Chapter 8 - Rafael
"It was a hit." Aris's voice carries through the hushed conference room like a death knell. "Plain and simple."
Morning light filters through the high windows, casting long shadows across faces I've known for so long now. Faces that have become family.
Faces that, according to an anonymous source, someone wants to erase.
"The tip came in this morning," Aris continues, sliding a piece of paper across the table. Keira picks it up, scanning the typed message for the fifth time with narrowed eyes. "Left at the clinic. Professional letterhead, untraceable origins. Names, dates, specific details about mercenaries who attempted to infiltrate. Whoever sent this knows what they're talking about." He pauses, running a hand through his beard. "This isn't just someone with good intel—this is someone damn near on the inside of whatever operation is targeting us."
Even Linnea is at this meeting, and she rarely attends them, but there she is, at Aris’ side, stone-faced. Rosa, Veronica, and all the boys—even Maisie and Olivia- are here. Everyone looks similarly rattled and grim.
Someone wants Aris dead. Someone who believes we meddled too far with the Haverwoods. Maybe old allies of theirs.
We knew it was the case, but we had no idea they’d get so close to home.
"The men who attacked our northern border two days ago weren't random thugs," Aris continues, his hands splayed on the table before him. Dark circles ring his eyes—he hasn't slept since the attack. None of us really have. "They were professionals. Mercenaries. The kind you hire when you want something done right."
Beside me, Thalia stares at the table, her expression carefully blank. The bandage on her shoulder is barely visible beneath her black sweater, but I catch how she favors that side, how she holds herself just slightly different than usual. The memory of her diving in front of that bullet still haunts me.
"So what's the play?" Zane asks from his position by the window. Fresh snow falls beyond the glass, dusting Rosecreek in white. "We can't just wait for them to try again."
"We won't." Aris straightens, and despite his exhaustion, alpha power radiates from him in waves. "We'll strengthen our defenses, increase patrols. But more importantly, we'll send a message. The criminal underworld needs to understand that targeting Rosecreek means consequences."
"They're testing us," Keira observes quietly. "Seeing if we're vulnerable."
"Let them test." Aris's smile is small but steely. "They'll learn what the Haverwoods learned."
But something in his voice wavers, almost imperceptible. He glances at Linnea, seated to his right, then at Bigby.
"That said," he continues more softly, "we need to be practical. Should anything happen to me—"
"Nothing's going to happen," Percy interrupts.
But Aris holds up a hand, so authoritative that it’s as if static shock has passed through everyone—we all go dead still.
"Should anything happen, the chain of command is clear. Bigby and Linnea will oversee pack operations until a new Alpha rises." His gaze sweeps the room. "However that may happen. I need everyone's word that you'll support this."
Murmurs of assent fill the air. I add my own voice to them, watching as Thalia does the same, though her eyes never leave the table.
She’s the only newcomer here, the only one who isn’t part of the family. But she must understand the weight of this. She must understand how it feels, at least in theory.
Judging by the look on her face, she does.
The meeting continues, but my mind drifts. Who sent that anonymous tip? Someone who knows more than they're telling, clearly. Someone with connections to the criminal underground. Someone who wanted to warn us without revealing themselves...
"Rafael?"
I blink. It’s as if time sped up without me realizing it. It seems I was lost in my thoughts for a long while. The room has mostly emptied, pack members filing out to their various duties. Keira stands before me, concern etched on her sharp features. I spot Ado lingering at the door, waiting for her.
"Sorry, what?"
"I asked if you're alright." She leans against the table, studying me. "You've seemed distracted lately. We can't afford that right now."
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit." But her tone is gentle. "This thing with Thalia—"
"There is no thing with Thalia."
"She took a bullet for you."
I look away, unable to counter that. Through the window, I watch Thalia cross the snowy street below, her dark hair stark against the white. Even wounded, she moves with that fluid grace that first caught my attention.
"She did what any partner would do," I tell Keira, but the words ring hollow even to my ears.
She snorts softly, but then, her expression turns more serious. "Be careful. Everyone here knows the risk of getting too… close. Whatever's going on between you two—"
"Nothing's going on."
"—it's complicated enough without the current situation. We need everyone focused. You know that. You’re a professional."
She's right, of course. But focusing is more difficult when I can still feel Thalia's blood on my hands, still hear her pained breaths, still remember how she felt pressed against me in those frantic moments after the shooting.
The door opens, and Aris returns, papers in hand. "Rafael. Good, you're still here. I have an assignment for you."
Keira takes her leave, looping her arm through Ado’s. He nods solemnly in my direction; I nod back.
As I return my attention to Aris, my wolf stirs at his tone. "What kind?"
"Surveillance. Long-term." He spreads photos across the table—aerial shots of a compound just outside town. "You’ll be camped out with a partner at one of our properties, half a mile from the border. We’re going to leak information that you’re two pack higher-ups, related to me. You’ll be luring attackers to steer them away from town and help us learn more about the threats coming to Rosecreek, so you’ll be kitted out, and the property will be guarded from a distance, so we can assist whenever needed.”
I nod. "I'll take Percy—"
"No. Take Thalia."
The words hit like a physical blow. "Sir… she’s injured—"
"This isn't a debate." His expression softens slightly. "And she’s fine. You know she’s fine. Veronica saw to her. You two work well together in the field. She has the expertise we need. And she can operate the weapons system we’re putting in place at the compound, which makes her vital. She has knowledge you don’t, Raf."
And secrets we don't understand, I think, but don't say.
"Fine." I gather the photos, already planning routes and positions. "When do we leave?"
"Tonight. The safehouse on Ridge Road is prepped. You'll be posing as a mated pair—not that the cover will matter much, but the leak implies that you’re my brother-in-law, so, welcome to the family, I suppose." His lips twitch. "Think you can handle that?"
The thought of playing Thalia's mate, even as cover, sends heat through my body that has nothing to do with anger. "It won't be a problem."
"Good." He turns to leave, then pauses. "Thanks for your help, Rafael. I know it hasn’t been easy.”
I nod silently, not knowing what to say, and watch him leave.
I find Thalia in the armory, methodically cleaning weapons. Snow melts in her hair, telling me she's just come in from outside. The room smells like gun oil and leather.
"We have a mission," I say without preamble.
She doesn't look up. "I heard. Bigby found me.”
"You're okay with that?"
Now she does look up, and something in her dark eyes makes my breath catch. "It’s a job. Does it matter if I'm not?”
***
The drive to the safehouse takes longer than it reasonably should. Standard protocol for sensitive operations: loop north out of Rosecreek toward the highway, then double back through a maze of snow-covered backroads. The winter storm transforms the world into a blur of white and grey, trees bowing under fresh snow, their branches creaking in the growing wind.
Through gaps in the forest, I catch glimpses of the south coast of Halfmoon Lake, its surface black against the white landscape, ice starting to form at its edges.
The heater battles against the winter chill seeping through the car's frame, creating a cocoon of warmth that feels too intimate for comfort. Thalia sits beside me in silence, but I catch her subtle eye-roll at our third unnecessary turn down an unmarked road.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she asks suddenly. "All this cloak-and-dagger stuff."
"You tackled me to the ground two days ago," I protest, gesticulating with one hand. “You laid a flashbang for the bad guys to step on like it’s the fifties, and we’re mafiosos.”
"I saved your life, you mean." Her smile is quick, bright, and directed mostly at the window. "You can thank me any time."
"I'll add it to my to-do list—first, I need to ask for a new partner,” I warn. “This one’s nuts.”
The banter feels natural, dangerous in its ease. For a moment, as snowflakes swirl past our headlights like stars, I forget all the reasons I shouldn't trust her. Forget everything except how her laugh transforms her whole face.
"Your shoulder?" I ask after a moment, sobering.
"Healing." She shifts, grimacing. "Had worse."
"During other jobs?"
"I have a dangerous job." Her voice carries an edge now, warning me off.
But I've never been good at taking warnings. Before I could stop it, my stupid mouth ran off without me. "You know, for someone with such an extensive resume, there's surprisingly little information about you out there."
Her scent shifts subtly—anxiety? Fear? Through the windshield, the world has narrowed to a tunnel of white, trees appearing and disappearing like ghosts in our headlights. Suddenly, it’s not so magical anymore.
“I’m a private person,” Thalia says after a beat. "Not everyone needs their history broadcast to the world."
"No. But most people have one."
She's quiet for so long that I think she won't respond. When she does, all traces of humor are gone. "I had a father who loved me. He died. Things weren’t great.”
The raw honesty catches me off guard. Through a break in the storm, light through the window catches her profile, highlighting the tension in her jaw, the careful way she holds herself against her injury.
"What happened to him?" I ask softly. "Your father?"
Just like that, the walls slam back up. Her scent turns sharp, defensive. "We're here."
The safehouse appears through the snow—a modest cabin set back from the road, windows dark. Moonlight catches on icicles hanging from the eaves, turning them to silver daggers. I park around back, killing the engine, and suddenly, the silence feels oppressive. In it, I can hear Thalia's slightly elevated heartbeat and the way her breath catches when she moves her injured shoulder.
"Thalia—”
"Don't." She opens her door, letting in a blast of cold air that carries away the lingering warmth between us. "Whatever you're about to say, whatever questions you want to ask... just don't."
I watch her vanish into the thickening storm, her figure a dark smudge against all that white. Something tugs in my chest—an instinct to follow, to push until her walls crack, to understand what makes her simultaneously the most frustrating and compelling person I've ever met.
Instead, I grab our gear and head inside. This small cabin suddenly feels like a trap. Not because of any external threat but because of the woman I'll be sharing it with—the woman who took a bullet for me, who can make me laugh even as she lies to my face.