Page 15 of Betrayed Auctioned Mate

I catch Zane watching Ado and me more than once, his eyes flicking between us with a kind of knowing that sends a shiver down my spine. He doesn’t say much—he never does—but there’s something about how he lingers in the background, silent and observant, that feels almost like he can see right through me.

One evening, I find him standing outside the meeting room where we have set up a center of communications, his back to the wall, arms folded across his chest. He looks up when I approach, his expression unreadable, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that I don’t like.

“You’re not doing yourself any favors,” he says quietly, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

I pause, my hand halfway to the door, and glance at him. “What do you mean?”

He tilts his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Avoiding him. You’re not going to fix anything by running.”

I swallow hard. “I’m not running,” I say, though we both know it’s a lie.

Zane doesn’t argue. He just pushes off the wall and walks away, leaving me standing there with his words echoing in my mind.

Chapter 8 - Ado

And Keira’s dead.

At the end of this week, she’ll be on the sidelines of our first intelligence run. Hopefully, by then, she will have stopped dying in drills.

“Out!” I holler, my voice cutting through the air. I watch her body hit the ground, a clean shot to the chest ending her team’s latest attempt. “Blues win. Let’s run that again, back to one!”

There’s a collective groan as the team peels themselves off the gym floor. They’re in the middle of a repetitive infiltration exercise: one team defends a ‘stronghold’ while the other tries to break through. It’s to keep everyone’s reaction times fast and allow those out of practice—principally Veronica and Keira—to sharpen their ranged and close-quarters skills. It also allows me to train multiple of the pack at once, instead of dividing my time between them.

Byron found these electronic air-tag weapons online and insisted on using them. He’s far more enthused by the tech than I am, but they do the job well enough.

There are very few rules. By whatever means possible, stay ‘alive,’ avoid being tagged, and no shifting. I’ve decided to put shifting drills off for now. We can handle that later, when Keira trusts the team more.

Keira pushes herself up slowly, rolling her shoulders to loosen them up. Her expression is calm, focused, with that steady determination I’ve come to recognize as her default. She’s grown into herself in a way that’s hard not to admire—a woman now, competent and confident in her skills. There’s a strength in how she moves, a quiet certainty that wasn’t always there.

I catch myself watching her longer than I should, my gaze lingering on the subtle flex of her muscles, the way she assesses the room before every move, the cool intelligence behind her eyes. She’s more than capable—she’s exceptional. It’s impossible not to notice.

And that’s what makes this so damn complicated.

Even as she prepares to dive into the next drill, there’s something else there, a flicker of something vulnerable, hidden just beneath the surface. She’s stronger now, yes, but in the quiet moments, I see it—the wounds she tries to mask. It’s in the way she pauses sometimes, just for a heartbeat too long, as if she’s lost in a thought she can’t quite shake. It’s in the shadows that flit across her face when she thinks no one is watching. I have never been able to read anyone as well as I read her.

It pulls at something in me. It always has.

The last drill of the day begins with an electric film of excitement in the air. Both teams know this is it: the final round.

The Blues—Bigby, Byron, and Percy—have dominated most of the morning. They’re confident, and with good reason. Bigby’s raw strength, Byron’s strategic mind, and Percy’s speed make them a well-oiled unit. They don’t need this training. They’re only here because I asked them to be.

Meanwhile, Keira’s Red team—which includes Rafael and Veronica—is determined to break their streak. They’ve come close to winning several times, and I can see the fire in Keira’s eyes as they take their positions. This round feels different.

I didn’t intend to divide them into ‘old guard’ and ‘new blood.’ But I think now that it may have been the best formulation to make both teams give their all.

From the sidelines, I watch my teams take off, arms crossed, as I pace and monitor their movements. I’m not in the drill, just observing, but every instinct in me is tuned to the action. I’ve seen these drills countless times before, but there’s something about the way Keira moves today—a sharpness, a drive—that pulls my focus.

The Red team moves through the simulated ‘stronghold’ cautiously, creeping along the gym’s maze of crates, gym equipment, and obstacles we’ve set up to mimic an urban environment. Rafael takes the lead, quick and silent, searching for any sign of the enemy. Veronica brings up the rear, her eyes narrow, focused. They work well together, a smooth, coordinated unit.

But then there’s Keira. She’s different. More than coordinated. She’s in command. The confidence in her steps, the way she scans the environment, anticipating danger before it strikes—it’s remarkable. Does she know that sometimes, it’s as if not a day has passed between her army days and now? I wonder whether she sees within herself what I see there, that which hasn’t changed at all.

I spot Byron moving on the other side of the gym, his voice calm but commanding as he directs his team.

"Bigby, cover the left flank! Percy, watch the entry points!" he barks, calculated as ever.

Keira halts at a narrow hallway—a choke point the Blue team will undoubtedly use to funnel the Reds into a trap. Half of the passage is blocked by a pile of the three or four punching bags I’ve knocked down or broken in the last six months, which have been sitting in a storage cupboard until today. She knows this position could end badly; I can tell by the rigidity in herstance. But she doesn’t hesitate. She signals for her team to follow, a clear plan forming behind her eyes.

She makes the first move, sprinting low and fast toward cover with a grace that surprises me.

---