Chapter 23
My fingers twitch at my sides as Sebastian guides me deeper into the room, his hand steady at the small of my back.
“Take a seat,” Sebastian murmurs, directing me toward a high-backed leather chair at the conference table dominating the center of the room.
The leather is cool beneath my palms as I grip the armrests. When I sink into it, the cushion molds to my body in a way that speaks of expense beyond anything I’ve ever sat in. My secondhand office chair at home might as well be a cardboard box in comparison.
Saint pulls out the chair to my right, angling it toward mine.
His position blocks the direct line of sight between me and Gabriel, who’s already tapping away at a laptop across the table.
The message in Saint’s body language couldn’t be clearer.
He’s here for me and not to play games with the other Alpha.
To my left, Milo slides into place without a sound, a tablet already in hand.
His freckles stand out on his pale skin in the blue light of the monitors, making him appear younger than he did at breakfast. The illusion breaks when he turns toward me, nothing of youth in his expression, only calculation.
“Systems online,” someone announces from a workstation in the corner. The words float across the room, clinical and impersonal.
The wall of monitors flickers with images of street maps, security camera feeds, bank statements, and several windows of scrolling code that move too fast for me to track.
One screen displays what I recognize as my apartment building, the camera angle capturing the front entrance where I’ve walked in and out hundreds of times.
Sebastian takes his place at the head of the table, the blue light from the monitors catching on the ridges of his scars. The effect transforms his face, the damaged tissue appearing almost metallic. His focus remains fixed on me as he settles into his chair, fingers steepled before him.
“We’re going to start with what we know,” he says, the gentleness from breakfast stripped away. “Then move to options.”
My mouth goes dry. The Sebastian across the table isn’t the man who held me last night, whose touch ignited desire in my body and comforted me when I cried. This Sebastian holds himself with confidence, secure in his place.
Keyboards click around the room as the remaining Rockfords take their positions. Ezra stands near the monitors, arms crossed over his chest, the streak of silver in his hair gleaming under the overhead lights. Jade hovers near the door, his posture coiled with restless energy.
A door opens on the other side of the room, and another man enters, sliding into a chair at the back.
Even in the dim lighting, his imposing build, broad shoulders, and green eyes reveal his familial resemblance to the other men in the room.
Jade tracks his movements, and the other Rockfords greet him silently before everyone’s attention returns to the front.
“We have three objectives,” Sebastian continues. “Identify, neutralize, and contain.”
Saint shifts beside me, his boot brushing mine under the table. His fingers drum on his thigh, the rhythm conveying his impatience to get on with it. This is the first time he’s joined a team meeting for an operation. Usually, I hand him the data, and he plans out everything on his own.
“First, confirmation of identity.” Sebastian gestures to Milo, who swipes across his tablet.
A large monitor at the front of the room flickers to life, and Travis’s face fills the screen, rotating slowly, dozens of camera angles stitch together into a seamless digital model. The realism is unnerving, like something out of the movies.
“This is…” I falter, the words sticking in my throat.
“Military-grade,” Milo supplies, his attention fixed on his tablet. “Or it was, before Sebastian improved it.”
My fingers dig into the leather armrests, leaving temporary indentations that fill in after I release the pressure. This is nothing like the booth at the Blue Note Lounge where Saint and I hold our meetings, and the contrast sets me on edge. Do we even belong here?
“Micah.” Sebastian’s eyes find mine across the table, a flash of warmth breaking through his professional mask. “Are you with us?”
The question carries layers of meaning. Am I with them at this moment, paying attention? Am I with them in this clinical dissection of a threat? Am I with them—with him—in the larger sense, accepting what this family is and does?
“Yes,” I answer, the single syllable carrying the weight of all those questions. “I’m with you.”
Sebastian holds my gaze for another heartbeat before returning to business. “Let’s begin with what we know about Travis.”
Sebastian taps a command into his keyboard, and monitors set into the tabletop flicker to life, flooding the surface with cascading windows of police reports, bank statements, employment records, and medical histories.
My stomach flips at the sheer volume of information.
They dug deeper than I ever did, unearthing information I chose not to break federal law to access.
Sebastian hadn’t been lying when he said he had people to deal with Travis.
He just hadn’t explained that it was his family, and that his protection went deeper than installing security in my apartment.
“Travis Allen Thornhill,” Sebastian begins, his fingers dancing across the keyboard to highlight specific documents.
“Thirty-four years old. Employed at Central Mail Distribution Center for the past six years, until he stopped showing up three weeks ago. Lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment in Brickwell, which he hasn’t returned to since he went MIA from his job.
No immediate family in the area. Present whereabouts unknown. ”
My teeth catch my bottom lip as I scan the information, flicking through the files. I would kill to have a setup like this. “I found most of the information through public records.”
“This is just the surface.” Sebastian pulls up a new set of documents. “These are the interesting parts.”
A police report materializes, the official header stamped with a date from eight years ago. The text highlights itself as Sebastian continues.
“Three complaints of stalking behavior, filed against him in different counties. None resulted in charges due to insufficient evidence or complainants dropping the case.”
Another document expands, revealing a restraining order with a female name I don’t recognize.
“Five temporary restraining orders over the past decade. All from Omegas. All expired without renewal.”
A pattern of bank transactions appears next, numbers scrolling in sequences that would look random to most people. But to me, they tell a clear story.
“His financial history shows regular purchases of surveillance equipment through shell accounts,” Sebastian adds. “Small enough to avoid triggering alerts, consistent enough to establish intent.”
The air feels thinner, harder to pull into my lungs. This isn’t just a disturbed fan. This is a predator with a history of stalking. I’m only his latest target. What happened to the others? I didn’t research their names, and the wondering now sends a chill crawling across my skin.
Milo leans forward, his tablet projecting a grid of surveillance footage onto the main display. “The cameras around your apartment building are garbage.” He pinches and zooms on grainy images. “Public infrastructure in Brickwell is criminally under-funded.”
His casual disdain, the way he talks about city infrastructure like a disappointing investment, highlights the gulf between my world and theirs. In Brickwell, we’re lucky if the streetlights work all the time. In their world, anything less than crystal-clear surveillance is an inconvenience.
“Can we enhance any of these frames?” Ezra asks from his position by the monitors.
“Not with conventional methods,” Milo answers, frustration evident in the tight line of his mouth. “The source material is too degraded.”
My chair creaks as I shift forward, staring at the surveillance grid. “What about cross-referencing with cell tower data?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “If you pull the timestamp from when he entered the building, you could pull IMEI signals from the local tower.”
Six pairs of eyes turn toward me with expressions ranging from surprised to speculative.
“We considered that.” Sebastian studies me with renewed interest. “But without a warrant—”
“You don’t need one if you backdoor through the tower maintenance protocol,” I interrupt, the technical details flowing naturally where the discussion of murder didn’t.
“Most carriers still run legacy systems with authentication vulnerabilities. Their security patches focus on customer data, not infrastructure access.”
The room falls silent for a beat, and Gabriel exchanges a look with Ezra that I can’t interpret.
“How would you approach that?” Ezra asks, the casual question belied by his sharp assessment.
My fingers tap the table as I explain, the familiar territory of network vulnerabilities steadying me.
“Spoof a maintenance ticket to the local tower. The system grants temporary access for diagnostics. Once you’re in the maintenance channel, pivot to signal logs using admin credentials that never change because no one thinks to update them. ”
The words feel comfortable in my mouth, like slipping into well-worn slippers after a day in too-tight dress clothes. This is my world, the place where I have power, where I understand the rules and how to bend them.
“And you’ve done this before?” Gabriel’s question carries a note of genuine curiosity.
“Similar approaches,” I answer carefully. “For protective purposes only.”
Sebastian’s lips curve, his pride warming the cold, empty places inside of me. “Micah has a particular skill set we haven’t fully appreciated.”
“Clearly,” Milo murmurs, already typing into his tablet.