Chapter 4 - Olivia

I'm pacing in the hotel room, trying to stop chewing on my nails.

My first-ever solo mission, and I have this terrible feeling that something is going to go wrong. No matter how much deep breathing, meditating, or visualizing I do, it won't go away. It feels like it's coming from my soul.

I close my eyes and think back to my training sessions with Aris.

If you're ever on a mission, and you're not sure what to do—confer with the team. Call me. Call someone. The worst thing you can do is launch into something without proper support. Remember what happened to Percy when he checked out the wolfsbane field without backup?

My phone is in my hand. I know I should call Aris; that's what he said to do, but I also have this feeling that if I do call him, he might cancel the whole thing, tell me to come home, decide that I'm not ready to do this.

Which might be right.

But the last thing I want to do is return to Rosecreek, and be reminded every day of the future I want and can't have.

However, if I botch this mission, I'll just end up back home, anyway. I take a deep breath and dial Aris's private phone number, which he told me goes straight to his personal phone. It rings through, and I force myself to breathe.

He's probably just busy, playing with his kids or running a meeting. He'll call me back.

I sit down and slick my hair back, tucking it into a cap and getting on my wig, which is a long brunette this time. I style it, apply my makeup, then shimmy on my dress for the night.

Thirty minutes before I have to leave for the event, and Aris still hasn't called me back.

I grab my phone and dial the agency office. Maybe he's in his office, and didn't realize I would try to call his personal phone first. It rings through once, and, with a frantically beating heart, I call again.

It doesn't even have to be Aris. I would be content talking to Bigby or Percy. Hell, even Ado might be able to offer me a word or two of encouragement. Though I don't know Rafael well because he only recently rolled into town, I'd even chat with him. He always has something fascinating to say about supernatural creatures.

"Rosecreek Agency. Byron speaking."

I freeze, bringing my hand to my mouth.

No, no, no . The last person on the earth I would ever want to talk to in this situation. I can't ask him for help, because that will just strengthen his assumption that I'm worthless. Inferior. Validate his choice to reject me as his mate.

"Hello?"

"Byron, hello," I say, turning and looking in the mirror, trying to channel that unearthly calm that Veronica has any time we're on a mission. "Is Aris in?"

"Is everything okay?"

The worry in his tone makes me falter. I hate it—hate how I can picture the exact expression on his face, the way he's surely cradling the phone, how he's probably tapping on the desk, a constant tick from his never-ending tapping on keyboards.

"Everything's fine," I say, clearing my throat and trying to clear the mental image of him from my mind. Leaving Rosecreek and going on missions was supposed to make things easier for me, but it's almost like seeing him less makes me more aware of him. Now, when he pops up, it's a huge shock to my nervous system, like someone has reached inside me and snapped my spine like a guitar string.

"Then why are you calling?"

"I just have an update for Aris," I snap, then take a shaky breath. I can't let him see how unsettled he makes me. "If he's not in, then I'll just—"

"I can take a message for him," Byron says, smugly. I make a face at myself in the mirror, hating that he always has to make everything a game, a competition. Like I'm not struggling enough as it is, without also having him as my adversary.

"No, that's okay—"

"If it's important, he should know as soon as possible."

"It's for Aris's ears only," I say, thinking that sounds like a good enough reason not to tell Byron, until he coughs out a laugh.

"What, you don't trust me with important information?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" I snap again, moving to run a hand through my hair until I remember it's a wig, and if I do that, I could pull it off.

"It doesn't mean anything," he says, coolly, "except that, of the two of us, I'm a long-term member of the team who literally has access to all of the information in every database, all the cameras, every mic we've ever used. And you're the newbie in the field on less than a month of training."

"If you have a problem with your Alpha's—"

"It's no problem with Aris; I'm sure you did a great job of convincing him you're ready."

"Are you implying I lied to him?"

"You said it, not me," he says, and I can hear that he's breathing a little heavy, and I hate what that does to my stupid heart. I want to crawl through the phone, get my hands around his neck, throttle him until he stops being like this.

I want him to go back to the Byron who laughed and tussled with me in bed. Who took me out in the middle of the night, shifted with me, and showed me how to catch fish in the river. Who woke me up in the morning with pancakes. Who excitedly sat me down at his computer, placing his headset on my ears, insisting I had to try this "new, sick game," then being endlessly impressed when I instantly climbed the leader boards.

" Fuck yeah!" I remember him saying, pumping the air behind me, and when I had turned toward him, watching him celebrating my wins, I realized I was in love with him.

It was much later that I realized he was mate, and shortly after, it all fell apart.

"You know what, Byron?"

"What?"

" Fuck you."

I hang up on him, feeling a thrum of power and adrenaline course through my body. I am so done taking shit from him, dealing with his emotions because he doesn't know what to do with them. Moving to stand in front of the mirror again, I admire how good I look in my dress, turning side to side, smiling, practicing my facial expressions.

So what if I have a bad feeling about tonight? I'm a professional. I'm a badass woman. I was able to keep Kaila alive for years, and then, when Bigby came, I was part of the reason Rosa and Kaila got out alive. I kept Rosa sane. I cracked case after case for the team before I was even a part of it.

I'm a whiz in front of the computer and a fucking weapon in the field.

After my little pep talk, I spritz on a little more perfume—a luxury brand I borrowed from Veronica—then turn on my heel and walk out of the room.

***

The event in Minneapolis is held in the Metropolitan Ball Room, and it's just as stunning as the one in St. Louis. I note that, once again, the organizers have spared no expense in putting this together. It's an open bar and high-end food stacked on each table, like lobster tail and gold-flaked desserts.

"Champagne, miss?"

I turn to see a pretty young woman in a server's uniform holding out a tray of drinks to me, but my movement is so fast that I nearly knock them over.

"No, thank you," I say, putting my hands out as she re-balances the drinks. "Seems I've had enough."

"If you say so," she smiles, and turns to go, but a short, older man to my left waves her down, taking a drink from the tray. I'm readying myself to move to the other side of the room when a microphone comes to life on the other side of the room, rousing everyone from their preoccupations.

"Good evening, everyone!" someone says, and I turn toward the front of the room to see a tall white man standing in the center of the stage, a glass raised. I wish Percy and Veronica were here—it's lonely to be the only one taking part in the mission, and makes me feel like nobody is looking out for me.

I identify him as the mayor of Minneapolis, and he's grinning ear-to-ear, dressed in an immaculate suit, his brown hair gelled to his head. He would be handsome, if there wasn't something so artificially off-putting about him.

"I want to thank everyone for coming out on this fine evening. As you know, we are once again nearing the election portion of the political cycle, and we are so happy to be garnering support. I, for one, would very much like to retain my seat as mayor of this fine city, and I know many of the public servants in attendance tonight are also eager to either win or retain a seat. Please eat, drink, and socialize while learning more about what you can do to support our efforts. Thank you."

There's a huge round of applause, and I narrow my eyes at the stage, wondering what it is about his speech that's bothering me. Is it that he hasn't really said anything? Or talked about policy?

I look around the room, sipping the water in my glass. I asked the bartender to truss up a glass for me so I would look like I was having a drink. It's helping me to blend in, and any assailant might think I'm incapacitated, which could give me an edge.

"Good evening," someone says, and I turn, putting my hand to my mouth, when I realize it's the mayor himself speaking to me. Up close, his deep wrinkles and evident Botox are even more glaring.

"Oh," I say, taking a little step back to gain some distance from him. "Well, hi. Good evening. That was quite a speech."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it, Miss Opal," he says, eyes narrowing on me. I swallow.

"I don't believe we're acquainted," I say, desperately trying to maintain my composure.

"Oh, we haven't personally met before," he says, pulling the olive from a toothpick with his teeth. I try not to grimace at the sound it makes. "But my associate over there told me he wishes you'd kept your hair as before. Apparently, he believes you destroyed your natural color ."

I glanced at where the mayor was gesturing and saw the same older gentleman from last weekend waving to me from across the room. I give him a little wave back, my heart positively pounding in my chest. Something about the interaction feels off, but I can't put my finger on it.

"What he knows won't hurt him," I say, laughing and taking another sip of my drink. "So, how long have you been mayor?"

I know the answer to this—four years.

"Just a little more than four years," he says, grinning again. "It's been an amazing experience, and I'm so proud to serve my constituents."

"Well, here's to another term," I say, lifting my glass and returning his smile.

"If I'm being honest with you, Opal," he murmurs, leaning close to me, his expensive cologne wafting over me. "I'd like to toast to much more than that. Would you like to go somewhere more…private?"

I'm trying to study him, to figure out whether this is a ploy to get me alone, if my cover is blown, or if he's just flirting with me like any man would. Deciding to take the risk, I down my drink, smile at him a little sloppily, toss my hair over my shoulder, and take his arm.

He leads me from the ballroom quickly, as though he doesn't want anyone to see the two of us slipping out.

"Oh," I say, when I bump into an older gentleman on the way out. "I'm so—"

" Numina divom accerso. Damnant te dormire ," the old man hisses, and all I catch is a flash of gray mustache as my body starts to sway. " Somno aeterno, nuptae, perduint te ."

Just before my chin hits my chest, and everything around me goes black, I think that this is the most inconvenient time to be having a stroke.