Chapter 3 - Thalia
Maia's breath is hot against my neck as we press ourselves into the corner of the supply closet. I can feel her heart hammering where her back meets my chest. She's always been small—too small for a wolf shifter—and right now, she feels impossibly fragile in my arms.
We’re both not much older than twenty. We’ve been living at the Smoke’s compound for six months. Already, my memory of the town where we grew up has begun to fade.
"Where the fuck are they?"
His voice booms down the hallway outside, all drunken rage. Something crashes—probably the table in the common room. The smell of cheap whiskey seeps under the door, mixing with cleaning supplies and our own fear-sweat.
"Fucking thieves—" A door slams. "Think you can steal from me?"
Maia's fingernails dig into my forearm hard. With their force, they could almost draw blood. I want to tell her it will be okay, but we both know better. Nothing will be okay again.
Heavy footsteps thunder past our door. My wolf rises instinctively, wanting to fight, to protect, but I force her down. Fighting back only makes it worse. We learned that lesson early.
"I know you're here somewhere!" He's yelling now, his words slurring together. More crashing. "Both of you—when I find you—"
Maia makes a tiny sound in the back of her throat. I press my hand over her mouth, pulling her deeper into the shadows behind a shelf of cleaning supplies. His boots appear in the slice of light under the door.
Please, I think. Please, not tonight.
The door rattles—
Maia jerks in my arms—
And then the radio on his belt crackles to life. Someone's calling him to the main gate.
"Fuck," he spits, and the boots turn away. We hear him stumbling down the hallway, still cursing, knocking things over as he goes.
We stay in the closet for hours, holding each other in the dark, neither of us saying what we both know: there will always be another night like this.
I’m shaken from the memory by something cold and sharp on my back. Rain trickles down the back of my neck as I press myself against the compound's outer wall, counting heartbeats. The Weber pack's territory sprawls across several acres of dense Minnesota woodland, but their main compound is surprisingly compact—a collection of modernized buildings surrounded by a high perimeter wall.
Rafael crouches beside me, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body despite the autumn chill. A guard passes on the other side of the wall—one, two, three steps—then continues his patrol.
"Security rotation is exactly like you said," Rafael murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "How did you know?"
"Experience." Not entirely a lie. The Smoke has extensive files on every major pack in the region, including their security protocols. "Most packs follow similar patterns."
His eyes glint in the darkness, reflecting what little moonlight filters through the storm clouds. We're both soaked through, tactical gear clinging to our skin, but I barely notice the discomfort. My entire world has narrowed to this mission, to the steady rhythm of Rafael's breathing beside me. I’m good at compartmentalizing. I’ve had to do it a lot in my life.
Through the rain, I can make out the compound's layout exactly as it appeared in the briefing photos. The main building in the center, training facilities to the east, what looks like a garage complex to the west. Our target—the server room containing their internal network—is in the administrative wing on the north side. Getting there means crossing exposed ground and navigating through at least two buildings.
"North entrance in thirty seconds," Rafael whispers. "Ready?"
I nod, checking my weapons one last time. The guard's footsteps fade into the distance. Three... two... one...
We move in perfect sync, scaling the wall with practiced ease. The rain works in our favor, muffling our movements and limiting visibility. Rafael takes point as we slip through the shadows toward the building's service entrance, his movements liquid-smooth despite his height and bulk. Every step feels like a dance—when he pauses, I pause; when he moves, I move.
The first obstacle comes at the maintenance entrance. The door's keypad glows faintly in the darkness, a newer model than I expected. I pull out my modified reader and attach it carefully to the panel. Numbers flash across the small screen as it works through combinations.
"Impressive tech," Rafael comments softly.
"Thanks. Built it myself." This, at least, is true.
His eyebrows rise slightly, but before he can respond, the reader chirps success. The door clicks open.
Inside, the corridor is dimly lit and eerily quiet. The air carries the scent of other shifters—at least six distinct markers, probably more. Under different circumstances, being surrounded by so many of my kind might be comforting. Now, it just reminds me how deep in enemy territory we are.
Rafael signals for me to take the lead, since I claimed to know the layout. My heart pounds as I guide us through the maze of hallways, hyper-aware of his presence at my back. When I hold up a fist—danger ahead—he freezes instantly, trusting my signal without hesitation.
Two guards round the corner, deep in conversation. I react without thinking, grabbing Rafael's arm and pulling him into a shallow alcove.
The space is tiny; we barely fit. His chest presses against mine, our faces inches apart. I hold my breath, not daring to move as the guards pass.
"—can't believe they're actually going through with it," one guard says. "A hit on anyone in Rosecreek is suicide."
"Tell that to the boss," the other replies. "After what they did to the Haverwoods..."
Their voices fade as they continue down the hall. I hold perfectly still, watching Rafael’s face above me in the dark. I feel the soft ghost of his warm breath against the top of my head.
He’s frozen for a moment as the words seem to hit him. Perhaps it is becoming real to him for the first time that his pack is in serious danger. Perhaps he’s realizing what’s at stake.
I think of the Smoke; I think of all the dozens of people and parties out there right now who want the Rosecreek pack six feet under. Whatever he’s coming to terms with, he doesn’t know the half of it.
He can’t know how close danger truly is.
His eyes meet mine in the darkness of the alcove. Something electric passes between us; I can’t put words to the feeling. His hand rests on the wall beside my head, caging me in, and I'm suddenly very aware of everywhere our bodies touch.
"Clear," I whisper.
A drop of water falls from his hair onto my cheek.
Finally, he steps back, and I can breathe again. Unspeaking, we continue down the corridor, passing through what appears to be a training area. Exercise equipment stands silent in the darkness. A punching bag sways slightly in a draft, casting strange shadows on the wall.
"Wait," Rafael breathes, catching my arm. His grip is gentle but firm, sending warmth through my rain-chilled skin. "Listen."
Footsteps echo from above—multiple sets, moving with purpose. We duck behind a row of lockers just as three guards descend the stairs at the far end of the room. They're armed but casual, clearly not expecting trouble.
"...Said to expect company, some partner or something," one says, checking his phone.
"In this weather? Rather them than me."
"Boss wants us all on alert, though. You know how it is right now.”
They pass within feet of our hiding spot. I feel Rafael tense beside me, ready to fight if we're discovered. But the guards continue pushing through a set of double doors and disappearing down another hallway.
We make our way slowly, painstakingly upstairs, encountering two more patrols we manage to avoid. The administrative section is better lit, forcing us to stick to the shadows. Modern art hangs on the walls, and plush carpeting muffles our footsteps. Everything screams money and power—not what I expected from a supposedly small, new pack.
They make their money moving drugs west, I’d bet. I know this type of group. I’ve worked plenty of times with their type, not that any of that was in my file.
At the server room door, I make quick work of the lock while Rafael stands guard. The space is smaller than expected, barely large enough for the banks of computers that line the walls. Blue LED lights pulse steadily, casting strange patterns across Rafael's face as he watches the door.
"Got it," I murmur, sliding into the chair at the main terminal. My fingers fly over the keyboard as I work to bypass their security. I’m no hacking wiz, but I’m good enough to get past their shoddy defenses.
A noise in the hallway makes us both freeze. Footsteps approach—multiple sets, heading our way.
Rafael meets my eyes, a silent question. I hold up three fingers: I need three more minutes.
He nods once, then slips out into the hallway. My heart leaps into my throat, but I force myself to focus on the screen. Trust him to handle it. Complete the mission.
Thirty seconds later, Rafael returns, slightly out of breath. A smear of blood darkens his sleeve, but he seems otherwise unharmed.
"Two down," he reports quietly. "They won't be missed until shift change."
I try not to be impressed by how efficiently he handled the threat. "Almost done here."
The final encryption falls, and I plug in the drive, copying their security protocols and access codes. Every second feels like an eternity as the progress bar creeps forward.
I almost feel bad for the people of the Weber pack and whoever’s working for them. They weren’t smart enough to move slowly, subtly. They weren’t smart enough to put intelligence first.
Too bad. They’ll fall, and the Rosecreek team will move forward, assuming they’ve won the day, perhaps not realizing others will have been smarter than to move so loudly.
"Someone's coming," Rafael warns suddenly. "Multiple hostiles."
I curse under my breath, willing the download to move faster. "One minute."
"We don't have a minute."
Footsteps echo in the hallway, growing closer. Rafael positions himself by the door, his body coiled with lethal tension. The progress bar hits 90%... 95%...
The door handle turns.
100%. In one fluid motion, I yank the drive free and spin away from the computer. Rafael's already moving, catching the first guard as they enter and neutralizing them with terrifying grace—one hand over their mouth, the other striking a precise point on their neck. They crumple silently.
I take out the second with a quick strike to the throat before they can raise the alarm, using their own momentum against them. As they stumble, I drive my knee up, catching them under the chin. They drop like a stone.
"Impressive," Rafael murmurs, already dragging the bodies behind the server banks.
"You sound surprised."
"Professional curiosity." His eyes meet mine in the dim blue light, a single instant, and then it’s over.
He can tell my technique is unconventional. He knows I wasn't trained by any legitimate organization, he means.
I'm saved from having to respond by the sound of more footsteps in the hallway.
We run.
The escape is more complicated than our entrance. We're forced to take a circuitous route back through the building, ducking into empty rooms and dark corners as groups of shifters pass by. An alarm blares through the building at some point, a repetitive, whining screech through the darkness.
We wait in tense silence in one office as a search party moves through the corridor outside. Rafael's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me deeper into the shadows.
The touch sends heat through me, through my entire body. When he leans down to whisper in my ear, his breath stirs my hair.
"They're coordinating through radio," he says softly. "We need to move before they lock down the building."
I nod, trying to ignore how close he is, how his scent wraps around me in the darkness. "Service corridor should be clear. Most guards will be checking the main routes."
"Lead the way."
We sprint through the maintenance areas, no longer bothering with stealth. Two guards try to stop us—Rafael takes one, I take the other. We move in perfect synchronization, as if we've trained together for years instead of meeting yesterday. When a third guard appears, I don't even have to think—I drop and roll, giving Rafael the space to leap over me and engage.
Finally, we burst out into the rain-drenched night. The perimeter wall looms ahead, searchlights now sweeping across the grounds. We'll never make it the way we came in.
"There!" I point to where a maintenance truck sits idling, its driver having abandoned it to join the search. It’s too risky now to call a pickup or extraction. We have to make it out of here by our own means.
Rafael grins—the first real smile I've seen from him directed at me. "Ladies first."
I dive for the driver's seat while he takes shotgun. The engine roars as I slam it into gear, and we crash through the service gate in a shower of sparks and twisted metal. Gunshots ring out behind us, but we're already disappearing into the darkness of the access road.
"That was..." Rafael says after a few minutes of tense silence.
"Successful?" I offer, trying to ignore how my hands are shaking slightly on the steering wheel—from adrenaline or guilt, I'm not sure.
"I was going to say reckless." But there's admiration in his voice. "Where did you learn to drive like that?"
I think of nights spent practicing escapes with the Smoke, of Maia cheering me on as I learned to handle vehicles at high speed. My chest aches.
"Around," is all I say.
We abandon the truck a mile down the road, continuing on foot through the woods to where we left our car. The rain has eased to a gentle drizzle. The forest is alive with night sounds. Twice, we pause to check we're not being followed, but it seems we've made a clean getaway.
"You're good at this," Rafael says finally as we reach our vehicle.
I meet his gaze across the hood of the car. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. Even in the darkness, I can see the intensity in his eyes.
"Is that a compliment?" I ask before I can help it.
"I haven't decided yet." He opens the driver’s side door but pauses before getting in. "But I'm looking forward to finding out."
The drive back to the pack center passes in charged silence. I'm acutely aware of Rafael’s presence beside me, the way his scent fills the car, and how his eyes find me whenever he thinks I'm not looking. He’s aware of me too, I can tell—aware of my tension, the uncertainty in my silence, my whirling thoughts, the way my eyes keep flitting in his direction. I’m sure he’s noticed it all.
Through the rain-streaked windshield, the lights of Rosecreek appear in the distance like fallen stars. My heart grows heavier with each mile back to this place I would never have chosen to move, would never have chosen to infiltrate.
But a job’s a job. And I have work to do.