Chapter 36 – FELIX
Chapter
Thirty-Six
FELIX
T he heavy bag takes another hit, and my knuckles sing with the familiar ache that means I've been at this too long.
Two in the fucking morning, and here I am pretending this leather sack of sand is my brother's face.
Or maybe the phantom client who's trying to kill us.
Or maybe just my own stupid decisions that keep circling my brain like vultures waiting for something to die.
The gym in this ridiculous mansion is better equipped than most professional facilities.
Of course it is. These alphas don't do anything half-assed, even their midnight crisis management comes with top-tier equipment.
The mirror across from me shows exactly what I am—an omega pretending to be something else, sweating out frustrations that have nowhere else to go.
My laptop sits on the bench like an accusation. Three new leads on the shell companies, two dead ends, nothing to show for the hours I've thrown into this investigation. Other than the fact that it's keeping my mind off the fact that Juniper finally has everything I can't give her, I guess.
The bag swings back, and I nail it with a roundhouse that would break ribs if it had any. The impact reverberates up my leg, grounding me in the present instead of the spiraling what-ifs that have been eating at me since dinner.
Juniper's face when I left the table. That mix of hurt and confusion that makes me feel like the world's biggest asshole.
But she doesn't understand—can't understand—that every moment I spend playing house with these alphas is another moment Evan breathes free air.
Another moment he could be planning something worse.
And for the first time since we escaped, Juniper is safe. Cared for. With or without me.
But I can't leave. Not yet. Not with someone actively hunting us, hunting them.
First, I help them find whoever's behind this. Clear that debt. Then I deal with Evan. Then maybe, if I survive, if there's anything left of me worth salvaging...
"Can't sleep?"
I don't flinch—barely—but Bane's voice cuts through my spiral like a knife through tissue paper. He's leaning against the doorframe, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that makes him look almost normal. Almost human instead of the mountain of tactical danger he usually embodies.
"Sleep's overrated," I say, landing another combination that makes the bag groan on its chain.
"Funny, that's what Elias always says." He moves into the room with that deceptive grace monstrously huge men sometimes have. "Though he usually follows it up with a medical lecture about cortisol levels and immune function."
"Spare me the health seminar." Another hit. Another. The rhythm is meditative, even if the meditation is mostly about creative ways to murder people.
Bane watches me for a moment, those hazel eyes assessing everything—my form, my technique, the barely healed wounds that pull with each movement. "You're favoring your left side."
"It's fine."
He nods slowly, like he expected that answer and doesn't believe it, but he doesn't call me on it. "You know, I was planning to go out tonight. Small job, nothing major. Could use backup if you're interested."
I blink at him, certain I misheard. "You want me to come on a mission with you?"
"Why not? You're clearly not sleeping, you can obviously handle yourself, and..." He shrugs. "Sometimes hitting a bag isn't enough. Sometimes you need the real thing."
The offer is so unexpected I actually laugh. "You barely know me."
"I know enough." He lets go of the bag, moving toward the door. "Besides, something tells me you need this as much as I do. Get dressed. Something dark, flexible. We leave in ten."
He's gone before I can respond, leaving me standing there with sweat cooling on my skin and a decision to make. Stay here, keep spiraling, keep pushing Juniper away with my distance. Or follow the alpha who should be my enemy into whatever violence he's planning.
Fuck it.
Ten minutes later, I meet him in the garage, dressed in black tactical pants and a jacket that's seen better days but moves like a second skin. He's standing next to two bulky yet sleek motorcycles, checking something on his phone.
"You know how to ride?" he asks without looking up.
I scoff. "What do you think?"
"Just checking." He swings a leg over one of the bikes, a matte black monster that looks like it could break the sound barrier.
"No blindfold?" I ask dryly.
"I'm trying to build trust," he says, and there's something in his voice that might be amusement. "Besides, something tells me you'll behave knowing Juniper's back at base."
I roll my eyes, but he's not wrong. The threat is implicit but unnecessary. I’m not going to do anything that puts her at risk. Not when she's finally somewhere secure, even if that somewhere is with them.
The bike roars to life under me, and for the first time in days, something in my chest unclenches.
The engine's vibration travels through my body, grounding me in basic physics.
Speed, momentum, the laws that govern objects in motion.
No complicated emotions, no pack dynamics.
Just the road unwinding ahead and the night air cutting through my jacket.
We ride for an hour, maybe more, following back roads that wind through forests and forgotten industrial districts.
No talking, no need for it. Just two people who understand that sometimes you need to move or you'll explode.
The city lights appear gradually, sprawling across the valley like spilled glitter, and we descend into it like we own the place.
The freedom of it is intoxicating, but I’m still memorizing every mile we cover, every turn we take. Not because I'm planning to run, at least not yet, but because information is survival, and knowing the terrain is half the battle.
But more than that, the ride clears my head in a way nothing else has. The decision I've been circling crystallizes into something sharp and definite.
Help them first.
End whoever's hunting us.
Then deal with Evan.
Then... whatever comes after.
We pull into a warehouse district on the edge of what must be the industrial quarter. It's all rust and broken windows and the kind of shadows that hide a multitude of sins. Bane kills the engine, pulling off his helmet to reveal a scarred grin that's all predator.
"Low-level gangster," he says, answering my unasked question. "Been harassing omegas at bars in the area. Spiking drinks, getting handsy, the usual piece of shit behavior."
I raise an eyebrow. "Seems like sending the National Guard to rescue a cat from a tree."
He snorts. "Maybe. Probably would only take one guy to handle him, and an amateur at that. But I needed fresh air, and breaking skulls is my idea of distraction. Figured you might be a kindred spirit."
There's something honest in that admission that makes me respect him more. No pretense about justice or righteousness. Just the simple truth that sometimes violence is its own reward when directed at people who deserve it.
"Lead the way," I say, and follow him into the maze of streets that smell like piss.
The bar he leads us to is exactly what you'd expect. There's dim lighting, sticky floors, the kind of place where nobody asks questions as long as you pay cash. We settle into a corner booth with sight lines to all the exits, ordering whiskey that tastes like paint thinner but burns just right.
"So," Bane says after the first drink, "given any more thought to what we discussed earlier?"
I spin the glass between my fingers, watching the amber liquid catch the neon light from the beer sign. "I'm still leaving. After whoever's trying to kill us is dead, after you're all safe, I'm gone."
He nods slowly, no surprise on his face. "I'd hoped you might change your mind, but I figured that was the case."
"You going to tell Juniper? Try to stop me?"
"No." The word is simple, definitive. "That would be kind of the opposite of building trust, wouldn't it?"
I scoff, but there's something about his straightforward approach that I appreciate. No manipulation, no guilt trips, just acknowledgment of reality.
"She loves you," he says quietly. "Not just as a friend or partner. She's in love with you."
"I know." The admission tastes like glass. "That's why I have to go. She deserves better than being tied to someone like me."
"Someone like you?" he asks, frowning.
"Someone whose soul died years ago," I answer. "Someone who doesn't know how to live for anything but revenge."
He sighs. "Even if that's true, she deserves to make that choice herself."
Before I can respond, there's commotion near the bar. Some alpha, thick-necked and drunk, has his hands on one of the dancers despite her obvious attempts to pull away. She's young, probably barely twenty, with the kind of exhausted eyes that say this isn't her first time dealing with this shit.
"That sounds like our guy," Bane mutters, already standing.
The gangster—because that's obviously what he is, battered leather jacket and plentiful tattoos compensating for a complete lack of actual power—doesn't notice us approaching until Bane's hand lands on his shoulder.
"Think the lady said no," Bane says conversationally.
The guy spins, ready to start something, then freezes when he realizes he's looking up at a mountain. "This ain't your business, asshole."
"I'm making it my business." Bane's smile is all teeth. "You want to discuss it outside?"
The gangster's too drunk and too stupid to recognize death when it's grinning at him. He swings, a sloppy haymaker that Bane dodges easily before driving a fist into his solar plexus. The guy doubles over, gasping, and Bane grabs him by the collar, dragging him toward the back exit.
I follow, adrenaline singing in my veins. The alley behind the bar is perfect, a dark, narrow, already stinking of violence. Bane throws the guy against the wall hard enough to rattle teeth.
"You know what I hate?" Bane asks conversationally, landing a punch that splits the guy's lip. "Alphas who think their designation gives them the right to take whatever they want."
The douchebag tries to fight back, pulling a knife that Bane disarms with embarrassing ease. I watch him work with what I tell myself is professional interest, observing his technique, the way his huge shoulders roll with each punch.
When the guy manages to get his hands back on his knife and lunges at Bane with it, I step in then, three quick strikes to pressure points that drop him to his knees.
"Please," he gasps, "I got money, I got?—"
"We don't want your money," I tell him, and there's something liberating about not pretending to be anything other than what I am—a killer who's found someone who deserves killing.
I grab his throat, squeezing just enough to make him panic. All the frustration, all the rage I've been carrying, focuses down to this single point. This piece of shit who hurts omegas, who takes advantage of the vulnerable, who's probably done worse things than we've even discovered.
My fist connects with his face once, twice, three times.
Blood spatters the alley wall, and each impact feels like releasing pressure from a valve that's been cranked too tight.
He's begging now, blubbering through broken teeth, but I'm not really hearing him.
I'm hearing every omega who's ever been cornered, ever been drugged, ever been treated like property instead of a person.
"Felix."
Bane's voice cuts through the haze, and I realize I've pulled my knife. The gangster's barely conscious, blood bubbling from his nose with each wheeze.
"Seriously?" I snap, thinking he's about to give me some speech about justice or mercy or whatever bullshit alphas tell themselves to feel superior.
But instead, he says, "Zip up your jacket. You'll get blood on your shirt."
I blink at him, then actually laugh. Dark, sharp, but genuine. "You're a practical man."
"I try to be."
I zip the jacket, then turn back to the gangster. One quick motion, the blade sliding between ribs to find his heart. He dies with a gurgle, eyes going wide then empty, and something in my chest that's been wound too tight finally loosens.
"Feel better?" Bane asks, already pulling out a burner phone to text someone. Probably a cleanup crew, because of course they have one.
I consider the question seriously. The body cooling at my feet, the blood on my hands, the simple satisfaction of removing one more piece of shit from the world who won't be spiking anyone's drink tonight. "Yeah. I kind of do."
"Man after my own heart." He claps me on the shoulder, the gesture surprisingly comfortable even though it would normally make my skin crawl to be touched by an alpha, even casually. I don't shrug it off as quickly as I usually would. "Come on. Let's get out of here before someone comes looking."
We leave the body in the alley, just another casualty in a city full of them. The bikes are where we left them, faithful metal steeds waiting to carry us back to that ridiculous mansion in the mountains. But for now, for this moment, things feel clearer.
As we mount up, I find myself saying, "You're not the patronizing, overbearing asshole I expected."
What he is might be more dangerous. An alpha I actually don't mind having at my back. An alpha whose approval I almost, almost care about.
Bane laughs, full and genuine. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"I meant it as one."
We ride back through the night, and something's shifted between us.
Not friendship exactly, but understanding.
Recognition of what we are under all the pretense, killers who've found ways to justify the violence we crave.
His way involves saving omegas and playing hero.
Mine involves vengeance and protecting the one person who matters.
But at the core, we're the same. Predators pretending to be people, finding purpose in the blood we spill.
The mansion appears through the trees like something out of a fairy tale. Juniper's probably asleep by now, curled in that nest that smells like pack, dreaming whatever dreams the shadows whisper to her. Lately, the whispers seem to be gentler and all I can do is hope they stay that way.
Tomorrow I'll go back to the laptop, back to tracking shell companies and following threads that all lead back to our client eventually. Tomorrow I'll keep planning my exit, my own personal war, my probable death.
But tonight, with blood under my nails and understanding from an unexpected source, things feel manageable. The path forward is clear. Help them end this threat. Keep Juniper safe. Then handle what needs handling, even if it destroys me in the process.
It's not much of a plan, but it's mine.