Chapter Five #2
Riley looked at him as the doors to the lift opened on the tenth-floor Command Center. She’d been there before—enough that the space didn’t surprise her—but she still took it in as she stepped out, the way she always did. Habit. Assessment.
“I want to,” she said after a beat. Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. “I just ... need a second.”
Dorian shifted beside her—not closer, not farther away. Just present, his body angled so she could see him if she needed to. “Take it.”
They didn’t touch her.
The atmosphere was hushed, acoustically dampened, the kind of engineered quiet designed to keep urgency contained. Light panels ran in clean white lines along the ceiling, guiding movement without drawing attention.
The Command Center, the strategic heart of the E.S.E opened out ahead of them.
She recognized most of them in the room.
Ivan and Victor were standing at the head of the room, looking at the screens in front of them.
Malik and Jamal were seated at the table, both of them working on separate laptops, while the three Holt brothers sat, bodies practically vibrating with energy and angled toward the front of the room, waiting to be pointed at a target and released.
It wasn’t chaos. It was control—deliberate, practiced, hard-earned.
When she stepped forward, they moved with her. Not ahead. Not behind. Flanking, but loose—like they were guarding the space she occupied rather than her body itself. It was subtle. It mattered.
“You will only ever find the core teams of the E.S.E in this room,” Rafe said quietly as they crossed the threshold. “Inner circle only.”
Riley stopped. “Should I leave?”
“No, sweetness,” Dorian replied, indicating with his head to go toward the table and take a seat.
“You are absolutely part of the inner circle.” That confused her, but she did as he asked, then he glanced toward the far wall, where one screen displayed a familiar string of diagnostic readouts.
“Elara’s on the tech floor. She’s running analysis from her lab—signal modeling, interference patterns, Chimera cross-referencing. Otherwise, she would be in here, too.”
No drama. No chest-thumping. Just fact.
No one stared. No one questioned why Riley was there. That, more than anything, eased something tight and defensive in her chest.
“If I’m going to be part of this,” she said, more to herself than them, “I need to understand how it works.”
Rafe nodded. “Fair enough. If you give us time, we will tell you everything.” He shifted slightly, grounding himself beside the console. “Victor and Ivan coordinate field deployment and threat assessment. Strategy, and any escalation decisions that might be needed.”
Dorian stepped in smoothly, picking up the thread without overlapping.
“Rafe and I run the live tracking and pursuit aspect of any mission. We can also assess the terrain and provide pattern prediction, intercept planning, that kind of thing. Both our function and the bears will be paramount in today’s mission. ”
No posturing. No overlap. Just clarity.
Riley had a moment of thinking what on earth she could bring to this amazingly talented group, and some of it must have been visible on her face because Rafe stepped closer to her and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.
“And from now on,” Rafe added, his gaze steady on Riley, “you bring the medical and human reality into the room. None of us have the medical expertise and training that you have, and you and Elara are the only humans in the inner circle.”
Dorian nodded once. “That’s why you’re here.”
Riley moved toward the central console. The surface was cool beneath her palms when she rested her hands on it, the posture automatic—grounding, orienting.
Screens filled her field of vision—regional maps layered with movement vectors, thermal signatures ghosting through terrain, data streams scrolling too fast to read but impossible to ignore.
Her medic brain cataloged it all without conscious effort. Inputs. Patterns. Waiting for the moment something tipped.
“Rogue confirmed two hours ago,” Rafe said. He stood opposite her now, one hand braced on the console, the other loose at his side. “Not registered, and his movement pattern doesn’t fit a lone predator.”
“It’s too deliberate,” Dorian added. He reached out—not to her, but to the display—isolating a section of the map. “Whoever it is, they correct their course instead of drifting.”
Riley followed the motion, tracking the line with her eyes. “So ... they know where they are heading and they are not acting alone.”
“Nothing about this feels solitary,” Dorian said.
The words settled heavy in the air.
Rafe straightened first, attention shifting from the screens to Victor. “We’re going to ground. Lions with us for backup and we’ll take the Bell 525.”
Riley blinked slowly. She knew what that was, as a medic she had flown a few life flights in her career, and one of her classmates was an avid fan of helicopters. The Bell 525 was one of the fastest commercially available helicopters in the world.
Victor’s nod was immediate. “Good hunting.” He looked over at the lions. “Holt brothers—saddle up.”
The Lions were on their feet in seconds, chairs scraping softly against the floor. The energy in the room changed—not louder, not frantic, but sharpened. Purpose narrowing.
Riley stayed where she was as Rafe and Dorian geared up with efficient speed, movements economical, practiced. There was no hesitation. This was what they did.
“You’re staying here,” Dorian said, not a question, but his tone softened as his gaze held hers. “Watch and learn, sweetness, okay?”
The words should have steadied her. Instead, something sharp and unfamiliar twisted in Riley’s chest.
Rafe seemed to feel it. He stepped in first, closing the distance she hadn’t realized she’d left open, and wrapped his arms around her in a firm, grounding embrace. Not confining. Just solid. Real.
“We’ll be back,” he murmured against her hair, voice low enough that only she could hear. “This is what we do. It doesn’t mean we’re reckless.”
Rafe pulled back and before she could respond, Dorian stepped closer to hug her, too, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades, the other briefly cupping the back of her neck. He squeezed once—gentle, but unmistakably there.
“You’re safe here,” he said quietly. “And we’re very hard to kill.”
The attempt at reassurance—genuine, controlled—landed harder than any promise. Riley nodded against Dorian’s chest, drawing in the steady scent of him, committing the feel of both to memory before they stepped away.
She nodded. “I will.”
Watching them step out of the room and into an unknown danger was harder than most things she had had to endure in her life.
45 minutes later and the feeds shifted as the Wolves hit the streets of Seattle in the Industrial District near Duwamish River.
Tracking overlays tightened, data resolving into something more tangible, footpaths crossed, scent trails translated into probability arcs.
It was all above her understanding, but Riley watched in fascination as Rafe and Dorian spoke softly into their comms, voices calm, precise.
“Picked him up again,” Rafe said. “He’s doubling back.”
“There is no thread of fear in his scent,” Dorian replied.
From the command table, Malik frowned. “He’s not running alone, is he?”
Ivan leaned closer to the screens. “No. And from here it looks like the wolves are being shepherded. Rafe, Dorian, on alert.”
“Copy that,” both replied
The Gorillas’ systems came online a moment later—CCTV feeds snapping into place. Street corners in the industrial area of town, loading docks, alley mouths. Riley’s breath caught as the picture widened.
“There,” Jamal said. “Two more.”
The image resolved into movement—fast, powerful, wrong. These looked misshapen, and from what Elara had told her, Riley knew they must be hybrids. They moved with frightening efficiency, flanking the rogue, covering angles.
“Highly functional bastards,” Victor muttered. “Obviously Chimera-built.”
Riley leaned forward instinctively. “They’re protecting him.”
“Yes,” Rafe confirmed. “And they’ll engage first.”
The fight broke out on-screen with brutal suddenness.
Dorian took the left hybrid, Rafe the right, the rogue breaking away as the Lions closed from the rear. Riley watched bodies collide with bone-jarring force, the Wolves moving with lethal grace.
“Dorian—watch your right,” Ivan snapped.
The CCTV angle shifted just in time for Riley to see it—a hybrid’s strike passing so close it tore fabric at the neck of his t-shirt rather than flesh. A near miss. Too near.
Her heart slammed into her ribs.
“Clear,” Dorian said, breath controlled but sharp. “Fucker’s fast.”
The Lions arrived seconds later, having incapacitated the rogue. The momentum shifted instantly.
The hybrids went down hard. Final. Efficient.
“Rogue contained,” Wyatt said. “Alive.”
The screen steadied, the aftermath stark and undeniable. Two bodies on the ground. The rogue restrained, breathing hard.
Riley exhaled slowly, hands trembling where they rested on the table.
And the thought came unbidden, unwelcome, sharp enough to hurt.
What would it do to her—really do to her—if either of them was hurt?
Or killed?
She didn’t have an answer.
That frightened her more than the fight ever could.