Page 47 of Betrayed Auctioned Mate

The memories of the auction flood back. I feel my fists clench under the table.

“We’ll need full coordination, all hands-on deck,” Aris says, his eyes scanning the room. “Byron, Olivia, you’re on surveillance and tech. Rafael and Percy, we’ll need you stationed at the drop-point early in case anything changes. Bigby and I will lay low on Attlefolk to wait for our guests out across the lake. Maisie, Veronica, we need medical support on standby. Ado, you’re front-lining between both sites. You’re the best of all of us when it comes to combat, and I trust you to handle it when things don’t go to plan, which they almost certainly won’t. Keira, your knowledge of the layout of the sites will be crucial. I need you running point from here.”

I nod, though something inside me stirs. I don’t want to stay behind, not this time. Not after what happened. I want to be out there, ensuring every last trace of this operation is erased.

But I know my role is vital, and I refuse to let anyone else fall into the hands of these monsters. And who knows. Maybe we’ll face yet another unprecedented disaster.

“Any questions?” Aris asks.

Everyone is silent. Then Percy speaks up. “Permission to use lethal force?”

“We go in to rescue, that’s our top priority,” Aris says firmly. “But if they fight back, we take them down. This ends here.”

There’s a murmur of agreement around the room. We’re going to put an end to this.

As the meeting wraps up, Aris catches my eye.

“Keira,” he says, “Stay focused. We need you clear-headed.”

I nod. “We’re ending the sale of shifter brides in Minnesota for good,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.

I’m doing it for those girls, and I’m doing it for me.

Chapter 24 - Ado

A week passes. I do my best to catch up on sleep.

Olivia apologizes to me—I refuse to accept it. She doesn’t owe me one. Still, she insists.

“I wanted to keep her safe,” she tells me one morning, as we both sip coffee over the table in the kitchen—we’ve both been up all night planning. “But that shouldn’t have resulted in me being cold to you. Byron’s sorry too if things felt weird.”

“I know,” I promise her. “It’s fine. I like my own company.”

Keira and I fall into a rhythm of teamwork that succeeds shockingly well. We work long into the night and sleep sporadically, pouring over maps, schedules, IDs, and tech. We’re silent most of the time, but that suits me fine. And, like always, I suspect Keira can understand what I mean without me having to say it all out loud.

Despite all our complications, there’s one thing that never changed: beyond all of it, I just like being around her. She’s funny, beautiful, and charming. I think I’d be drawn to her like a moth to a flame, no matter who she was.

Some nights, I just stare at her in the soft light of the lamp between us on the table. I trace the way the glow falls across her face. I could do it for hours.

Three days before the hit, I’m alone in my room, surrounded by mission files, trying to focus on the details of one particular property we plan to hit. Aris wants me to comb through them. He feels we’re missing something, and I agree with him.

The pale light of early dawn lowers itself like a blanket over Rosecreek out of my window. It’s almost seven in the morning, but I’ve been working all night. The birds are loud already. Soon, heat will settle into the cracks and breaks in the terrain of our town for the summer and stay for months.

Maybe Keira will stay to see Rosecreek in the summer. We could swim in the lake together. I shake myself. If I’m daydreaming, I definitely need caffeine soon.

My phone buzzes—I’m being informed that my phone has taken another attempted hit, this one successfully blocked like all the others. Byron has kept us all up to date on hack attempts on our personal and pack devices, and they’ve skyrocketed. Clearly, someone out there suspects something. But we can’t yet know how much they know.

I sigh, watching the pale gray sky lightening outside. Maybe I could just sleep for a couple of hours…

The phone on my desk vibrates again, its harsh ring cutting through the quiet. A call.

It’s not Byron this time. The number is unfamiliar. I answer anyway, an uneasy feeling curdling in me.

“Hello, Mr. Channing,” a raspy voice greets me. Male. American—Southern?

I clear my throat. “Who is this?”

“It is Mr. Channing, isn’t it? Or is it…” A short pause, a breath. “Mr. Accolti?”

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