Chapter 21 - Thalia
Rafael sleeps beside me, his chest rising and falling in the soft rhythm of dreams. Moonlight spills through the window like liquid silver, catching on his skin, turning old scars into rivers of light. My fingers itch to trace them, to memorize every story written on his body before I do what needs to be done. To commit to memory the map of him, the terrain I've come to know so well these past weeks.
But I won’t touch him. I know. I can’t—not tonight. Not when I have more important things to do, things I have no choice but to face.
The bond pulses between us, warm and alive with lingering pleasure, with something dangerously close to contentment. His emotions leak through despite his unconsciousness—peace, satisfaction, and underneath it all, a bone-deep yearning that matches my own. Even in sleep, he reaches for me, one arm stretched out as if to keep me from floating away.
But I'm already gone. I made my decision the moment he fell asleep.
Every moment I stay here puts them all in danger—Rafael, the pack, everyone I've grown to care about despite my best efforts not to. The Smoke's silence speaks volumes. They suspect me; they must. This means Maia’s probably suffering because of my weakness and my selfish desire to believe in something real. For my desperate need to feel loved, to feel whole.
My world is collapsing around me, and it’s all my fault. I need to make some desperate last bid to keep it from imploding.
If I return now, before they have to hunt me down... If I offer myself freely, prove my loyalty by breaking this bond they never approved... Maybe they'll show mercy. Maybe they'll let Maia live. Maybe they'll even spare Rosecreek, satisfied with having their weapon back under control.
It's not a perfect plan. But it's the only one I have.
The night deepens around us as I refine the details in my head. I know the compound's schedules, its rhythms. Know when the guard shifts change, when security is lightest. If I time this right, arrive just before dawn when the night crew is tired and the day shift isn't fully alert...
Rafael shifts in his sleep, murmuring something too soft to catch. His hand tightens slightly on my waist, and through the bond, I feel his contentment shift toward unease. As if some part of him senses what I'm about to do.
With infinite care, I ease out from under his arm. The bedroom is still warm with our shared heat, clothes scattered where we dropped them in our desperate rush to touch, to taste, forget everything but each other.
My dress from that night in Weber lies crumpled in the corner, a reminder of all the lies between us. My wedding dress—I haven’t yet returned it to Keira—is shoved into the closet, out of sight.
Moving like a ghost, I gather what I need. Weapons first, then clothes, then the few possessions that matter. Everything fits in one bag, just like when I first arrived. Just like every other time I've had to run. My whole life reduced to the essentials, to things I can carry at a moment's notice.
The gun goes in last—my backup piece, the one not even Rafael knows about. Small caliber, easily concealed, but reliable. It’s gotten me out of some tough scrapes. After this, there might be no more to get out of. The weight of it settles against my lower back like an old friend as I strap on the holster.
Rafael stirs again, this time more restlessly. I freeze, watching him, memorizing every detail of his face in the moonlight. The sharp line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead. The slight furrow between his brows appears even in sleep when he's worried.
His car keys feel heavy in my palm as I creep to the porch, each step calculated and silent. The safehouse holds its breath around me, every creak and shadow loaded with memory—that first night, quiet and awkward, our fight in the kitchen, the way he looked at me when he asked that I become his mate. The desperate coupling against the counter, last night's confession and kiss. A lifetime of moments compressed into mere weeks.
I pause in the kitchen, drawn despite myself to the counter where my mug shattered just yesterday. The pieces are gone, swept away, but I imagine I can still see tea stains on the white tile. Still, hear the echo of his voice: It was the only way to protect her.
Protect me. The thought almost makes me laugh. No one can protect me from what's coming—I sealed my fate the moment I let myself feel something real for him, for all of them. The moment I started caring more about this pack's safety than my mission.
I deserve this.
My phone sits dark and silent on the counter where I left it. I pick it up. I’ll leave no trace.
The drive back to Illinois stretches long and dark in my mind as I do one final check of my supplies. Four hours minimum, longer if I take backroads. I have cash. Enough ammunition to defend myself if needed. A burner phone with Yannick's direct number, though calling ahead feels like signing my own death warrant.
Think it through, I tell myself, falling back on my training. Plan every step.
First: Get to Illinois without being tracked. The pack will look for me once Rafael wakes, but they'll expect me to head west or north, away from known Smoke territory.
Second: Approach the compound at dawn, when security is lightest. Come as a friend, an ally. Don’t arouse anger or suspicion.
Third: Negotiate. Offer myself in exchange for Maia's freedom and the pack's safety. Remind Yannick how valuable I am, how many successful missions I've completed. Promise to break the mate bond—that'll please him, prove my loyalty.
Fourth...
I stop, realizing I haven't planned past that point. Haven't let myself think about what happens after, about spending the rest of my life back in that hell, knowing Rafael is out there somewhere, feeling the phantom pain of our broken bond.
Focus , I scold myself. Deal with that later.
I hesitate at the front door, my hand on the knob. This is going to hurt him, I know. Potentially irreparably.
Better than watching him die when the Smoke comes, I remind myself. Better than seeing Maia's body dumped on Rosecreek's doorstep. Better than letting them hurt anyone else I love.
The cold night air hits like a slap as I step outside. The world is silent save for the soft patter of flakes hitting already-white ground. Rafael's car waits in the driveway, a dark shape against all that pristine white.
Starting it feels like betrayal—one more to add to my growing list—but I force my hands steady on the wheel. The engine purrs to life, quieter than I expected. I sit there for a moment, letting it warm up, staring at the safehouse that became home without my permission.
"I love you," I whisper into the quiet car. Those three words feel strange on my tongue—I've never said them aloud before, not to anyone since my father died. "I'm sorry."
Then I put it in drive and point the vehicle south-east, toward the ghosts that have haunted me since I was seventeen. Toward the only ending, I can see that doesn't end with everyone I love in body bags.
The highway unspools before me like black ribbon, empty save for occasional truckers and the strange shadows that haunt the hours between midnight and dawn. Light snow falls steadily, catching in my headlights like stars falling to earth. The radio stays off. I can't bear music right now. It would feel like a funeral march.
Towns flash past like fever dreams, small Midwestern hamlets sleeping under winter stars, their lights dim and distant. Each one reminds me of Rosecreek somehow. I stop for gas just over the Wisconsin border, keeping my head down, paying cash.
The teenage clerk barely looks at me, too absorbed in his phone to notice how my hands shake as I count out bills. The fluorescent lights make everything look slightly unreal, like I'm moving through someone else's dream.
Dawn breaks somewhere in southern Wisconsin, painting the sky in shades of steel and gold. The bond has stretched tissue-thin with distance, but I can still feel Rafael's presence like a splinter in my heart. He'll be waking soon, finding my side of the bed cold, realizing what I've done.
I imagine the moment he discovers I'm gone—the confusion giving way to understanding, to anger, to fear. Will he know where I've run? Will he try to follow? Or will he do what I desperately hope he will: write me off as the traitor I've always been, break the bond himself, and keep his pack safe?
I'm protecting you, I think fiercely, though I know he can't hear me. I'm saving us all.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—the first of what will likely be many calls once they realize I'm gone.
I don't need to look to know it's Rafael. The bond pulses with his growing panic, his rage, his desperation to understand.
I let it ring.
Rockford looks just like it always has. I drive its familiar streets toward downtown, then through to the rundown compound on the city's south side.
The Smoke's territory appears through morning mist—familiar streets and alleys that haven't changed since I was a teenager running these same roads in the opposite direction. Everything looks exactly as I remember: the abandoned factory district where they conduct weapons training, the seemingly innocent businesses that serve as fronts, the carefully maintained appearance of normalcy that hides something rotting underneath.
My hands shake slightly as I turn down the access road leading to their compound. The concrete walls loom ahead, grey and unforgiving as ever. Cameras track my approach—I count at least six visible ones, knowing dozens more hidden. By now, they'll have recognized Rafael's car and alerted Yannick that his wayward operative has returned.
Guards materialize from the shadows before I can even park—six of them, heavily armed, moving with the fluid grace of trained killers. I recognize an old rival, James, among them. His expression promises revenge as he approaches my window, gun held casually at his side.
"Out of the car," he orders, voice rough with hatred. "Hands where we can see them."
I comply slowly, telegraphing every movement. Inside, my heart races, but my conditioning takes over. Show submission.
"Well, well." The voice freezes my blood. "Look who's come crawling home."
Yannick emerges from the guardhouse, exactly as I remember him—salt-and-pepper hair cut military-short, eyes cold as midwinter midnight. The man who killed my father. The man who shaped me into his perfect weapon.
He looks exactly the same as he did that night ten years ago, when he ordered his men to burn our house down with my father still inside.
"Sir." I keep my voice steady despite the terror clawing at my throat. "I've come to make amends. To offer my services, and the breaking of my mating bond, in exchange for Maia’s freedom… and a promise, that you’ll spare the Rosecreek pack. I know how much you value my skills. It’s a final offer—”
"Feeling uppity, are we, Reyes?" His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Here I was, thinking you were here to beg for forgiveness. But you want to offer yourself in exchange for your little friend's life?" He steps closer, and it takes everything I have not to flinch. "Did you really think we wouldn't find out about her betrayal? About that phone call to your new mate?"
The last word drips with contempt.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, and I mean it. “I never called anyone—”
Then, behind Yannick, I catch movement. Two guards dragging someone between them.
My heart stops.
Maia.
She's barely conscious, her face bloody and swollen, but her eyes find mine with desperate clarity.
The message in them is clear: Run.
But it's too late for that now. It was too late the moment I let myself believe I could outsmart them, could save anyone. All I've done is give them exactly what they wanted—another piece to use against us both.
"Take them both to the basement," Yannick orders. "It's time they learned what happens to traitors in our family."
As rough hands grab me, frogmarching me into the faceless gray maze where I have only ever known torture, and as Maia's scream echoes off concrete walls, I realize my fatal mistake. I didn't save anyone.
I just made everything so much worse.
I’m dragged down a flight of stairs roughly, manhandled. James seems to take particular pleasure in it. The basement door yawns before us like a hungry mouth, and somewhere in Minnesota, I know Rafael is willing to move hell and earth to find me. But I hope he never comes to this wretched place.
I pray he forgives me. I pray he forgets me.
I pray he never tries to find me.