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Chapter eighteen

Felix

F elix

The elevator required both a keycard and retinal scan—Annabella’s—before the doors closed with a soft hydraulic hiss. Annabella stood rigid beside me, her fingers absently working the silver streak woven through her dark braid like worry beads. Whatever awaited us upstairs had her nervous.

Twenty-eight floors. Twenty-eight floors to get my shit together and figure out how to handle meeting the boss—almost certainly Simon Webster himself—without blowing my cover or losing my mind to the increasingly insistent pull I felt toward the woman beside me.

“You know,” I said, propping myself against the elevator wall with a crooked smile, “for someone who takes corners at death-defying speeds and fights Council enforcers for fun, you look surprisingly worried about a simple meet-and-greet.”

She shot me a glare, but her fingers stilled on that silver streak. “This isn’t just any meeting.”

“Let me guess—the boss doesn’t like my file photo? I told them to use my good side.” I winked, letting Felix’s easy charm flow over the jagged edges of my own mounting tension. “Relax, Moonbeam. If he doesn’t like me, I promise not to cry until we’re back in the car.”

A reluctant half-smile softened her mouth. “I told you not to call me that.”

“What? It’s either that or ‘Death Pedal Diva.’ Your choice.”

She rolled her eyes, but I noticed her shoulders drop slightly as some of the tension left her body. “Just… follow my lead in there. These people…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “They don’t think much of half-breeds or Shifters. Try not to give them ammunition.”

That vulnerability seeping through her careful control made something fierce unfurl in my chest. She was warning me about the same prejudice she navigated daily, trying to armor me against the kind of rejection that had clearly marked her.

“Hey.” I waited until she looked at me. “Anyone who doesn’t see how incredible you are is a fucking idiot, and that’s their loss, not yours.”

Her eyes widened slightly, color rising in her cheeks.

The elevator slowed to a stop, but instead of opening immediately, a soft chime sounded, followed by a barely perceptible shift in air pressure that caused my ears to pop.

Wards. It was part of a magical security checkpoint, which was more sophisticated than I’d anticipated.

Only then did the doors slide open, revealing what could only be the Obsidian’s reception area.

The walls gleamed with polished black volcanic glass that didn’t just reflect light; it devoured it, creating an atmosphere that simultaneously felt vast and claustrophobic.

As we moved, our reflections warped in the obsidian surfaces—twisted, elongated shadows that seemed to move a half-second slower than we did, as if something else lurked beneath our skins.

A sleek desk of the same material dominated the center of the space, its surface so perfectly polished it resembled a pool of liquid darkness.

Behind it, the Obsidian’s logo—a stylized black diamond—hung suspended in mid-air, the spell holding it aloft so seamless that it appeared to defy gravity itself.

My wolf retreated to the back of my mind, hackles raised.

This place was wrong on a primal level, like walking into an apex killer's territory. The air carried the faint but unmistakable scent of rowan and silver, botanicals traditionally used to ward against Shifters, diluted just enough to be legal in conclave cities but concentrated enough to make my nose itch and my muscles tense. Every element of the design whispered a single message: your kind isn’t welcome here.

A woman materialized from a side door before we’d taken three steps into the space. Tall and elegantly trim, she wore her ice-blonde hair in a severe bob that emphasized razor-sharp cheekbones.

“Annabella,” she said, each syllable crisp and cool, her accent carrying the polished edges of old money and exclusive education. “Simon is waiting.”

The subtle emphasis on “waiting” carried clear disapproval, and Annabella’s spine stiffened in response.

“We’re two minutes early, Vivienne.”

“Early is on time; on time is late.” Vivienne’s gaze swept over me, the assessment clinical and swift—like a butcher evaluating a side of beef. “This is the new addition to your… field team?”

The microsecond pause before “field team” transformed the words into something distasteful, like she was discussing something she’d found on the bottom of her shoe.

“Felix Masters, this is Vivienne Haines, Obsidian’s Chief Operating Officer.”

I extended my hand with my most disarming smile—the one that had talked me out of bar fights and into bedrooms with equal success. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Vivienne’s fingertips barely grazed mine before withdrawing. “Welcome to the Obsidian, Mr. Masters. I understand you have a background in security.”

I shrugged. “Among other things.”

“How… versatile.” Her tone suggested versatility was a character flaw. She pivoted back to Annabella, already dismissing me. “Simon asked me to brief you on the way up. There’s been a development with the Council situation.”

We trailed Vivienne down a corridor lined with cream-colored marble, veins of silver and black threading through the stone.

She maintained precisely one step ahead of Annabella—close enough to seem collegial, far enough to establish hierarchy.

Every few yards, we passed ceiling-high windows offering vertigo-inducing views of Kansas City below, but there was a faint shimmer between the glass layers.

Spelled glass, likely strong enough to withstand both bullets and magical assault.

“One of our sources within the Council has flagged a concerning development,” Vivienne continued without breaking stride. “Their newest member, Sam Shaw, has gone missing. Completely off-grid for the past several weeks, with no explanation to his colleagues.”

My stomach dropped like I’d stepped off a cliff. Fuck. They were looking for me.

“Simon believes Shaw may be on a covert assignment—possibly targeting our operations. We’re tasking all field teams with gathering intelligence on Shaw.

Reach out to your contacts, see if we can locate him.

” Vivienne’s heels struck the marble with metronomic precision.

“I’ve made sure that all available details have been forwarded to Mira, though unfortunately, our source couldn’t provide photographs.

Shaw’s digital footprint was scrubbed when he joined the Council—standard security protocol. ”

I kept my breathing deliberately steady while my mind raced.

They were hunting Sam Shaw, not suspecting that Felix Masters and Sam Shaw were the same person.

But how long before someone made the connection?

I was guessing Kane was their source on the Council.

He had a vendetta against Derek and had probably been looking forward to serving with me on the Council, searching for ways to get his revenge against our family.

My going missing must have really pissed him off.

I felt sweat gathering at the nape of my neck.

The corridor opened into a vast central atrium where a monolithic piece of raw obsidian thrust upward from the marble floor like a jagged mountain of frozen darkness. Water flowed over its volcanic surface, the gentle sound carrying an odd rhythm—like a heartbeat slowed to quarter-time.

Three people stood talking near the water feature; their conversation died mid-sentence as we approached.

“The boss’s coven,” Annabella murmured beside me.

A distinguished man in his late forties turned toward us, salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled, posture military-straight despite the ornate walking stick he carried. His expression shifted from mild annoyance to practiced charm as he noticed our approach.

“Vivienne,” he greeted warmly. “And Annabella, what a pleasant surprise.”

“Manfred,” Annabella acknowledged with a slight nod.

“I wasn’t aware you would be in the building today,” Manfred continued smoothly. “Nothing concerning with your operation, I hope?”

“Just a meeting with Simon,” Annabella replied carefully.

“Of course, of course.” His pale eyes shifted to me, assessing with the cold calculation of a predator sizing up potential threats. “And this would be…?”

“Felix Masters,” I supplied before Annabella could answer. “New to the team.”

“Charmed.” His smile thinned slightly. “Manfred Valdez, Head of Strategic Operations.” He didn’t offer his hand.

The woman beside him—petite with sleek black hair pulled into a chignon so severe it looked painful—extended manicured fingers tipped with deep burgundy polish that resembled dried blood. “Libby Ascot, Acquisitions. Welcome to our little enterprise, Mr. Masters.”

Her accent was French and her handshake was firm but brief. I caught a hint of distaste in her scent as our skin connected.

“And Damien Frost, Analytics,” added the third member of their group—a stocky man with close-cropped hair and rimless glasses that magnified small, calculating eyes. He made no move to shake hands.

“I must say, Annabella,” Manfred continued, rolling her name with a deliberate emphasis on each syllable, “Simon’s continued interest in your little project remains one of his more enduring fascinations.”

“Rather like his collection of first editions,” Libby added with an airy laugh. “He does so enjoy acquiring rare specimens.”

The casual cruelty in their voices, the way they talked about her like she was an object rather than a person, made me want to rip their fucking throats out.

Annabella was half witch. They should be her coven, her protectors, and instead, they made petty jibes to make it clear she wasn’t one of them. Would never be one of them.

Annabella’s scent spiked sharply—a flash of something raw before it was controlled again. “Our operations have been extremely effective.”