Chapter 9 Kit #2
The weapons room called to me like a siren song.
I made my way through the hotel’s winding corridors, past faded wallpaper and dust sheets covering furniture we’d never bothered to move.
The butler’s pantry sat tucked away near the old service stairs, its heavy oak door reinforced with steel plates I’d installed myself.
Three separate locks, motion sensors, and a door that would automatically seal if the power went out.
The room itself was a thing of beauty—original Victorian craftsmanship at its finest. Thick stone walls that could muffle gunshots, built-in glass-fronted cabinets that had once held the hotel’s finest silverware, velvet-lined drawers perfect for storing ammunition.
I ran my fingers along the cabinet doors, checking each lock mechanism.
Every weapon had its place, catalogued in the original hotel silver inventory ledgers I’d repurposed.
Handguns in the upper cabinets, arranged by calibre.
Silver bullets in their own section. Rifles secured in the tall cabinet that had once held serving platters.
Knives nested in felt-lined drawers like sleeping serpents.
Nobody else was allowed in here without me present. This was my domain, my responsibility. And often, my sanctuary. When I wasn’t out in the field, I did most of my work from this room, curled up in the armchair in the corner.
By lunchtime, my stomach was rumbling like a thunderstorm. I’d spent the morning drafting new security protocols for police visits—contingency plans I should have updated years ago.
The protocols sat in neat handwriting across three pages of hotel stationary, covering everything from emergency equipment placement to evacuation routes.
Each team member had specific roles, backup plans for backup plans.
Felix would love the redundancy—multiple failsafes were his specialty, even if he didn’t know I’d been paying attention to his mumbled ramblings about system architecture.
Priya’s message last night asking if I’d be around the hotel for lunch today had confused me.
Especially now I knew she’d also texted Felix about this same leftover quiche.
I wasn’t quite sure what her scheme was.
Maybe she thought I could deliver his portion to his lair? Not terribly helpful, Priya.
But whatever. Her food was always delicious.
I made my way to the kitchen. The room was empty aside from a collection of unwashed mugs scattered across the counter like abandoned sentries.
With a sigh, I sorted through them, rinsing coffee stains and lipstick marks before loading them into the dishwasher.
Someone had to maintain standards around here.
I opened the fridge and blinked twice. Nestled in a paper tray, an entire quiche sat on the middle shelf—possibly tomato and spinach from the look of it—with a yellow Post-it with heating instructions beside it.
An entire quiche? How did someone have an entire quiche “left over?”
I shut the fridge and carefully lifted the dish out, heading towards the—
“Umm… hi.”
The voice came from the kitchen doorway. My hands jerked, the quiche slipping from my grasp like a greased bar of soap.
Felix stood in the entrance, and he was wearing glasses.
Thin black frames that carved new angles across his face, turned his dark eyes into something that belonged in art galleries rather than messy kitchens. They sat on the bridge of his nose like they’d been waiting their whole existence for exactly that spot.
The quiche hit the floor with a surprisingly loud clack that echoed through the kitchen like a gunshot.
I couldn’t breathe. Those were the glasses I’d left on his desk Christmas Eve.
The ones I’d agonised over for weeks, falling down internet rabbit holes of optical specifications and ergonomic reviews until I could recite blue light wavelengths in my sleep.
The ones I’d wrapped in bright paper with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, left on his desk without signing my name after I’d chickened out.
And here they were, all these months later, perched on his nose.
Felix stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide behind the lenses, staring at the wreckage on the kitchen floor.
“Sorry!” I forced out a very strangled laugh. “Butterfingers.”
I dropped to my knees, assessing the damage. Miracle of miracles, the quiche had landed right-side up, still nestled in its paper tray, the filling only slightly disturbed along one edge.
“I’ve never seen you in glasses,” I said, trying to sound casual as I picked up the dish. “Are they new?”
Felix’s hand flew to his face, touching the frames like he’d forgotten he was wearing them.
“Oh.” He gave me a lopsided smile that stole what little breath I still had.
“They’re blue light glasses. A Christmas present from Seb I first thought—but turns out it was Priya.
To be honest, I think the blue light danger stuff is all bullshit, but Priya told me the tea leaves said I need to wear them. ”
My heart stopped.
“Did she now? Right.” I straightened slowly, quiche clutched in my hands.
“I should probably just ignore her,” Felix said with a forced laugh.
“No!” I snapped too quickly. “I… I think you should keep wearing them. Just in case.”
Because they make you look even more delicious, and clearly I’m a glutton for punishment.
“Well, here’s this, uh, quiche Priya has kindly brought in for us.” I held up the dish like evidence in a court case. “I’ll heat it up and bring it to you?”
“Oh! No, no, I’ll come back up and get it.” Felix was already backing towards the door, looking like a scared rabbit who’d spotted a fox. “Just shout for me through the intercom.”
And with that, he fled.
I stared at the empty doorway for a long moment, then trudged to the range cooker and twisted the dial to one-eighty. The hulking cream-coloured beast wheezed to life, its pilot light flickering like a dying candle.
Really, I really should have come up with a better gameplan for this than accidentally touching Felix’s fingers when I passed him the quiche.
Priya would want a full debrief on this mission when she returned.
She’d probably say I’d wasted her hard work, say she was up late last night baking this “leftover quiche” for me to utilise.
Oh well. I’d never asked her to do this. In fact, I’d explicitly told her not to meddle.
I spent the twenty minutes moodily staring out the kitchen window, watching rain splatter against the glass in fat droplets. Probably a sign from the universe that I should give up entirely.
Bloody hell, when had I become such a grump?
Not when I’d first started working here, that’s for sure.
Back then, everything had felt possible.
I’d escaped Greywatch—finally broken free from hell on earth.
London had been a revelation. Anonymity.
Freedom. The chance to be just Kit, not future alpha of the Thorne pack, or Subject 47, or Asset Delta-Nine.
Seb had offered me purpose without chains. Work that mattered without the constant threat of dissection if I stepped out of line. For the first time in years, I’d felt like I could breathe.
I’d been optimistic then. Stupidly, embarrassingly hopeful about the future.
Now look at me. Thirty-two years old and pining after a man who jumped every time I entered a room.
I knew Rory was really worried about me. I could see it in his eyes every time he came round for dinner, especially when our father inevitably got brought up. The way he’d study my face when he thought I wasn’t looking, like he was checking for cracks in a dam that might burst at any moment.
The worry had got worse since he’d announced he was moving in with Theo. I’d pretended to be delighted, of course. Cracking jokes about finally having a tidy flat, how I wouldn’t have to cook for him every night anymore.
But really, my throat had closed up like someone was strangling me. My heart rate had spiked as I thought about how lonely I’d be. Wolves were pack animals. We needed company, conversation, the sound of another heartbeat in the same space. The flat would be horribly empty without him.
Rory had sensed something was wrong through our bond, naturally. Started telling me he’d come round every other day for dinner because he’d miss my cooking too much.
And he did, more or less. Thank God.
It helped that he still stored tonnes of his clothes there, because apparently Theo had limited him to half their dresser space and half only. He’d often bring Theo with him, and it had been nice to get to know him properly, even if their mate bond reminded me of everything I’d never have.
Fuck, I really needed to start dating. Or at least shagging someone.
This wasn’t healthy.
I hadn’t had sex with anyone since the day I’d locked eyes on Felix. I’d tried a couple of times—went to bars in Soho where more than a few men had thrown themselves at me. Let a flirty female jogger give me her number once.
But I couldn’t do it.
It felt like cheating on him.
Ridiculous, especially since he was with Wren now.
So I’d had two long, celibate years with just me and my hand for company. Two years of cold showers and punishing morning runs.
The oven timer shrieked, making me jump. I pulled out the quiche—perfectly golden, fragrant with herbs and melted cheese—and set it on the counter to cool.
I hit the intercom button. “It’s ready!” I said cheerfully, as naturally as possible.
All too soon, Felix was shuffling into the kitchen with his tiny, shy smile. “Thank you,” he said, nodding to the steaming food.
I headed to the knife rack, selecting my favourite blade. “Can you grab two plates?” I asked him.
Felix opened the plate cupboard. Then froze. A tiny inhalation, barely audible.
He opened the dishwasher next, where the mugs from earlier were waiting for more friends.
Felix laughed, a nervous, choked sound. “Um… where are all the plates?”
“What do you mean?”