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Chapter twenty-six

Annabella

A nnabella

What the bloody hell was wrong with me? My wolf didn’t seem to understand that we were undercover, that this was just play-acting.

Instead, she was responding to Felix’s every touch with embarrassing eagerness.

I had spent years building walls to keep everyone at a distance.

How had Felix slipped through them so easily?

Felix’s arm slid around my waist, pulling me slightly closer. “Three o’clock,” he whispered. “Two more security just entered.”

I followed his gaze without turning my head. He was right; two more guards were standing by the west exit to the room.

“Twelve security in the room now,” Felix said. “That’s more than we were expecting for the ballroom. Something’s off.”

“Not necessarily. There are a lot of important people here; it could just be them being cautious.”

“We should consider postponing.”

What? There was no way we were postponing for a couple of extra guards in the room, not after getting this close to Johnson. Besides, Simon had made it clear he wanted this done here.

“We’re not postponing,” I said firmly. “This isn’t a serious threat to our plans. They’ll be drawn away when the fire alarm goes off in the east wing.”

Felix opened his mouth to argue, when an elderly couple drifted toward us, champagne flutes in hand. The man leaned heavily on a polished walking stick, but his eyes were sharp, taking in our tense postures with obvious curiosity. There were too many ears here.

I spotted a service corridor to our left—the one leading to the restrooms and back areas of the hotel, slipped my hand into Felix’s and said loudly, “Baby Cakes, didn’t you want to show me that sculpture you mentioned? The one near the west gallery?”

Felix caught on immediately, replying with a “Yes, of course,” and then mumbling, “Baby Cakes?”

I flashed him a grin. “Just staying in character.”

Felix’s eyebrows shot up as we headed down the corridor. “And that’s what you’re going with? Baby Cakes.”

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure we weren’t followed. “You started it with ‘Moonbeam.’”

“Moonbeam has class. Baby Cakes sounds like I’m dessert.”

“Maybe you are,” I shot back before I could stop myself.

Felix’s eyes darkened at my words, and for a moment, the playful banter shifted into something heavier, more charged. I quickly looked away, focusing on the corridor ahead as we rounded the corner, safely out of earshot from the ballroom.

“We’re doing this,” I said, dropping the flirtatious act. “There is no sign they have warning of a specific threat.”

The sound of a door opening back in the ballroom echoed down the corridor, followed by two female voices approaching—guests heading for the restrooms.

Felix cursed, then tested the nearest door—locked—then tried the next one, which opened to a supply closet. He pulled me inside and closed the door behind us.

The closet was small—shelves lined with linens, cleaning supplies, and glasses for the event—leaving just enough room for us to stand without touching.

“This is ridiculous,” I whispered as footsteps passed by outside. “We need to get back to the ballroom.”

“I don’t like the security changes,” Felix insisted, his voice barely audible.

“The plan stays the same. We adapt like we always do.”

A sliver of light from beneath the door caught his features, illuminating the tension in his jaw, the intensity in his eyes.

In that moment, I realized I didn’t want this night to end.

I didn’t want to step away from the role of being Felix’s partner, of feeling his hand on my back, his eyes on me as if I were something precious rather than a weapon to be deployed.

I’d spent my childhood being bullied; then I’d dedicated myself to taking down the Council, to creating a better world for Ellie.

But this? With Felix, this felt different.

It was something addictively new and exciting.

I wanted to know what it was like to feel treasured, to have Felix look at me for real, the way he looked at me when we were playing Mr. and Mrs. Holloway.

What if this was my only chance at that?

Before I could talk myself out of it, I closed the distance between us, rising onto my toes and pressing my lips to his.

For one terrifying heartbeat, he went completely still.

Then a low growl rumbled in his chest, and his arms wrapped around me, pulling me flush against him as he took control of the kiss.

His lips were hot and hard against mine, and all thoughts of the mission scattered like autumn leaves in a storm.

This wasn’t like our kiss during mission prep. This was raw, hungry, desperate.

Then he pulled back, his fingers around the back of my neck, his thumbs against my cheeks. Even in the dim light, I could see the look in his eyes. It was a storm of contradictions—fierce need warring with something darker, almost like grief.

“Annabella,” he whispered, “there’s something I need to tell you—”

“Later,” I interrupted. I wanted to do this, had to do this. I needed something that was just for me—not for Webster, not for Ellie, not for my team. Something selfish and reckless and mine alone.

My fingers tightened in his shirt, anchoring him to me. “Not now.”

“This isn’t just—” he tried again, but I slid my fingers into his hair and pulled him to me for another kiss. I wanted to taste those lips again, to feel their heat branding me like I belonged to him, even if only for tonight.

He groaned against my mouth, the sound more surrender than protest, vibrating from his chest to mine where our bodies pressed together.

His hands tightened at my waist, fingers digging into my flesh through the thin fabric of my dress, then slid lower, lifting me slightly so that my back pressed against the wall.

“We shouldn’t,” he murmured, the words contradicted by the way his body molded to mine, by the intoxicating scent of arousal rising from his skin. His thigh pressed between my legs, creating a delicious pressure that made me molten with want.

“Probably not,” I agreed, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears—breathy and wanting in ways I’d never allowed myself to be. “But I want to.”

His control seemed to snap at my admission. “Fuck, Moonbeam,” he growled, and then his mouth was on my neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses that scalded my skin. A gasp tore from my throat, my head falling back against the wall with a soft thud.

One of his hands moved to my thigh, finding the slit in my dress and pushing the fabric aside. His fingers trailed upward with tantalizing slowness, leaving fire in their wake.

“Tell me you want this,” he whispered against my skin, his voice rough with restraint. “I need to hear you say it again.”

“I want this,” I breathed, unable to keep the desperate edge from my voice, the way my body trembled against his. “I want you.”

His fingers brushed higher, tracing the edge of my underwear. My hips jerked involuntarily at the contact, seeking more. I felt his smile curve against my neck as he registered my reaction, a hint of masculine satisfaction in his scent.

“So fucking responsive,” he murmured, the pad of his thumb brushing over the damp fabric at my center. Even that light touch sent sparks of pleasure racing through me.

Witch’s fangs! Was this what everyone had been experiencing while I’d spent years with nothing but my right hand and a sad little vibrator that suddenly seemed pathetically inadequate?

The difference between battery-operated plastic and Felix’s skilled fingers was like comparing a match to a forest fire.

I sank my teeth into my bottom lip, tasting copper as I struggled to muffle sounds that would betray just how completely undone I was.

When his fingers finally slipped beneath the silk barrier to touch me directly, the jolt of pleasure was so intense my vision blurred at the edges.

It was overwhelming—no one had ever touched me there, and the feel of his fingers stroking through my wetness nearly made me come right there.

His eyes widened in surprise as he stared at me. “Damn, Annabella, you’re so fucking wet,” he groaned. “So perfect.”

His thumb found my clit, circling with just the right pressure while a finger teased at my entrance, testing, coaxing.

My hips bucked instinctively against his hand, seeking more contact, more friction, more of him.

He responded immediately, sliding one long finger inside me, then another, the stretch creating a delicious burn that had me turning my face into his shoulder, teeth sinking into the expensive fabric of his suit to muffle the sounds threatening to escape.

“Felix…” His name emerged as half-plea, half-prayer.

“Look at me,” he commanded, the authority in his tone brooking no argument. “I want to see you.”

I forced my eyes open and almost gasped.

His face was transformed, all playful charm stripped away to reveal something ancient and hungry.

His attention was focused on me with such absolute concentration that it felt like being bathed in sunlight after a lifetime in shadow.

The rest of the world—the mission, the team, Webster, everything—had ceased to exist for him.

His attention was focused wholly on me. It made me feel like I was something precious to someone, that maybe I was worth something.

It made me feel cherished. Like I wasn’t an abomination or a half-breed mistake but something valuable, something worth the full force of his attention.

For someone who’d spent her life being overlooked or despised, that gaze was more intoxicating than any drug.

His fingers curled inside me with deliberate pressure, finding a spot that triggered an explosion of sensation so intense that, for a moment, the world whited out completely. His thumb maintained its relentless circles, the dual assault on my senses reducing me to nothing but raw need.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me.

His eyes remained locked with mine, the connection almost more intimate than his fingers working inside me.

He increased his pace, each thrust deeper, more insistent, the heel of his palm creating delicious friction against my clit.

Desperate for more, I hooked one foot onto a shelf behind him, opening myself further.

Felix responded with a growl that sounded more wolf than human, adding another finger that stretched me to the edge of discomfort before pleasure overwhelmed it completely.

“Oh!” The sound escaped before I could contain it, high and desperate.

The sensations were crashing through me, the scent of Felix, the little pulses in my core, the feel of his fingers relentlessly fucking me.

Something tight and molten coiled low in my belly, winding tighter with each thrust until I felt I might splinter into a thousand glittering pieces.

“Felix,” I gasped, my fingers digging into his shoulders as the pressure built to an unbearable peak.

“I’ve got you,” he promised, his eyes never leaving mine. “Come for me.”

It was the command in his voice that pushed me over.

Pleasure exploded through me in waves so intense my knees would have buckled if he hadn’t been holding me up.

My inner walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers as he worked me through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks rippled through me.

Felix slowly withdrew his fingers, the loss creating an unexpected ache of emptiness.

He brought them to his face, his movements deliberate, almost ceremonial.

Never breaking eye contact, he inhaled deeply, his pupils expanding further as he scented me on his skin.

Then, with a slowness that made heat pool in my belly again, he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, a growl of primitive satisfaction rumbling through his chest.

“Fucking delicious,” he murmured, the crude words transformed into poetry by the reverence in his tone. “I can’t wait for my tongue to be inside you, licking you, tasting you properly.”

What do you even say to that? Yes, please, strip me naked and taste me all over?

Instead, I struggled to catch my breath, my legs unsteady beneath me. No one had ever touched me like that, made me feel like that—like I was something to be savored, treasured, consumed. In that moment, I felt more powerful and more vulnerable than I ever had before.

Felix’s hand came up to cup my cheek. His thumb traced the curve of my lower lip with a tenderness that threatened to undo me more thoroughly than his skilled fingers had moments before.

“When you come for me, Annabella, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Heat blazed across my face at his words, but I couldn’t look away from the raw honesty in his eyes.

I had absolutely no frame of reference for this moment.

What does one say after receiving the most earth-shattering orgasm of one’s life from someone who just looked at you like you’d hung the moon and stars?

“Um, thank you.” The words slipped out before my brain could intercept them.

His eyebrows shot up, surprise replacing the heat in his expression. “Thank you? You serious, Moonbeam?”

The warning note in his voice made it clear I’d stumbled into some unspoken post-orgasm etiquette disaster. Panic flickered through me. This was why I avoided relationships—too many unwritten rules, too many ways to reveal myself as the inexperienced fraud I was.

“No, um, not thank you,” I backpedaled desperately.

“Not thank you?”

His expression went blank, revealing nothing, and I floundered in the sudden absence of emotional cues.

“No, not thank you. Thank you?! That would be a weird thing to say. Right?”

His eyes darkened. “Annabella, is this the first time—?”

“What?” I cut him off, panic surging through me. “No! Don’t be silly.”

The expression on his face was entirely new to me—a complex mixture of tenderness, protectiveness, and something else I couldn’t decipher.

I had no idea what it meant, what he was thinking.

And whatever this was between us, it was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with our mission and everything to do with the way he was looking at me—like I was treasured for simply being me, not for what I could do or what I represented.

And a small part of me loved it, loved how it made me feel, and craved more of this feeling—this momentary escape from loneliness, from the crushing weight of purpose and duty.

I wanted more of Felix, more moments where being Annabella McGrath, half-breed outsider and revolutionary, could be set aside in favor of just being wanted.