Chapter 15 - Thalia
Light creeps into Rafael's bedroom, despite all my wishes, it could stay dark forever, stealing across floorboards and up walls still marked with last night's shadows. I've been awake for hours, watching dawn paint the ceiling in watercolor greys, afraid to move, to breathe, to shatter the quiet that fell after we finished deep in the night. The safehouse creaks and settles.
My body aches in ways that remind me of every moment, every touch, every whispered word. The sheets still smell like us—like desire, desperation, and something dangerously close to tenderness. I try not to think about how right it feels, lying here in the quiet morning light, listening to the winter birds wake outside.
Rafael sleeps beside me, one arm thrown across his face, dark hair spilling across his pillow like ink on paper. The sheet has slipped to his waist, revealing the lean muscles of his chest, the scars that map stories I haven't earned the right to ask about. One particularly jagged mark crosses his shoulder, right above his heart. It looks old. My fingers itch to trace them, to learn their histories, but I keep my hands firmly at my sides.
I haven't earned that right. I never will.
Last night replays in my mind like a fever dream, something I will never be able to be sure truly happened—his hands on my skin, my name on his lips, the way he looked at me like I was something worth wanting. Worth keeping. The memory of his mouth on my neck, his whispered words against my skin, the way he held me like I might disappear if he let go... it burns through me, sharp as a blade.
The lie of it makes my chest ache.
Because nothing's changed, has it? I'm still the weapon the Smoke aimed at his pack. I’m a knife sharpened to kill him, to cut his life apart. I’m still the girl who’s learned painstakingly how to break things so thoroughly they can never be put back together.
The secrets I'm keeping could—and likely will—destroy everything he loves. I will probably end up being the worst thing that’s ever happened to Rafael Diaz. And all the while, my handlers are probably waiting for my report right now, wondering why their perfect little soldier has gone silent since yesterday evening.
Despite myself, I can’t stop looking at him. God, how he loves his pack. I see it in every move he makes, every choice, every breath. He hasn’t been with them as long as some of the others, but his loyalty runs bone-deep, written into his DNA like the wolf that shares his skin. The way he talks about them, fights for them, would die for them without hesitation—it's everything I once dreamed of having.
I’m about to turn my head to peer toward the window just as there is movement beside me. Rafael shifts, his breathing changing rhythm. I hold perfectly still, but it's too late. His arm drops away from his face, and those light brown eyes find mine unerringly in the pale morning light. They're softer now than I've ever seen them, still bleary with sleep. Something in my chest cracks at the sight.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. What is there to say? Sorry, I let you think this could be real? Sorry, I'm going to break your heart? The silence stretches between us like piano wire.
"Hey," he says finally, his voice rough with sleep. One hand lifts, perhaps to touch my face, then drops back to the sheets between us.
I manage a mumble, something that might be "morning," before sliding out of bed, gathering my scattered clothes with hands that don't quite shake. My shirt is wrinkled. Its buttons are half missing. I find my bra hanging off his desk lamp, and the memory of how it got there sends heat flooding my cheeks.
His gaze follows me as I dress, heavy as a physical touch. I can feel the questions building in the air between us, pressing against my skin. Storm clouds about to break.
When I risk a glance at him, the intensity in his eyes nearly undoes me.
"Thalia," he starts, but then his phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Rafael picks it up, squints at the screen, and then answers immediately, his entire demeanor shifting. He sits up, body tense all the way through.
"What happened?" A pause, his expression darkening. "Where? ...No, we're at the safehouse. We'll be there in twenty."
He hangs up and meets my eyes. The vulnerability of moments ago is gone, replaced by the sharp focus I recognize from missions.
"There was an attempt on Aris last night,” he tells me. “Failed, but—"
"I'll get my gear," I say, already moving. Grateful for the excuse to run, even as guilt churns in my stomach.
We take turns in the shower, dressing quickly and efficiently, professional masks sliding into place like armor. As Rafael arms himself in the living room, his hands fumble with his weapon holster—the first time I've ever seen him less than perfectly confident with weaponry.
The drive back to Rosecreek passes in a blur of grey sky and falling snow. I put my hair into braids in the passenger seat, focusing on the monotonous task. Rafael takes the curves too fast, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. When I’m done, I stare out the window, watching trees flash past like ghosts, trying not to remember how his hands felt on my skin just hours ago. How he whispered my name like a prayer. The feeling of his fingers, his tongue, his…
Cut it out, Thalia, I berate myself. It’ll never happen again. Stay on your game—today might make or break you.
The pack center is buzzing with activity when we arrive. Shifters move with urgent, harried purpose through the halls, milling around the entrance. Half the town seems to have come to check on Aris, and I spot some of the boys trying to encourage people to return home, with mixed success.
Keira intercepts us in the lobby, her usually calm face tight with worry.
"Meeting room. Now." She eyes us both, something knowing in her expression that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
We follow her up the stairs, falling into step like we haven't just spent the night unraveling each other.
The lie of it tastes like ashes on my tongue. And I can tell Keira knows.
In the meeting room, Aris stands at the head of the conference table, looking like he hasn't slept. Dark circles ring his eyes, and his beard is more unkempt than usual. Beside him, Linnea's face is drawn with worry. Their children are nowhere to be seen. The room smells of coffee and anxiety, the air thick with tension.
"Three shooters," he says without preamble as we enter. "Professional. They breached the perimeter at oh-two-hundred, made it within fifty yards of the house before our cameras caught them." He spreads photos across the table like a deck of cards.
My stomach lurches. I think I might be sick.
I know before he says it, know with the bone-deep certainty of someone who's seen too many of the Smoke's operations. These men died the same way others have died following my intelligence. My fault. Always my fault.
"Military-grade gear," Aris continues. "Top-shelf weapons. Someone's bankrolling this. These weren't amateurs looking for a score."
I force myself to look at the images—three bodies sprawled in the snow, their black tactical gear a stark contrast against the white. Their faces are obscured by masks, but I'd bet anything I’ve met them back in Rockford. I’d bet anything Yannick sent them—and if they’d succeeded, they’d likely have extracted me during their escape. I’d be long gone.
And Aris—and likely Rafael, too—would be dead.
"Any ID?" Rafael asks, his voice tight. He's leaning over my shoulder to look at the photos, standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the lingering traces of last night on his skin.
"Working on it." Aris runs a hand through his hair. "But whoever sent them isn't done. This was too well-planned to be a one-off."
"We'll increase patrols," Bigby rumbles from his position by the window. Outside, the snow falls thicker, as if nature itself is trying to bury the evidence of what happened. "Double the guard rotation."
"Triple it," Rafael says. “They’ll be back.”
They will, I think, nausea rising in my throat. Because I told them where to look for weaknesses. Because I'm still telling them, stalling them, saving my own skin.
The briefing continues, but I barely hear it. My mind races, trying to find a way out of this maze I've built around myself. Every path leads to destruction—either Maia's or the pack's. Either way, I lose. Either way, I break something irreparable.
"Thalia?"
I start, realizing everyone's looking at me. Rafael's eyes are particularly intense, searching my face for... what? Understanding? Untruth? The ghost of last night's vulnerability?
"Sorry," I manage, straightening my spine. "Just thinking about entry points, they might try next. The north side has some blind spots we should address."
Aris nods. He looks totally exhausted. "Good. Work with Rafael on that. And stay at your post outside of town—it’s a good strategic spot to have people posted. I want a full assessment of the northern perimeter by tonight. We can't afford any more surprises."
The irony of it nearly makes me laugh. Instead, I nod, professional mask firmly in place, even as everything inside me screams.
The door bangs open, making everyone jump.
Byron stands in the doorway, tablet in hand, looking like he hasn't slept in days. His usually messy blue hair is wilder than ever, and there's a manic gleam in his eyes that I recognize from when he's on the scent of something big.
"Found them," he announces, striding to the conference table.
“Took you long enough,” Percy jokes without much humor but not much bite, either.
Byron ignores the comment. His fingers fly across the tablet's screen, pulling up documents that project onto the wall. "Took some digging, but I managed to trace their equipment purchases back to a shell company. Led me down a rabbit hole."
My heart stops. I know what's coming. I can see it unfolding like a car crash in slow motion.
"They're part of a shifter criminal syndicate," Byron continues, his voice clipped and professional despite his disheveled appearance. "They call themselves the Smoke. Based out of Illinois. I've never heard of them before, but once I started looking..." He trails off, shaking his head.
"What did you find?" Aris asks, leaning forward.
"Violence. Lots of it." Byron's fingers dance across the screen, bringing up news articles, police reports, grainy surveillance photos. "They've been operating under the radar for years, infiltrating packs, destabilizing territories. They have packs under their control across five different states in the Midwest, and weapons contracts with dozens more. They're smart, by the looks of it—they never leave enough evidence of their existence for law enforcement to build a case against them. But the pattern's there if you know where to look."
I feel Rafael go very still beside me. His eyes scan the documents, taking in details I know by heart—mysterious Alpha deaths, unexplained territory disputes, evidence that vanishes before investigations can begin. Hundreds of destroyed lives. A silent empire.
My head is spinning. Black spots dance in the corners of my vision. I think I might just faint.
"They recruit young," Byron adds, and my nails dig into my palms. "Usually targeting shifters who've lost family members, packless youths, kids from the territories they take over. They have some kind of training compound outside Rockford, but it's locked down tight. Couldn't find much about what goes on inside."
Training compound. Such a clean phrase for that concrete nightmare. For the place where they broke us, remade us, turned us into weapons they could aim at their enemies.
"How do they operate?" Keira asks, studying the projected images with sharp eyes.
"From what I can tell, they insert operatives into target packs. Sometimes for months or years at a time. Build trust, gather intel..."
Byron's voice fades into background noise as blood rushes in my ears.
I feel Rafael's gaze on me, heavy as a physical weight. I can’t bear to look at him. I just keep staring down at the table, the photos, face carefully blank.
"Jesus," Percy breathes, studying the images. "How have we never heard of these people before?"
"Because they're good at what they do," Aris says grimly. "They stay in the shadows, pull strings from a distance. The question is, why come after us now?"
"The Haverwoods," Keira suggests. "We disrupted the criminal underground when we took them down. Maybe the Smoke had dealings with them."
“I’ve found some evidence they’re allied with the Weber, pack, too,” Byron says. “Maybe they suspect if the remaining members of the Haverwood pack are arrested, it’ll lead law enforcement or other packs after them, following up the supply chain. It’s a conspiracy of silence…”
The conversation continues around me, but I barely hear it. All I can focus on is breathing, keeping my face neutral, fighting the urge to run.
Rafael shifts beside me, his arm brushing mine, and it takes everything I have not to flinch. He says nothing. As everyone else talks, we’re silent together, a quiet, grave unit.
"We'll need to warn other packs," Bigby rumbles. "Share what we know about their methods."
"Already on it," Byron says, still typing. "And I'm digging deeper into their known associates to identify potential threats. If they've got people planted in other packs—"
"Focus on recent arrivals," Rafael cuts in, his voice carefully controlled. "People who showed up after the Haverwood situation. Anyone whose background might not hold up to scrutiny."
It’s like a punch to the gut. My hands are shaking.
"Good thinking," Aris approves. "Byron, coordinate with Keira on that. I want thorough background checks on everyone who's come to Rosecreek in the last six months."
Six months. I've been here less than two.
I don't remember excusing myself from the meeting. Don't remember walking to the bathroom down the hall. But suddenly I'm there, grip white-knuckled on the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
The woman who stares back looks like a stranger—pale, haunted, coming apart at the seams. The person the Smoke created, the weapon they aimed at this pack, finally facing herself in the harsh fluorescent light.
Somehow, in a daze, completely on autopilot, I stagger back to the meeting. I fumble my way through appearances, lies—lies upon lies. It feels like it might crush me. But I do it. And somehow, they seem to believe me.
But as we file out of the conference room, Rafael catches my arm. His touch is gentle, at odds with the steel in his voice when he says, "We should talk."
I look up at him—at the face I've memorized with my fingertips, the eyes that saw too much of me last night—and for a moment, I almost break. Almost tell him everything. Almost beg him to understand why I did what I did, why I'm still doing it.
Instead, I say, "Later. We have work to do."
His hand drops away. The loss of contact shouldn't hurt as much as it does.
Outside, snow falls harder, obscuring the world beyond the pack center's windows. I watch it build up on the sill, each flake another secret, another lie, another betrayal waiting to bury us all.