to read her tells: the way she held her coffee mug suspended halfway to her lips for too long, forgetting to actually drink; the controlled deepening of her breath, four counts in, seven counts hold, eight counts out—the deliberate pattern she used when managing stress.

Something was bothering her, something beyond the grim news report.

Her phone buzzed against the hardwood floor. I caught the split-second widening of her pupils as she glanced at the screen, a barely perceptible pause before she picked it up. Her thumb hovered over the display before she tapped to open the message.

The change in her scent was immediate—a sharp spike of something between surprise and apprehension cutting through her usual storm-cloud signature. My wolf stirred, suddenly alert.

“What is it?” Mira asked.

Annabella set her phone down slowly. “He wants to meet Felix. Today. At the Obsidian.”

The words dropped into the room like stones into still water. On the TV, the news anchor continued droning about increased security checkpoints at conclave city borders, but the broadcast might as well have been muted for all the attention it received.

Duke’s feet hit the floor. “The boss wants to meet the new guy?”

“That’s…” Zeke twisted to look at Annabella directly. “But he’s—”

“Never,” Lydia said quietly, closing her book with a soft snap. “He’s never requested to meet a new recruit.”

Okay, then. This was either very good news—the boss wanting to see me in person would give me the confirmation I needed that Annabella’s backing was Simon Webster—or very bad news because it meant he was probably on to me.

The timing, right after our botched Gideon operation, felt too deliberate to be a coincidence.

“Should I bring flowers?”

Not a single smile in response. Not even from Mira.

Annabella stood, gathering her tablet and mug. “We leave in an hour.”

As she headed toward her room, I caught it—just for a second—the way her free hand brushed against her jeans, fingers splaying briefly before she caught the gesture and let her arm fall naturally to her side.

Self-soothing. Annabella was rattled and working hard to hide it.

I sat in the passenger seat of Annabella’s sleek black Audi, watching her weave through traffic with an aggression that bordered on reckless.

The silence between us had stretched for fifteen excruciating minutes, broken only by the occasional screech of tires or blare of horns from offended drivers left in our wake.

My wolf was going fucking feral.

The confined space of the luxury sedan had become a sensory torture chamber.

Her scent concentrated in the closed environment, wrapping around me like living smoke; the elegance of her hands on the wheel, slender fingers always in perfect control despite her aggressive maneuvering; the barely audible rhythm of her pulse accelerating slightly when she executed a particularly dangerous maneuver; the way she worried her bottom lip between her teeth when she thought I wasn’t watching her.

Every inhale filled my lungs with her intoxicating signature—storm clouds and lightning, wild honey, and something specifically, maddeningly her—until rational thought became a distant memory.

Six weeks of this was killing me.

“You ever think about getting into street racing?” I asked, bracing myself as she took another corner at speed. “You’ve got a real talent for scaring the shit out of pedestrians.”

Her hazelnut eyes flicked to me for one heartbeat before returning to the road. “I don’t like being followed.”

“Is that professional paranoia or just your sparkling personality?”

“Consider it a survival skill.” One corner of her mouth twitched upward—not quite a smile, but close enough to make my pulse jump.

“One you might want to develop if you plan on sticking around.” She took another turn that slammed me against the door.

“And sometimes it’s fun watching new recruits turn green. ”

“Hate to disappoint, but I’ve got an iron stomach.

” I stretched out, deliberately taking up more space in the car, letting my arm rest along the back of her seat.

Close enough to catch more of her scent, far enough not to crowd her.

“Spent two years doing security for a bear Shifter club owner in Vegas. Guy had a vintage Lamborghini Countach and a death wish. This is practically a Sunday drive.”

Annabella’s eyebrow rose slightly. “Vegas, huh? Not the usual territory for a lone wolf.”

“That’s the point. When your own kind doesn’t want you, you learn to get creative about who signs your paychecks.”

I watched her process this, saw something shift in her expression.

“Your Pack,” she said carefully, eyes still on the road. “The original one. What happened to them?”

Test number one. Annabella had interrogated me about my backstory when we first met, but today was different.

Today, I was meeting the boss, and if my story didn’t hold up under renewed scrutiny, it would reflect badly on her judgment.

She was protecting herself, making absolutely certain my narrative remained consistent before putting her reputation on the line.

“My tragic origin story was that memorable, was it?” I teased, flashing a crooked grin to hide the twist of guilt in my gut.

“It was the Marshwood Pack, northern territories. Not that it matters now. The fuckers on the Wolf Council decided our Pack was ‘compromised’ because our Alphas questioned their policies. Disbanded us, executed those who resisted, including my parents. Scattered the rest of us to different territories, to any Pack that would take us.”

Annabella’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel, the leather creaking beneath her grip.

I turned toward the window, watching the passing cityscape blur into indistinct shapes as we accelerated through a yellow light.

“I was fourteen and angry as hell. Hated the Council for what they’d done, resented everyone else for not stopping them from murdering my family.

Tried to join three different Packs, but turns out no one wants a wolf with ‘authority issues’ and a grudge against the establishment. ”

“Their loss,” she said quietly as we skidded to a stop at a red light.

She glanced at me, and there was something in her expression—recognition, maybe. Understanding.

I was going to fucking hell for lying to her like this, but Talia, Gideon, and I had come up with this cover story two months ago, and I had no choice but to stick to it.

“Yeah, well,” I said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Pack politics is just kindergarten with fangs. ‘I’m the Alpha!’ ‘No, I’m the Alpha!’ Meanwhile, lone wolves like us are out here actually surviving while they compete over who can piss highest up a tree.”

A surprised laugh escaped her before she could stop it. I fucking loved it when she laughed. She looked younger, lighter, free from the shadows that usually haunted her.

Fuck. When had Annabella’s happiness become something I craved?

“We’re here,” she announced, steering the Audi down a curved ramp into an underground parking garage beneath one of Kansas City’s financial district monoliths—sixty stories of gleaming black glass and steel that reflected clouds and sky like a vertical slice of midnight.

The entrance was unmarked except for a small plaque with “1334” etched in silver.

Two security guards in tailored suits that failed to conceal shoulder holsters nodded to Annabella as we passed. Their faces remained professionally blank, but their eyes tracked me.

The garage itself was pristine, with polished concrete floors without a single oil stain, recessed lighting that left no shadows, and expensive cars—Maseratis, Bentleys, a matte black Ferrari, and what appeared to be a custom Aston Martin— in every spot.

“Before we go up,” Annabella said, killing the engine and turning to face me fully, “I need to be clear about something.”

Here we go. Test number two.

I could see the tension returning to her frame—the subtle tightening around her eyes, the carefully controlled breathing. If I failed this next test, we wouldn’t be going upstairs at all.

“The boss doesn’t normally waste time with new recruits.”

“I picked up on that. Should I be flattered or worried?” I asked, injecting just enough nervous humor to seem natural while fighting the urge to lean closer.

“Both.” Her tone hardened. “So, I need to make sure you’re not wired. No bugs, no recording devices, nothing that suggests you’re gathering intel for someone else.”

She reached across me to open the glove compartment, her arm brushing against my thigh as she retrieved a palm-sized device with glowing blue indicators.

The brief contact triggered an immediate physiological response I couldn’t control—pupils dilating, skin temperature rising, muscles tensing with primal awareness. My wolf peeked out from my eyes with sudden, overwhelming interest.

Mine.

What the actual fuck? This wasn’t just attraction or the understandable response to an attractive woman in close proximity. This was something deeper, more instinctual, infinitely more dangerous.

Annabella activated the scanner and ran it over me, checking for wires or transmitters, the motion bringing her face inches from mine.

Her breath whispered against my neck as she worked.

I gripped the door handle with enough force to leave finger indentations in the metal, using it to anchor myself against the nearly overwhelming urge to pull her against me and kiss her fucking senseless.

This was bad. This was so fucking bad.

“Clean,” she declared, pulling back and tucking the device away.

I exhaled slowly as she got out of the car, my hands shaking slightly from the effort of maintaining control.

Six weeks of this, of fighting the urge to touch her every time she brushed past me in the kitchen, of watching her carry the weight of everyone’s expectations while believing she was completely alone—six weeks of wanting to be the person she could lean on instead of the one sent to betray her—it was all catching up to me at the worst possible time.

Get it together, Shaw. She’s a mark, not a mate. The mission comes first. Always has. Always will.

But as I followed her toward the elevator, that lie was becoming harder and harder to believe.