Chapter 19 Felix
Felix
The woods were even quieter than I’d expected. Kit parked his motorbike at the edge of a small clearing, the engine’s rumble fading into birdsong and rustling leaves. My legs wobbled slightly as I climbed off, still adjusting to solid ground after an hour of clinging to Kit’s waist like a limpet.
I’d been partly dreading this trip ever since Kit had cautiously suggested it a week ago—“Only if you feel safe doing so”—his voice carefully neutral as he explained we could train with him as his wolf out here. The open space would be better than the ballroom.
That morning, I’d almost fainted when he’d sheepishly mentioned it would be faster if we took his motorcycle—“Only if you want to.” It wasn’t until I was on the back of it, and he was instructing me to hold on to his waist, that I fully understood exactly why he thought I might not.
“You alright?” Kit asked, pulling off his helmet. His hair stuck up in all directions. “How was your first ever bike ride?”
“My experience definitely improved as we went along.” I handed him my borrowed helmet, trying not to think about how his laugh had vibrated through his whole body when I’d first wrapped my arms around him and gripped him so tightly they ached.
How I’d gradually relaxed into the warmth of his back, watching first the city, then countryside blur past us.
The truth was, I’d been thinking about Kit a lot over the last few weeks.
More than a lot, if I was being honest. Which I tried very hard not to be.
During our training sessions, he remained the perfect gentleman.
Never lingering too long when he adjusted my stance.
Never making anything weird, despite everything that had happened.
We hadn’t talked any further about the stalking.
Or the mate thing. It was almost as if I’d imagined finding out about the whole business.
But I still found myself thinking about those large hands of his long after they left my body. About the way he’d looked at me that night in the street—desperate, stripped bare—when he’d told me I was his mate.
About him collapsed on the floor of his flat, shaking and struggling to breathe. The shame and self-loathing written across every line of his face.
Something inside me had broken, seeing Kit—always so strong, so composed—like that. It was something I never wanted to see again.
“So, where exactly are we?” I asked, shouldering my rucksack as we walked away from his bike. All I’d managed to gather was that we were north of London.
“Hertfordshire,” Kit said, leading the way down a worn path between the trees. “Private estate with substantial woodland. Seb bought it back in the eighteen hundreds.”
The canopy overhead filtered the morning light into shifting patches of gold and green. Birds called to each other somewhere in the distance, and leaves crunched under our feet. It smelled different here—earth and moss and growing things instead of exhaust fumes and bins.
“Used to have buildings on it, back when he first acquired it,” Kit continued. “Manor house, stables, that sort of thing. I’m not quite sure why he bought it, to be honest. Anyway, buildings are long gone now. He just owns the land.”
“As you do,” I said.
“As you do,” Kit agreed, and I caught the edge of his grin.
“You know, I’m becoming more and more certain you might have a point about Seb not paying me enough.”
Kit’s booming laugh rang out through the trees, startling a bird from the branches above us.
The sound did something funny to my stomach—warm and fluttery.
During our sessions together, I’d heard him laugh so many times.
Sometimes with me, sometimes accidentally at me.
But it was nice. He was always so serious, usually.
“Right,” he said, dumping his bag at the base of an oak tree. “We’ll run to warm up first.”
I groaned. “Urg, not running. It’s my least favourite.”
“Hey, it’s so much nicer running in nature than around the city,” Kit said, stretching his arms above his head.
His shirt rode up slightly, revealing a strip of lightly tanned skin and the sharp cut of muscle beneath—the definition of his abs, the distinct V that disappeared beneath his waistband. I quickly looked away.
“Will you… change into your wolf?” I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t excited about it. And nervous.
Kit shook his head. “Not yet. How will I shout at you to run faster?” He grinned at me, horizon-wide, and for a moment, my breath caught in my throat.
I dropped my own bag next to his, hoping Kit would somehow remember which tree this was because it looked like every other bloody tree in the forest to me.
“So, this running route,” I said, affecting an innocent tone. “It doesn’t happen to have any public toilets along the way, does it?”
Kit blinked, caught completely off guard. “What? No, why would—”
Realisation dawned across his face. The wheelie bins. Wren. Kit’s “bathroom emergency” excuse.
“You little—” He gave me a tiny shove that sent me stumbling sideways, completely unprepared for the contact.
“Hey, no sneak attacks!” I protested, laughing despite myself.
Kit’s cheeks had gone slightly pink. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
Another fluttery somersault. Or maybe I was getting ill. But probably not, because I couldn’t stop sneaking sideways glances at Kit. Standing here in the dappled sunlight, his hair still mussed from the helmet, he looked so much younger. Less guarded.
“Enough stalling,” Kit snapped, his voice taking on a clipped, authoritative edge. Military commander mode had been activated, apparently. “We’re here to train, not chat.”
I tried to stand straighter, squaring my shoulders like I’d seen Rory do when Seb got particularly stern. Kit’s eyebrows rose slightly—probably at my pathetic attempt to look soldierlike—but he gestured towards the path.
“Right then. Off we go.”
The first thirty seconds weren’t terrible. I managed a reasonable pace, arms pumping, breathing steady. I could do this. I was fit enough for a gentle woodland jog. Surely my sessions with Kit had improved my tragic situation.
By the three-minute mark, my lungs were on fire.
“This is—” I gasped, stumbling slightly over a tree root. “This is—completely—unfair.”
Kit jogged beside me with the casual grace of someone who could probably run marathons without breaking a sweat. His breathing remained perfectly even while I wheezed like a broken accordion.
“How are you—not even—breathing hard?” I panted.
“Supernatural stamina helps,” Kit said, his voice maddeningly steady. I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth as he tried not to laugh at my obvious suffering. “But mainly, I actually exercise daily.”
My foot caught on another root—a particularly vindictive one that seemed to leap directly into my path. I pitched forward, arms windmilling uselessly, but before I could face-plant into the forest floor, Kit’s hands caught my shoulders, steadying me with ease.
“Careful,” he murmured, his face suddenly much closer than expected. Flecks of silver sparkled in his grey eyes.
“Thanks,” I managed. Kit’s hands lingered for just a moment before he released me.
Five minutes later, I was dying. Actually dying. My chest burned, my legs felt like jelly, and there was a suspicious stitch developing in my side that suggested imminent organ failure.
I threw both hands up in a T shape, the universal symbol for time-out.
“Break,” I wheezed. “Medical emergency.”
Kit rolled his eyes, but I caught his grin. “You’re pathetic, Felix.”
“I prefer ‘aerobically challenged,’” I gasped. “Less judgmental.”
“Come on, let’s go back for water.”
We trudged back to our bags, where I immediately collapsed onto the forest floor like a deflated balloon. The moss was surprisingly comfortable. Kit settled beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
After I’d drained half my water bottle, Kit stretched his arms above his head again. “Right, I’ll shift in a second.”
I perked up despite my exhaustion. I’d seen Kit as a wolf before, but only a couple of times. I couldn’t help but find the whole thing fascinating. Not that I’d ever asked many questions about it. “Rory always talks about how it’s super painful.”
Kit’s face darkened slightly. He grunted, then said, “One of the only good things that came out of the shit I went through in GREY is that I don’t actually find shifting that painful anymore. Can do it a lot quicker now too.”
“Oh.” I tilted my head. “Well, that’s good. I mean, sorry. Not good. I know how bad Greywatch was.”
My bones chilled as I imagined some sadistic military scientist forcing Kit to shift over and over again until his body learned to endure it effortlessly.
Kit chuckled. “That’s one way of putting it.”
I picked at some weeds beside me, trying to find the right words. “How are you feeling about White stopping our Greywatch investigation? I mean, I guess we hadn’t gotten very far anyway.”
Greywatch clearly had access to vast resources. My attempts at penetrating government databases had yielded minimal results—if information was stored there, it was under obscure classifications I couldn’t crack.
Kit hesitated for a moment, lips pressed together as if he was deciding something. Then he said quietly, “Just between us—mainly because Rory really wouldn’t be able to handle this… but Seb spoke to me privately. He said White’s decision really concerned him.”
I stared at him, mainly stunned that Kit was trusting me with top secret information. “What?”
“Yup,” Kit said bitterly, kicking lightly at the ground. “He says something’s off about the whole thing. He thinks White has maybe had to bow to pressure. That she isn’t actually sorting it herself, but… is being forced to allow it to continue.”
“Oh… wow.”