24. Raphael
RAPHAEL
Joe Bishop was rotting in an unmarked grave, and my mate was safe.
The satisfaction that thought brought should have troubled me.
It did not. I was Bratva. I was wolf. I had killed before and would kill again if anything threatened what was mine.
Joe had been sniffing around my wife, breaking into restricted areas, taking photos of her like some obsessed stalker.
The evidence had been damning. The outcome had been inevitable.
I would do it again without hesitation. Without regret. Without a moment’s pause.
The drive to the hotel had been peaceful.
Summer morning, the mountains green and lush beneath a sky so blue it hurt to look at, the road winding through countryside that smelled of pine and wild grass and the faint distant promise of rain.
I drove with the windows down, letting the wind carry the scents of the world to me. Clean air. Growing things. Freedom.
Through the bond, I could feel Lena’s contentment, that warm steady hum of a mate who felt protected, safe, and trusted me to keep her that way.
The bite had changed everything. Her presence lived inside me now, steady and sure, a warmth where there had once been only wanting.
The bite on her shoulder would be healing well by now, the raised skin where my teeth had pierced her marking her as mine for anyone with eyes to see.
Ours. My wolf’s voice was quiet. Satisfied in a way I had never felt from him before.
This was what I had killed for. This feeling, the peace and the knowledge that my mate could work through her day without fear, could laugh with her staff, could build her legacy, all because I had eliminated the threat to her safety.
But somewhere between the manor gates and the hotel parking lot, the wolf stood at attention.
Wrong.
I had dismissed it. Residual paranoia. The wolf had been on high alert for months, hackles raised at every shadow, snarling at every unfamiliar scent, pacing beneath my skin until I wanted to claw out of my own body.
It would take time for those instincts to settle.
We were safe now. Lena was safe. The threat was in the ground where I had put it.
The wolf subsided but did not relax completely. I could feel him pacing beneath my skin, a low rumble of unease that had no target, no focus, no reason I could name. His hackles stayed half-raised, ears perked up, as if listening for something I could not hear.
The security office in the hotel was quiet when I arrived.
Cool air hit me as I stepped inside, carrying the smell of stale coffee, old paper, and the metallic undertone of surveillance equipment.
Petrov was already there, reviewing footage with the methodical attention that made him invaluable, his face set in its usual professional mask.
“Vor.” He nodded as I entered, straightening from his slouch. “Post-incident protocols are running smoothly. No unusual activity since the matter was resolved.”
Since I killed Joe. Neither of us said it aloud. We did not need to.
“Show me the logs.”
He pulled up the access records on the main screen.
The data scrolled past in neat columns. Door entries, keycard swipes, security checkpoint timestamps, all within normal parameters.
Everything looked clean. The hotel hummed with routine activity, staff and guests moving through their schedules without incident.
But my wolf kept pacing, restless and unsettled.
Wrong. Wrong. Something is wrong.
“There.” I pointed to an anomaly in the timestamp column. A service hallway door accessed at 3 AM, three days ago. “What is that?”
Petrov leaned forward, checking the records. His brow furrowed. “Maintenance access. Probably janitorial staff.”
“At 3 AM?”
“Night shift cleaning.” He shrugged, but I could see him running the numbers in his head. He checked the date and his expression cleared. “That was before. Before the situation was resolved. It could have been him.”
Joe. Sneaking through service corridors in the dead of night, gathering his evidence, feeding his obsession.
I could picture him clearly, the sweaty desperation on his face, the entitled rage in his eyes, the weak-chinned conviction that Lena belonged to him simply because he wanted her.
A man who had never been told no in his life, who could not accept that a woman might choose someone else.
I nodded slowly. It made sense. The timeline fit. Joe had been active until the moment I caught him breaking into the east wing, photos of my wife spread across his bag like trophies. Everything pointed to him. Everything had always pointed to him.
So why would my wolf not settle?
I walked through the hotel, checking security stations, speaking briefly with the day shift guards.
Everything was running smoothly. The summer season crowd filled the lobby with the cheerful noise of vacation, families checking in with excited children, couples heading for the spa hand in hand, elderly guests admiring the restored architecture.
It all looked normal and peaceful, the Hughes Palace Hotel operating exactly as Lena had always dreamed it would.
I passed the hallway leading to the restaurant and caught the scent again.
The one I still could not place. It reminded me of the hotel itself.
Air freshener and clean linen and the faint undertone of cologne, and underneath all of that, a darker note I could not quite place. An intensity that felt almost like…
“Mr. Antonov.”
I turned. Michael, the general manager, was approaching with a warm smile and a stack of folders clutched against his chest. He moved easily through the hallway, comfortable in this space he had occupied for years, nodding to staff members as they passed.
His scent was the scent of the hotel itself.
Years of working here had made him part of the building, as familiar and unremarkable as the marble floors or the crystal chandeliers.
“Michael.”
“Everything going smoothly, I hope?” His expression shifted to appropriately concerned, professionally sympathetic in that way hotel managers perfected over years of practice.
He lowered his voice, stepping closer. “I heard there was some… unpleasantness resolved recently.” A delicate pause.
“Mrs. Antonov seemed much happier this morning when she arrived. More relaxed than I have seen her in months. It is good to see her at peace.”
My chest tightened with unease I could not explain. The wolf’s ears pricked forward.
“Yes.” I forced the word out. “It is.”
“Well.” He shifted the folders in his arms, adjusting his grip. “If you need anything, please do not hesitate. I am always happy to help. Always.” His smile widened. “Mrs. Antonov is very dear to all of us here. We only want to see her happy.”
He walked past me toward the lobby, his footsteps soft on the carpet, and my wolf’s hackles rose.
Wrong.
I watched him go, frowning. Michael had been nothing but helpful since I first arrived at this hotel.
Supportive of Lena. Professional in every interaction.
He had worked for her family for years, had helped her navigate the transition after her father’s death, had been a steady presence through all the chaos.
There was no reason for my instincts to bristle at his presence.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
I shook my head and continued my rounds. The wolf was being paranoid. The threat was gone. Joe was dead and buried, and whatever lingering unease remained was nothing more than the echo of months spent on high alert. My instincts needed time to recalibrate. That was all.
Petrov’s voice crackled through my earpiece, sharp with urgency.
“Vor. You need to come to Mrs. Antonov’s office. Now.”
I was moving before he finished speaking, the wolf surging beneath my skin, claws pressing against my fingertips. The bond flared with my alarm, and somewhere in the building I felt Lena’s confusion in response, her awareness prickling at my distress.
Not her. Not her. Please not her.
I took the stairs. Three at a time. The elevator would be too slow, too confining. My vision was edging toward amber by the time I reached the executive floor, my control fraying at the edges, heart pounding, hands shaking.
The office was empty when I arrived. Petrov stood by the desk, his face grim, and two of my men flanked the doorway with hands near their weapons. No sign of Lena. Through the bond, I felt her calm, a few floors away, in a meeting. Safe.
The relief nearly buckled my knees.
“What is it?”
Petrov pointed to the desk.
A photograph lay in the center. Lena, standing in front of the mirror in her private office bathroom, her blouse unbuttoned and pulled aside to expose the claiming mark on her shoulder.
Her head was tilted, her fingers tracing the raised scar where my teeth had pierced her skin.
The expression on her face was soft, private, intimate.
A woman alone with her thoughts, touching the mark that bound her to her mate, unaware that someone had been watching her.
The image was sacred, private in a way that made my wolf snarl with possessive rage.
Someone had taken it through the ventilation grate above the mirror.
Beneath it lay a note on hotel stationery, the words printed in neat block letters. DID YOU THINK I WOULD JUST GO AWAY?
Every muscle in my body locked.
“When.” The word came out barely human, more growl than speech. “When was this taken.”
Petrov’s jaw was tight. “Based on what she’s wearing, yesterday afternoon. During her lunch break.”
Yesterday afternoon.
Joe had been dead for two days.
The room tilted. I gripped the edge of the desk to steady myself, the wood groaning beneath my fingers, and somewhere in the depths of my chest, the wolf began to howl. A sound of rage and grief and devastating failure. I had been so certain. So satisfied with myself. So proud of my protection.
Wrong. Wrong. I told you. I told you something was wrong.