Chapter 4 - Rafael
The training room smells like leather, sweat, and something metallic—probably blood. Maybe even my old blood, somewhere in the floorboards. I recall it wasn’t long ago that Zane and I came to blows in here.
Morning light streams through the high windows, catching dust motes in golden beams. Outside, leaves scatter across the courtyard in the autumn wind, a swirl of red and gold against a grey sky.
I arrived early to warm up, but Thalia's already here.
She moves through a series of strikes against one of the heavy bags, her form precise but unconventional. Each hit lands with practiced efficiency—no wasted movement, no flashy technique.
"You're early," I say, dropping my gym bag by the door.
She doesn't startle or turn to look at me—she knew I was here, probably scented me before I entered. "So are you."
"I like to warm up properly."
"Is that what this is?" She steps back from the bag, wiping sweat from her forehead. Her tank top clings to her skin, and I firmly tell myself not to notice. "You called me here for a proper warm-up?"
There's something challenging in her tone. I ignore it. "Among other things. Aris wants me to assess your hand-to-hand capabilities."
"You saw what I can do at the Weber compound."
"I saw you fight dirty in the dark." I start wrapping my hands, keeping my tone casual. "That's not the same as real combat training."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "A fight's a fight."
"Not in my experience." I finish with the wraps and move to the center of the training mat. "Show me what you've got."
Thalia eyes me warily but joins me on the mat. We circle each other slowly, testing the waters. Her footwork is good—light, balanced, ready to move in any direction. But there's something off about it, I’m sure, now.
"Where did you learn to fight?" I ask, throwing a lazy jab to test her reactions.
She deflects it easily. "Here and there."
"That's not an answer."
"Maybe you're not asking the right questions."
She strikes suddenly—a quick combination that would have landed if I hadn't been expecting it. I counter, but she's already gone, dancing away with that same efficient grace I noticed at the compound.
"Your technique is unusual," I observe, pressing forward with a series of strikes that force her to give ground. “You’re a weapons specialist. Wouldn’t expect you to be a good combatant.”
"Is that a complaint?" She blocks two hits but takes a third on her shoulder, grimacing.
"An observation." I press my advantage, backing her toward the wall. "Most people with formal training have certain patterns, certain habits. You don't."
"Maybe I'm just unpredictable."
Thalia drops suddenly, sweeping my legs out from under me. I manage to turn the fall into a roll, but she's already on me, trying to pin my arm. It's a street move, something you'd learn in a real fight, not a dojo.
I counter with pure strength, reversing our positions. She ends up beneath me, breath coming fast, her pulse visible in her throat. I can see the sweat on her forehead, the individual beads shining in the overhead lights.
This close, her scent is overwhelming.
"Unpredictable," I agree softly, "but readable."
Her dark eyes meet mine, and that same current passes between us. Her fast breaths flutter against my face. Her hips are near mine, bucked up slightly from trying to throw me off. Our bodies are flush. I'm suddenly very aware of how easy it would be to lean down just a little further...
Thalia moves first, using my momentary distraction to break free. Her elbow catches me in the ribs—not hard enough to damage, but enough to make a point. We separate, both breathing harder than the brief exchange warrants.
"Readable?" There's a challenge in her smile now. "Try me."
We start again. She fights like water—fluid, adaptable, finding every opening I leave. She makes me feel uncomfortably seen, observed, as if she’s noticing every minute opening in my form and noting it.
"What’s your fighting background?" I ask, blocking a strike that would have caught my throat if I'd been slower.
"Life." She ducks under my counter-attack. "Experience."
"That's not—" I start to say, but she cuts me off with a combination that forces me back. Her foot hooks behind my ankle, but I'm ready this time.
I catch her arm as she strikes, using her own momentum to spin her around. She counters exactly as I expect, trying to break my grip, but I'm already moving. In one smooth motion, I sweep her legs out and take her down to the mat.
This time, when I pin her, I make sure she can't escape. My hands hold her wrists above her head, my weight carefully distributed to minimize her leverage. Her chest heaves against mine with each breath.
"Readable," I say again, but my voice comes out rougher than I intended.
Thalia stares up at me, defiance warring with frustration on her face. She knows she’s lost. Her eyes are very bright as her gaze flickers between both of mine, our faces very close now.
"Is this how you train everyone?" she asks softly. "Or am I special?"
A door slams somewhere in the pack center, breaking the spell. I release her and roll away, my skin too tight, too hot. I don't offer to help her when I rise to my feet.
"Your form needs work," I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Maybe Ado can help.”
Thalia stands, adjusting her clothes with precise movements. "Ado seems like he knows what he’s doing.”
I turn away, unable to look at her flushed face, her disheveled hair. She knows what to say to frustrate me. “Well, he can finish your assessment. Whenever you can find him, that is. Not a very social guy.”
"I figured." There's a hint of... something muted in her voice. Disappointment? Challenge? "I thought you were going to assess my capabilities."
"I have." I grab a towel, wiping sweat from my face. "You're competent enough for basic missions. But you need proper training if you're going to work with this team long-term."
I make the mistake of looking at her. She's watching me with those dark eyes, her head tilted slightly, face carefully blank.
"Alright then," is all I say. "Same time tomorrow."
***
My apartment used to sit not far from Main Street, close enough to hear the bustle of the center of town but far enough from the pack center that I could pretend to have some separation between work and home. The space wasn’t large, but the walls of windows made up for it, flooding the open-plan living area with the faint golden light of sunset.
Since fire and battle damaged part of downtown a couple of months ago, I haven’t been able to move back into my unit. The roof collapsed after being set on fire, and my apartment caught the brunt of it. I don’t complain—everyone has a lot on their plates, too much to focus on accommodating me. Plus, my studio in the pack center is nice enough.
The coffee maker hisses and spits as it works, filling the space with the rich scent of the dark roast Percy special orders for the pack. I've already showered, changed, tried to shake the lingering sensations from training—the feel of Thalia beneath me, the scent of her skin, the way her pulse raced under my fingers.
Steam rises from my mug as I settle at my desk, opening my laptop to check emails. There's one from my sister, Camilla:
Finally got the photos developed from my trip to Buenos Aires. Thought you might like this one—reminded me of the places we used to explore as kids. When are you going to take a break from protecting half of southern Minnesota and come visit? The pack can survive without you for a week, I’m sure.
Love you,
Cam
The attached photo shows a colorful marketplace at sunset, with strings of lights crisscrossing overhead. It reminds me of our childhood adventures before everything changed. Before I became... what I am.
I start to reply, but my mind keeps drifting to the training room, to the questions that won't leave me alone.
Before I realize what I'm doing, I've opened a new tab and typed: "Thalia Reyes."
The recent results are exactly what I'd expect—her professional profiles on various social media, mentions of weapons contracts, security upgrades, the careful digital footprint of a professional. But something makes me dig deeper, past the perfectly curated career history of the last two years.
Three pages in, I find it:
"Seven-year-old Thalia Reyes took first place in the junior division at Saturday's Northern Regional Youth Kickboxing Championships. Her father, Warren Reyes, expressed pride in his daughter's achievement.
'She's my little warrior,' Reyes said, beaming as his daughter demonstrated her winning roundhouse kick for onlookers..."
The photograph stops me cold. A familiar little girl with wild curls and a gap-toothed grin, holding up a trophy nearly as big as she is. A tall man stands behind her, one hand on her shoulder, beaming with unmistakable pride.
They look happy. Normal. Something about how she looks up at her father, pure adoration in her eyes, makes my chest tight.
What happened to that little girl?
The coffee goes cold as I stare at the image, trying to reconcile this beaming child with the woman who fought me today—all careful control, but so clearly years and years out from any kind of formal training. Somehow, both more and less controlled.
The sun sets outside my windows, painting Rosecreek in shades of orange and gold. A group of young shifters crosses the street below, laughing about something. The sound carries clearly through my open window—autumn's last warm day before winter truly sets in.
The article is dated almost twenty years ago, buried in the archives of a small-town newspaper. It's the only trace of Thalia Reyes I can find from before two years ago. After that, there's a perfect paper trail: jobs with various packs, glowing recommendations, everything you'd expect from a professional weapons specialist.
My phone sits on the desk, tempting me. One call to Byron and I could have a second background check running within the hour, a third, however many it would take to unearth her secrets for good. But the image of that little girl keeps stopping me. The way she beamed at the camera, so proud, so innocent. So different from the woman who fought me today with shadows in her eyes.
Her words echo in my head, accompanied by the memory of her body against mine, the heat of her skin, the defiance in her eyes even when pinned. Everyone has secrets, Aris said.
Before I can stop myself, I pick up the phone and call her number.