Chapter 23

23

T he last time I ignored a gut feeling, my best friend died.

The moment my dad laid out the mission plan for the last full moon- to send two of our teams north while we took the other two south- I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that it was the wrong move. Deep down, I knew something bad was going to happen, but I ignored my own instincts. I kept quiet, and we proceeded to go out on the mission. The teams that went north were slaughtered.

Maybe that's why I actually paid attention when that odd sensation of unease came over me last night; an uncomfortable twisting in my gut and a throb in the back of my skull, like something pounding on a locked door in my brain in warning. I was right in the middle of playing chicken with a bottle of vodka, debating whether I should drink myself into a coma to forget about the insanity of my father's latest scheme, when that strange spike of alarm suddenly registered. It was jarring enough that I set aside the booze to grab my computer, and what I saw on the video feed confirmed my freakish intuition was spot-on.

Everything after that is a little bit hazy. I wish I could say I didn't go charging down to the basement with murderous intent, but why else would I have grabbed my gun? I don't make a habit of carrying it around the house, and I sure as shit wasn't going to use it on her . I knew exactly what I was doing when I slipped it into my waistband on the way out of my room. I knew Griff and Adams had to die for putting their filthy hands on her, and I knew I was going to be the one to end them.

I've killed before. After a while, you get desensitized to it and the taking of a life becomes almost transactional. Me or them. I choose me every time, and I don't lose any sleep over that decision. Then again, every kill under my belt thus far has been an enemy. I've never had to question whether ending them was the right call; I just pulled the fucking trigger.

While the situation last night was different, the thought process was the same. It didn't matter that Griffin and Adams were also hunters in The Guild. It didn't matter that we were technically on the same side. In that moment, they were the enemy, so I put them down.

I'm definitely thinking twice about my actions now, though, because someone has to answer for what I've done. My father will want an explanation, and I have no idea what I'm going to tell him. Killing them to protect a prisoner is treasonous. Killing them for defying orders is a gross overreaction. I probably could've saved myself a whole lot of trouble if I'd just turned the gun on myself and fired a third shot, but then who would protect her ?

I blink my eyes open groggily, my sore body protesting as I shift my weight to sit up from my slumped position against the cell bars. My low back is achy and my ass is numb. A concrete floor is probably the least comfortable place to sleep, but I wasn't thinking rationally when I made the decision to camp out here for the night. I couldn't leave. The same instinct that warned me she was in peril compelled me to stay and try to make it better somehow, and while I don't know the first thing about how to comfort someone, I remembered how simply being present after her panic attack in the shower seemed to help.

I'm not sure if it did this time, but when I circle my neck on my shoulders to get the kinks out and glance beside me, she's still there on the other side of the bars. She's awake, too, and she hasn't moved from the spot where I last saw her. She's just staring in my direction, that whiskey-eyed stare studying me like she's trying to slot the pieces of a puzzle together.

Maybe she's trying to rationalize why I did what I did last night. Hell, that'd make two of us. For the past decade, I've been hunting her kind, resolute in the belief that I was doing my part to rid the world of monsters. By all accounts, that's what this girl is. She's a werewolf. An inhuman beast; a freak of nature. I shouldn't see her as a person or care about what abuses she suffers, yet here I am waking up with my colleagues' blood on my hands, shed in her name.

Avery .

It's uniquely beautiful, just like her, and it's been echoing in my mind ever since she spoke it. Somehow, I already know that name will be my fucking downfall.

I push up from the floor with a grunt, getting my feet underneath me and stretching my aching limbs. I need to find a shirt, then figure out how to approach my dad about what went down last night. Executing two soldiers isn't something I can just sweep under the rug. He'll want answers, and I need to be prepared to explain why I did it without calling my own loyalty into question.

I'm so fucked.

"Where are you going?" Avery pipes up as I turn to start for the stairs.

"To clean up your mess," I grumble, refusing to look back. I never should've asked to be her handler in the first place- it's caused me nothing but grief from day one. Getting to know my captive has only warped my own sense of self and made me question the organization I helped build from the ground up. It's made me forget who the enemy really is, just because she came in a pretty package.

I put one foot in front of the other, a cold detachment coming over me as I go through the motions of keying in the code at the top of the stairs and exiting the basement. I return to my room, stash my handgun, and put on a clean t-shirt. Then I head for the kitchen, knowing that's where I'll most likely find my dad. He's a creature of habit and always starts his day with coffee.

As expected, I find him loitering near the machine, sipping from a steaming mug when I walk in.

"Morning," he greets, lifting his chin.

"Morning," I mutter back, stepping past him to grab my own cup from the cabinet. I fill it up and take a few sips, then turn to face my old man, ready to rip off the metaphorical band-aid. "I ran into an issue with Griff and Adams last night," I say blandly, as if I'm talking about something as benign as the weather. "Caught them downstairs with the prisoner."

"And where are they now?" Dad asks.

"Dead."

His brows shoot up, though his steady composure remains intact. He takes another sip from his mug as if he's pausing to collect his thoughts, then swallows thickly, licking the residue from his lips. "What happened?"

This is the part where I could come clean; tell him I've allowed myself to be manipulated by our prisoner to the point where I killed for her. He'd be disappointed in me, but he'd respect my honesty. We'd eventually get past it after he came up with a creative way to remind me where my loyalties lie.

The problem is, I know how my dad thinks, and I therefore know exactly how that reminder would play out. He'd send me downstairs to put a bullet in her head.

The thought of that shouldn't rattle me as much as it does. As soon as we brought her in, I knew she wouldn't be making it out of here alive. Dragging on her captivity won't change the inevitable outcome, and in becoming her handler, I was well aware that I was also signing on to be her executioner when the time came. I thought I could stomach it. I thought it'd feel good to avenge Ben's death by delivering hers. I've never been more fucking wrong.

She should've run while she had the chance last night. As I slept on the floor outside her cell, it would've been easy for her to reach through the bars and get the keys out of my pocket. Hell, she could've wrapped her pretty little hands around my neck and tried to strangle the life out of me. God knows I deserve it. She didn't, though, and I won't slip a noose around her neck now by revealing the truth. I can't.

"They tried to set her free," I say, surprised by how easily the lie rolls off my tongue. "She got to them somehow, convinced them to let her go. When confronted, they tried to run, so I put them down."

Dad nods slowly as he digests my words. "Was that wise?" he questions, his voice eerily calm. "Our numbers are dismal as it is."

"Would you rather have a few good men you can trust, or an entire army with questionable loyalty?" I ask, repeating a line that I've heard him use countless times. I used to argue that we should expand our forces so we could just take out all the werewolves at once and move on with our lives, and he'd counter that it was better to keep our team lean and mean. It may be less efficient, but I have to agree that it's a hell of a lot easier to travel from place to place and slip by under the radar with less men.

"Why would they turn?" Dad asks, narrowing his eyes on me in suspicion.

I shrug, taking a last sip of my coffee before turning at the waist to set the empty mug down on the counter. "Who knows. Couldn't risk them compromising the plan, though," I mumble, drumming my fingertips against the granite .

His gaze drops to follow the movement of my fingers and I immediately realize my mistake, yanking my hand back and shoving it into my pocket. When I glance back up at him, his eyes lock with mine, the skepticism in them evident.

"You're sure that's what happened?" he asks, giving me an opening to come clean. "I know you and Griff had your differences."

"Positive," I reply. I say it with so much confidence that I damn near convince myself that's how things went down last night, and it's more than a little unsettling how I'm able to lie with a straight face to the person I'm supposed to trust the most. To my own flesh and blood.

Who the fuck am I becoming?

Dad heaves a sigh, setting down his coffee mug and pushing off from the counter. "Get a couple of the new recruits to take care of the bodies," he mutters as he slips his phone out of his pocket. "Better to have them do it, since they only just met those two and don't have any personal attachment to them."

I nod, remaining cool and collected on the outside, while inside, an internal battle starts to rage.

"I'll call the lawyer," he continues, thumbing through his phone contacts. "Griffin's Will leaves everything to The Guild, but we should probably get the ball rolling on what we need to do to obtain those assets. Not sure whether Adams had anything worthwhile."

"He didn't," I grumble, recalling him saying as much during the onboarding process. We require soldiers to update their Will before engaging in field combat, and most are so dedicated to the cause that they want to continue to contribute even after they're gone by leaving their assets to The Guild. Not all of them have assets to speak of, though. Some come with only the clothes on their backs.

Dad nods to me, then hits call on our attorney's contact, lifting the phone to his ear as he turns away to head for the back patio.

I should be glad that he bought my lie. I should be relieved.

I'm not.

I'm just fucking numb.