Chapter 4 Maverick
Maverick
The click of the faestone being hung up echoed in Maverick’s ears, a defiant punctuation to Zera’s last words that still resonated through the tiny bare-bones loft he owned on the outskirts of Mystic City.
It wasn’t much, but it was quiet, and the neighbors didn’t ask questions when he came in at all hours of the night, covered in dirt and blood. The perfect place for a spy.
“I can handle myself,” she’d said with a mix of determination and exasperation. He stood motionless for a moment, the cool blue light from the city’s neon skyline filtering through his windows and casting a spectral glow on his chiseled features.
“Handle yourself? You’re about to walk straight into a trap,” Maverick muttered to the empty room, his voice laced with irritation and something that resembled panic.
He couldn’t believe he was about to go save a pixie, let alone get himself so worked up about one.
What was it about Zera that stirred this primal reaction within him?
From his past, he knew pixies were nothing but tricksters and deceivers and not to be trusted.
Hell, after being captured, stripped of his fertility—though, luckily, not his ability to perform, just reproduce—and tortured by a gossamer of pixie warriors when he was only a wereling, he loathed the entire species.
Not because he couldn’t reproduce. No, the pixies had probably done him a favor in that department.
But the fact that they’d attacked a near child.
He’d been too young to go through that. It’d messed with his head and changed him in ways he still didn’t understand.
Their glares of various shades of purples and pinks still haunted his dreams. And it was all because of his inexplicable attraction to a certain pixie.
The one who’d deceived him to begin with.
Perhaps, deep down, it was why he never wanted to become alpha and refused the alpha blood that still simmered within his veins.
He hated his own kind for using his loyalty as a weapon and despised pixies for their deceit and violence, even though he knew it was deserving.
Pixies had been hunted for decades by his very own pack, who had sold themselves to the elves.
Elves thought themselves the superior species and got rich off the backs of wolf packs and pixie dust.
Yet even though he understood their hatred, it still didn’t mean he wouldn’t avoid pixies at all costs. Especially because even to this day, pixies held too much power over him. Zera was the proof of that.
He should loathe her for what she was, and on some level, he did.
But there was something about her that seemed different, and it wasn’t because she had pixie dust. It was partly the fact that, at the restaurant, she’d stood by him and saved his life.
Even though she knew he was a werewolf, her worst enemy.
Even though she’d made it clear she loathed his species with a passion, perhaps as deeply rooted as his for pixies.
And then there was that kiss. An obvious mistake on both their parts, all thanks to the adrenaline high, but it was…
Maverick growled. He couldn’t think about that right now. Hatred for pixies or not, his inbred duty to protect innocent lives kept him from ignoring Zera’s plea for help. Bottom line, he had to save her, and that was that.
His keen eyes flicked to the array of weapons and gadgets scattered across his workspace—his dining room table that doubled as his work desk, thanks to the unpredictable hours of his spy work. He never knew when the next mission would come, so he liked to always be ready.
He grabbed his harness, which bristled with hidden compartments, and stuffed it with an assortment of high-tech tools. A pulse shackler, his favorite knife, and a compact shock grenade joined the growing arsenal within, preparing him for anything, unlike the total fiasco at the restaurant.
Gareth never should’ve figured out his true identity.
How could this have happened? Not even Mystic Dynamic Solutions—the company acting as a front for a competing arms-dealing gang that had hired him to collect intel on Gareth—had that information.
The only ones who knew his real name were himself, his old partner, Zera, and the faen government.
There was no way Gareth could’ve found out his true identity, unless he was more connected than Maverick gave him credit for.
A frustrated growl rumbled deep within his chest. He didn’t have time to obsess over Gareth right now. Zera was in trouble, and he had to act fast if he was going to catch her in time.
He still couldn’t believe Zera hadn’t followed his instructions. The plan was foolproof, if only she’d gotten to the cabin. Now, the druid was probably already at her house.
He ripped off his button-down shirt, quickly shucking his shoes and socks as he prepared to shift from man to werewolf. It was the only way he’d make it in time.
“Zera, you stubborn pixie,” he grumbled, snatching up the leather harness.
As he strapped it onto his muscular torso, the frustration seemed to seep into his veins, fueling an almost electric surge of adrenaline. With swift precision, he checked his gear, all while his mind raced with a hundred scenarios for what he might find when he got to her.
In the midst of his preparations, Maverick’s senses shifted, heightened by the urgency of the situation.
The transformation was as involuntary as it was necessary.
His body knew what needed to be done, even if his heart rebelled against the idea of Zera or her child in danger because of him.
Bones cracked and reformed, muscles bulged and expanded, black fur sprouted along his arms and down his spine.
Within moments, the man was gone, replaced by the imposing figure of a werewolf—piercing eyes now glowing with a primal intensity.
He could hear the distant thrum of the city’s heartbeat, each car and engine and late-night partier calling out to him in a cacophony of sound.
The scent of rain on concrete filled his nostrils, mingling with the faint trace of Zera’s unique fragrance—a sugary blend of lilac and determination—that he had committed to memory from the moment she first sat down at the restaurant.
He had never met a woman like her—strong yet gentle, fiery yet soft, and with a stubbornness that could rival his own.
The way she’d declared she was only there for the food sent his lip curling in a smile.
But then he remembered how she’d accused him of being a faeboy, as if he’d use FaeMatch just for a hookup.
Though, to be fair, how was she supposed to know he was actually a spy and his partner had abandoned him?
Maverick shook his head, attempting to concentrate on the current task. Whether Zera realized it or not, she needed him now more than ever, since she went and decided to take matters into her own hands.
“What was she thinking?” The growled thought came unbidden, a reminder of his lone-wolf tendencies clashing with the protective instincts that Zera seemed to evoke in him.
Maverick took a deep breath, allowing the scents of the city to guide him, his ears perking up at the slightest disturbance.
“Time to track a pixie,” he snarled, the sound more guttural than human. And with one last glance at the urban jumble he called home, Maverick leapt from the balcony, his powerful legs propelling him forward into the night.
He would find Zera and her family, no matter what dangers lay ahead.
Because despite his chaotic nature and his self-imposed solitude, there was nothing that could stop him—not when it came to her.
He was ready to do whatever it took to make sure Zera and her son were safe.
These feelings weren’t something he’d expected or wanted, but there they were.
Not that he’d ever admit to them. As a spy, he couldn’t afford to share his life with anyone. He’d learned that the hard way.
Maverick’s senses were on fire, every nerve ending tingling with the urgency of the situation. The storm clouds above mirrored his own worry. Rain began to lash down, slicking the streets with a sheen that reflected the chaotic energy pulsing through his veins.
“Zera,” he whispered into the night, her name a talisman against the darkness swelling around him. With each step, his sense of smell grew sharper, her scent drawing him closer.
Even if she hadn’t shared her location with him, he could find her.
That was how strong he was. It was why he’d been next in line as alpha, but to his father’s disapproval, he couldn’t accept.
He loathed the blind loyalty and the old ways of the Lunar Brotherhood, and in the end, he’d rejected them as harshly as they’d rejected him.
He was better off without them. On his own as a spy for hire.
But now that his identity was out there, his future was at risk. Not just his but Zera’s too. He would fix this.
Like a shadow among shadows, Maverick moved with an agility that belied his size, his werewolf form blending seamlessly into the night. His ears twitched at the faintest sounds ahead—a muffled whimper, a baby’s cry, the rustle of movement, the sinister murmur of voices.
They were close, and it sounded like the baby was present, which meant using the shock grenade was out of the question. He’d have to use his more covert weapons.
“Damn it.” The curse was a low, frustrated growl, barely audible over the pounding rain. Just like he’d predicted, she had walked right into the druid’s trap, and it was up to him to spring her loose.
The small home loomed ahead, its windows darkened, its aura one of foreboding rather than sanctuary. Maverick could hear them inside—the druid and a posse of Gareth’s fae guards—and his heart raced, not with fear but with the primal urge to fight, to protect.
Easy there, he coached himself, pressing against the wet wall beside the front window. Stealth over strength.