Chapter 9 - Maisie

I wake with a jolt.

The room is quiet, morning light filtering in around the edges of the blackout curtains. The air is heavy with that particular stillness, the kind that makes every creak of the floor and every soft shift of the bedsheets feel magnified. I feel floaty, not yet fully attached to my own body, softened by sleep and something else.

I blink up at the ceiling, my body aching from last night—the escape, the adrenaline, the terror of hearing gunshots and screams all around us.

Ah, yes. That was only hours ago.

Suddenly, the silence is no longer my friend. I reach up to rub my face with trembling fingers, trying to shake the lingering fog of my exhaustion. My mind races, replaying every detail of the attack at the dinner party: the gunfire, the blood on the glass, the shattering of windows, Zane throwing himself over me, the fear that pounded in my chest like a drum.

Zane.

My chest tightens at the memory. After we made it back to the condo—both of us too rattled to face debriefing yet—we retreated to our separate rooms without a word. I collapsed into bed, trying and failing not to cry as my tension crashed out of me all at once, and fell asleep weeping.

Now, in the pale light of morning, with which everything seems clearer, I still feel the sting of our argument from the balcony. My heart twists with the reality of it, the words I can’t take back.

It’s not like you would ever really want me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, a hot flush of embarrassment coming over me. I can’t believe I said that. In the heat of the moment, with all that anger and fear swirling in my chest, I let the worst of my insecurities spill out. I push myself up to sit, burying my face in my hands, ashamed of myself. I won’t make that mistake again.

The condo is still eerily quiet. I glance at the clock on the nightstand; it’s later than I expected. I guess it makes sense. My body is sore all over, muscles tense from last night’s escape.

I force myself to get out of bed, wincing as my feet touch the cold floor. I reach for a sweater and pull it over my head, trying to push away the residual rigidity in my body.

A knock at the door startles me.

I freeze, but there’s no follow-up knock. Just the faint sound of Zane moving around in the living room.

The knowledge that he’s here, just on the other side of the door, does nothing to calm the storm of emotions inside me.

I hesitate, running a hand through my unkempt hair. I know I need to face him eventually. But what do I even say after last night? I can’t let my feelings control me anymore. I need to regain control. I need to become like Zane and lie as easily as breathing.

I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders, and step out into the hallway.

The condo feels even colder now than when we first moved in. The sleek lines, the sterile decor, it all feels like a stage set for people with cleaner, more sharply rendered feelings than us.

Zane is standing by the kitchen counter, dressed in a dark T-shirt and joggers, the picture of calm control. He scrolls on his phone with one hand, coffee in the other. I want to hate him for how collected he looks.

"Morning," I say, trying to sound casual as I make my way to the fridge. My voice is hoarse, rougher than I intended.

Zane nods, not looking up from his coffee. "Morning."

There’s an awkward swathe of tension between us, thick enough to cut with a knife. I grab the mug of coffee he left out for me and lean against the counter, studying him. He’s quiet and very still, stiff as a statue where he stands.

I wonder if he’s thinking about what I said on the balcony, if my words are stuck in his mind the way they are in mine.

But if he’s bothered, he doesn’t show it.

I take a deep breath, determined to move past it.

"Any word from the team?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Nothing yet," Zane says. His tone is clipped, like he’s already over this conversation. "I’ve caught them up on what happened. They’re still working on identifying everyone involved in the attack. We’re supposed to lay low until they figure out the next step."

"Lay low?" I set my coffee down. "Do they think we’re safe here?”

Zane’s gaze flickers up to meet mine, his expression unreadable. "If we try to act without a plan, we’ll be putting ourselves at risk."

I wrap my arms around my own waist, holding myself as if I can hold myself together like this. “Surely they can’t think our cover held up after all that.”

“Our cover’s the most valuable thing we have." His voice is low, almost resigned, and I’m caught off guard by the bitterness in it.

We lapse into another heavy silence. My eyes drift over the kitchen, the pristine countertops, the uncomfortably spotless surfaces. I used to love the smell of coffee, but now, I just feel sick. I glance at Zane again, standing there like a statue, unmoving, unshakable, and I can’t help the small surge of irritation that rises in me.

"What?" he says, catching my stare.

"Nothing." I look away quickly, unsettled by how easily he rattles me, even now. "It’s just… this place doesn’t feel real."

Zane raises an eyebrow. "It’s not supposed to feel real. It’s a cover."

“I know.” I wish he would spare a thought for my feelings before he speaks sometimes. “I know that.”

He’s quiet for a moment, watching me with that intense gaze of his, the gaze I still can’t meet.

"The view isn’t fake,” he says eventually, nodding toward the massive window overlooking the city below.

I turn away from him. Stratfell isn’t a sight to behold. It’s one of the bigger cities near Rosecreek, but I’ve never loved it. Nowhere has ever felt like a home as much as the small, picturesque Rosecreek does. I miss it so much that it hurts—like a piece of me has been cut away.

“Thank you for the coffee,” I say. “I’m going to call Veronica.”

Zane mumbles his assent. His words are low, too quiet for me to catch. I consider asking him to repeat himself, but when I turn back to face him, he’s already looking down at his coffee again, his jaw tight, his entire being closed off from me again.

***

We’re trapped in the condo for the next several days, waiting for word from Rosecreek about the status of our cover and our next moves. The only sound that breaks the silence that has consumed our lives is the occasional click of Zane’s phone or the muted shuffle of papers as he goes over the intel we’ve collected.

After our ordeal at the dinner party, I’m almost grateful for the calm, though I quickly grow bored. I spend almost all of my time reading the volumes I brought with me from the library in the pack center—anatomy books and magical texts. My head spins with knowledge. I dream of spellwork and physiology.

Veronica calls most days, as does Olivia. I hear from Keira a lot too, though I can tell she’s busy steering this job. I’m proud of her a lot of the time—she’s come so far from the person she was when she arrived in Rosecreek—but I envy her slightly, too. Nobody questions her ability to do this, not like I question myself.

At some point, the silence in our space becomes too much, and Zane suggests training.

"We can’t afford to get rusty," he says, his tone distant but matter-of-fact.

We clear the living room, pushing the glass coffee table to the side, and start running through basic drills. It feels like a forced distraction. The agitation between us simmers beneath the surface, but I try to focus on the movements: blocking, striking, footwork.

Zane is a skilled fighter, fluid and precise, though it’s clear he’s never been formally trained. His movements are sharp with a brutality that is learned through experience alone.

I’ve seen him in combat before, but here, in the confined space of the condo, it feels different. He’s quicker than I remember, his movements sharp and unrefined. He throws more force into his motions than I imagined he would.

I’m not bad at cataloging and dodging, though I am unilaterally untrained as a fighter in my own right. Nonetheless, I can make it through these drills usually. But there’s something off today, something gnawing at the back of my mind, and it keeps throwing me off balance.

We go through the motions for a while, the sound of our fists hitting pads filling the air, then the sweeping of Zane’s arms through the air as he jabs at me with padded fists, having me dodge. But as the session drags on, Zane’s corrections start to grate on me.

"You’re leaving your right side open," he says after my third failed attempt at a particular pivoting dodge.

I wipe sweat from my forehead, gritting my teeth. "I know."

"Then why aren’t you fixing it?"

I glare at him, irritation flaring. "We can’t all be perfect at this like you, Zane."

He lowers the pads, his expression hardening. "That’s not what I said."

"It’s what you meant," I snap, stepping back from him. "I’m trying, okay? I’m not Ado, and I’m not your brother. I’m not some elite shifter warrior or whatever you want me to be. I’m just doing the best I can."

Zane’s eyes narrow. "I didn’t say any of that, and you know it.”

My pulse races, frustration mixing with something else—something more vulnerable. I cross my arms, feeling the sting of his words. "You’re always telling me what I’m doing wrong. Always pointing out where I’m weak."

He lets out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. "Maisie, I’m trying to keep you alive."

"Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel like it," I mutter under my breath. "It feels like you don’t trust me."

He’s silent for a beat too long, and when he finally speaks, his voice is tight. "You’re being emotional.”

The space between us feels electrically charged. Anger pulses through me, then disappointment, then confusion. I wasn’t built to roll with the punches like this. I feel faintly unwell.

Zane’s gaze locks onto mine, and for a moment, I swear I see something flicker in his eyes—something raw and unguarded.

“I’m keeping you alive,” he repeats into my silence. “I just want to keep you alive.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the words die on my lips. His intensity catches me off guard and makes my breath hitch. There’s something in his words I can’t hope to respond to, an intensity that catches me off-guard.

Suddenly, Zane’s phone buzzes, the sound breaking through the tension. He checks it. His expression shifts, darkness flickering across his features.

“It’s Keira,” he says, his voice hardening. “There’s been an ambush on our allies north of Rosecreek.”

My stomach drops. “What kind of ambush?”

He turns the phone to me, and I scan the message. The Haverwood pack’s pursuit of territory is growing more vicious, their attacks more organized—and they’re closer to Rosecreek now than ever.

This isn’t just about power anymore. It’s about destruction.

Zane’s voice is grim as he pockets his phone. “We have to stop this before it spirals out of control.”

The air around us feels thick with dread. The enemy's reach is spreading faster than we can predict, and their influence in the criminal underworld is broad, unchecked.

We exchange a look, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

Things are about to get much, much worse.