Chapter 19
Grey Sweatpants
Astrid Mathieson
The hallways of GUIDE headquarters are mercifully quiet as I make my way toward the exit, my still-damp clothes from the restaurant sprinkler system clinging uncomfortably to my skin. I sent both rookie agents home with strict instructions that I would file the report for tonight’s dismal mission.
They bought it—or at least pretended to. Sutter was too busy nursing his wounded pride after being knocked out and face-planting on the kitchen floor to question me further. Mendez looked more suspicious of my dismissal, but she's too junior to challenge me directly.
Neither of them needs to know that I deliberately let a magickal entity escape. That I stood there and spoke to him while he was invisible to them. That I helped him get away with the brownie we were sent to capture.
My first failed mission. Ever. The stain feels like it's spreading across my soul, not just my record.
I check my watch—10:47 PM. Surely Hayes has already gone home by now.
I'll file the incident report before morning. That’s plenty of time to craft a plausible explanation about unexpected magickal interference and inexperienced team members from the comfort of my couch.
Then tomorrow I can focus on the new assignment, another hunt, another chance to prove my loyalty to an organization that would execute me if they knew what I really am.
But I'll get vengeance for my father no matter what it costs me.
I've almost reached the parking garage entrance when a familiar voice stops me cold.
"Agent Mathieson."
I turn slowly, arranging my features into a mask of professional composure as Hayes approaches from the corridor to my right. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face, making his expression even more severe than usual.
"Sir." I keep my voice neutral, fighting the urge to fidget under his scrutiny. "I was just heading out to change. I’ll file the report before morning."
His gaze flicks over my damp clothes, then back to my face. "I hear the target escaped."
It's not a question. I straighten my spine, meeting his gaze directly.
"Yes, sir. The entity had magickal concealment assistance we weren't prepared for."
"Hmm." The sound conveys volumes of disappointment. "Your first field mission since Rome, and the target escapes. Not the outcome I was hoping for, Mathieson."
My stomach clenches with a flash of hot indignation that I quickly swallow down.
Three months of perfect missions, and he focuses on the one failure.
Of course he does. I fight the urge to defend myself, to point out the impossible circumstances—but excuses would only make me look weaker in his eyes. So I say nothing.
"Step it up, Mathieson, or you’ll be with the rookies a lot longer than I originally intended." Hayes steps closer, lowering his voice. "Simple mission. Simple outcomes."
Simple? My jaw tightens. Nothing about what happened was simple.
I made a choice in that kitchen, one I can't explain to Hayes without revealing my own hidden identity.
Success or failure. He'd never understand why I let them go, why I stood there and spoke to someone invisible to my rookies.
Why for the first time in my career, I deliberately sabotaged my own mission.
"Sorry to disappoint, sir."
Hayes studies me for a moment longer, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thin file folder. "Collection assignment for tomorrow. Simple. Straightforward. Even Sutter and Mendez couldn't mess this up." He practically shoves it into my hands.
I accept the folder without looking at it, knowing it's likely the most menial assignment he could find—probably an old woman who’d been reported by her neighbors as a witch. The kind of job they send rookies on to build confidence.
Babysitting duty. Perfect. From elite agent to glorified hall monitor in one failed mission.
I need this win—simple, clean, by-the-book.
Just do the job, Astrid. No complications.
No moral quandaries. No golden-eyed Vikings appearing out of nowhere to make me question every damn thing I've believed in.
Please, just let this one be normal. Let me remember why I'm here, why I do this. Let me be sure again.
"Tomorrow. Nine AM. Don't be late." He turns and walks away without waiting for confirmation, his posture rigid with disapproval.
I wait until he's out of sight before continuing to the parking garage, the folder clutched in a white-knuckled grip. I don't open it. Whatever's inside can wait until tomorrow. Right now, I need space to think, to process the fact that I just deliberately let a magickal entity escape.
And for what? For a wolf shifter with golden eyes who saved my life in Missouri? For a primal connection I can't explain but can't seem to ignore?
The drive home passes in a blur of streetlights and racing thoughts.
That strange electrical sensation has returned, humming beneath my skin like a live wire.
It's been growing stronger all day, but I attributed it to stress and lack of sleep.
Now I wonder if it's something else entirely.
A warning system, perhaps. Or something worse.
The parking garage beneath my apartment building is nearly full at this hour.
Most of my neighbors are already home for the night, settled into their normal lives with their normal problems. Lives that don't involve hunting magickal beings while hiding magickal abilities of their own.
Lives without the constant fear of discovery and death.
The elevator ride to my floor feels endless. All I want is a hot shower, a stiff drink, and enough sleep to quiet the voice in my head that keeps asking dangerous questions about loyalty and identity and the golden-eyed wolf who knows my name.
I hear it before I even reach my door—movement inside my apartment. Subtle sounds that wouldn't alert a normal human but ring like alarm bells to my enhanced senses. I draw my sidearm, tension coiling through my muscles as I press my ear against the door. More movement. The clink of dish ware.
Chimera? They've been hunting GUIDE agents.
Did our involvement on the case put me on their hit list?
But a Chimera wouldn't be using my dishes.
Someone who knows what I am? GUIDE's internal affairs could have finally figured out I'm not human.
This could be an execution team waiting to take me down.
But the dishes… If they wanted me dead, they'd have set an ambush. This is something else.
My mother, maybe? But I didn't call her. And she doesn't have keys to my apartment.
I turn my key in the lock as quietly as possible, then push the door open with my shoulder, weapon raised and ready.
The familiar scent of my apartment hits me first, but.
.. different. Cleaner. The usual mix of coffee and gun oil and my own scent is overlaid with something fresh, like citrus and herbs.
"Mom?" I call out cautiously, moving through the small entryway. "Is that you?"
The living room stops me in my tracks. Everything is.
.. organized. The stack of case files I left scattered across the coffee table is neatly arranged in a perfect pile.
The dirty laundry I'd tossed over the arm of the couch is gone.
The throw pillows are actually arranged instead of crumpled wherever I last left them.
Even the plants on the windowsill, usually half-dead from neglect, look freshly watered.
"What the hell?" I whisper, moving further into the apartment.
After today's humiliation with Hayes, finding an intruder in the one place I can be myself sends white-hot rage coursing through me. Someone's about to have a very bad night.
That's when I hear it—humming. Deep, masculine humming coming from my kitchen. Along with the unmistakable smell of food cooking. Good food.
I round the corner with my weapon raised.
A man stands at my stove with his back to me, stirring something in a pot that smells impossibly good. But it's not just any man. Even from behind, I recognize the broad shoulders, the powerful build, the long blonde hair pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of his neck.
And he's shirtless. Gloriously, distractingly shirtless.
His back is a topographic map of muscle.
Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, every inch defined as if carved from marble.
Intricate tattoos cover much of his skin.
Norse symbols, wolves, a stylized world tree that spans his shoulder blades.
He wears only a pair of grey sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips, revealing twin dimples at the base of his spine.
For one absurd moment, my brain short-circuits completely. I just stand there, weapon half-lowered, staring at possibly the most physically perfect male specimen I've ever seen in my life.
Then he turns, and those golden brown eyes meet mine.
The wolf shifter. In my kitchen. Cooking.
"What the FUCK!" I raise my gun again, aiming directly at his chest. "Don't move!"
He holds up his hands, wooden spoon still clutched in one. His expression remains calm, almost amused, as he regards me over the barrel of my weapon.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he says, his voice deep and steady. "I just want to talk."
"Talk?" I bark out a laugh that sounds slightly unhinged even to my own ears. "You break into my apartment, and you want to talk? How did you even find me? How did you get in?"
"I didn't break in," he says, maintaining that frustrating calm even with my gun aimed at his chest. "I was allowed inside."
"That's impossible," I reply, tightening my grip on the weapon.
He shrugs those impressive shoulders, as if locks opening of their own accord is the most normal explanation in the world. "Brownies are very resourceful," he explains, golden eyes meeting mine without a hint of deception.