The sound reaches us before she can continue: boots moving in formation through the corridor below, visible through the stairwell window.
Six figures pass beneath us. Four wear dark formal clothing with a military cut, and the fifth walks at the center as if the building belongs to him. Tall. Dark-haired. Confident enough not to hurry.
Beside him, half a step behind, is a woman.
Tall. Blonde. Hands clasped neatly in front of her. Too still in a way I feel before I understand it.
My wolf stirs. Not the full-body reaction from the observation room. Something quieter. A low unease that presses against my ribs without explanation.
“Nadia. Who is that?”
Nadia’s jaw is tight. “Syndicate.” She practically spits the word. “The tall one is Alastair Creed. High command.”
The word sends me reeling. Syndicate. The organization that kept Rafael in a sealed room for five years. The people who funded the research, built the facility, supplied the handlers. They’re here. In this building.
“What the fuck are they doing here?”
“Don’t know.” Nadia’s nostrils flare, eyes glowing slightly. “And the sooner they’re out, the better.”
“The woman?” I’m on my feet. I don’t remember standing. My wolf is pressing forward so hard my gums ache.
“I don’t know. She wasn’t on the visitor list.”
The delegation passes below us. The woman’s head turns slightly as she walks, her eyes sweeping the corridor. For one second, her gaze catches the stairwell window where we’re sitting.
Pale eyes. Light blue or gray. Flat.
Then she’s past. The formation rounds the corner. Gone.
I stare at the empty corridor. My hands are shaking again—not with grief this time, but with something hotter. The people who did this to him are in Viktor’s building. Drinking his coffee. Sitting in his conference rooms.
And two floors below them, Rafael is strapped to a cot because five years of their work didn’t end when we got him out. It’s baked into him, and written on his skin, and in every raw flinch, every violent reaction.
“If they’re here for Rafael—”
“We don’t know why they’re here.”
“If they’re here for him, Nadia. If Viktor is even considering—”
“One thing at a time.” Her hand finds my arm. Firm. “Right now, Rafael is safe. Whatever the Syndicate wants, they’ll have to go through Viktor, and Viktor doesn’t roll over for anyone.”
She’s right. Probably. But the unease doesn’t fade. Something about that woman sets my teeth on edge. And something about the Syndicate arriving just after Rafael arrived feels less like coincidence and more like timing.
“Come on,” Nadia says. “Back to your room. I’ll find out what I can.”
I let her lead me away from the window, but every step feels like surrender.
Nadia is thinking in protocols. Viktor will be thinking in leverage, politics, containment, whatever language ancient men use when they decide how much one damaged wolf is worth.
I am thinking about timing.
The delegation arrived too soon. Too neatly. And the blonde woman with her hands folded in front of her has set every instinct I have on edge.
I need to get back to Rafael before he wakes.
And I need Viktor to hear the truth before anyone from that delegation teaches him which parts of Rafael are useful.
Chapter 21
