Chapter 38: The Distraction Protocol
The chemical silence didn’t last. Coyle fought his way back to the surface through layers of sticky, dark velvet, the pain in his leg a dull, persistent throb beneath the medicinal fog. The room was dim, the blackout curtains drawn tight. He was alone.
The space beside him in the bed was cold.
A spike of pure, undiluted panic lanced through the drug haze. He shoved himself up on his elbows, a grunt tearing from his throat. The movement made his vision swim. “Bunny?”
“She’s not here.” Ghost’s voice came from the corner, where he was slumped in a chair, looking like he hadn’t slept in a decade. “Don’t start. She’s fine.”
“Where?” The word was gravel.
“Out. With Maverick.”
Coyle stared at him. The panic curdled into something hotter, more volatile. “You let her go out? After everything you said?”
“I made her go.” Ghost rubbed his eyes. “She was vibrating. Sitting right where you left her, staring at that damn test on the nightstand like it was going to bite her. Her heart rate wouldn’t drop below a hundred. She was stressing me out. Maverick showed up to be an idiot about something, saw the situation, and proposed an intervention. I agreed.”
“An intervention.” Coyle’s voice was flat.
“A distraction. A big, loud, stupid one. Which is Maverick’s only specialty.” Ghost stood, his joints cracking. “It’s better than her sitting in this room absorbing your anxiety. She needs to remember there’s a world that isn’t just this bed and a possible…” He trailed off, not saying the word. “She needs to breathe air that doesn’t smell like fear and antiseptic.”
Coyle fell back against the pillows, the fight draining out of him. Ghost was right, and he hated it. The thought of her out there, without him, in a city that had already tried to chew her up, made his skin feel too tight. “If anything happens—”
“Maverick may be a chaos gremlin, but he’d set himself on fire before he let a hair on her head get damaged. You know that. He’s got the protective-idiot thing down to a science.” Ghost picked up a fresh bandage roll. “Now shut up and let me check your stitches. Your heartbeat is doing that fluttery rage-thing and it’s giving me a headache.”
The air outside the warehouse was a physical shock. It smelled of wet asphalt, distant food trucks, and the vague chemical tang of the city. Bunny stood on the curb, clutching the borrowed denim jacket around herself, feeling like a peeled nerve.
“Okay, mission parameters,” Maverick said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. He was vibrating with barely contained energy. “Step one: stop looking like you’re waiting for a bus to hell. Step two: acquire stuff that isn’t bloodstained, borrowed, or battle-grade tactical wear. Step three: maybe smile? It’s a wild concept, I know.”
She managed a weak twitch of her lips. “I don’t really need anything, Mav.”
“Bullshit. You need everything. Your entire wardrobe is Ghost’s flannels and Coyle’s t-shirts, which, don’t get me wrong, is a vibe, but it’s a ‘my boyfriend is a brooding werewolf alpha’ vibe. We’re expanding the brand.” He opened the passenger door of his modified, obnoxiously loud Chevelle. “Get in. The healing power of reckless commerce awaits.”
The drive was a blur of neon and noise. Maverick talked the entire time, a steady stream of nonsense about engine torque, a weird smell in the pack kitchen, and his theory that Ghost was secretly a vampire. It was overwhelming, but it was also a buffer. It pushed the echo of Ghost’s terrified voice—a loss, period—to the back of her skull.
He parked in a gleaming boutique district. The sidewalks were wide and clean, lined with trees sporting fairy lights even in the daytime. The stores had minimalist logos and price tags visible from the street. Bunny felt a hundred years old and covered in grime.
“This is… fancy,” she said, hesitant.
“It’s what you deserve,” Maverick said, entirely serious for half a second before his grin returned. “Also, they have terrible security and I know how to disable the RFID tags. Kidding. Mostly.”
He didn’t give her time to balk. He propelled her through a set of heavy glass doors into a space that smelled of lavender and money. Racks of impossibly soft fabric, glass cases of delicate jewelry, shoes that looked like sculptures.
A sleek saleswoman glided over, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. She took in Bunny’s worn boots, her too-big jacket, the nervous way she held herself. “Can I help you find something… basic?” the woman asked.
Maverick stepped in front of Bunny. “Nope. We’re good. We’re just gonna…” He swept his arm in a grand gesture. “…liberate some inventory. You maybe want to go count something in the back?”
His tone was cheerful, but his eyes held a glint that wasn’t human. The woman’s smile froze. She nodded once and retreated.
Bunny exhaled. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I did. Snobbery makes my teeth hurt.” He plucked a silky slip dress from a rack. It was the color of dark wine. “This. Try this on.”
“I can’t wear that. Where would I even—”
“The point isn’t to wear it to the grocery store. The point is to own it. To feel it.” He shoved the hanger into her hands. Then he started moving, a whirlwind of deliberate mayhem. A buttery-soft leather jacket. A pair of jeans that felt like a second skin. A absurdly impractical pair of stiletto heels with crimson soles. He added a simple black t-shirt, then a sweater so fine it seemed to weigh nothing.
He piled it all into her arms until she could barely see over it. “Changing room. Go. I’m not taking no for an answer. Think of it as tactile therapy.”
Bunny staggered into the large, mirrored room. She set the pile on a plush bench and just stared at it. For years, her clothes had been chosen by Kellan. Modest. Neutral. Easy to control. Then, survival gear. Borrowed scraps.
This was different. This was choice. Loud, impractical, possibly immoral choice.
Her fingers touched the slip dress. The fabric whispered against her skin. She stripped off the borrowed clothes, standing in the cool air of the room. Her body looked the same in the mirror. But it wasn’t. It was a secret. It was a warzone and a sanctuary all at once.
She pulled the dress on. It slipped over her hips, clung to her ribs, the straps thin as whispers. The color made her auburn hair look fiercer, her skin seem paler. She looked… unknown. To herself most of all.
A knock on the door. “You alive in there? Or did you get eaten by a sentient scarf?”
She opened the door.
Maverick’s eyebrows shot up. He let out a long, low whistle. “Okay. Yeah. That’s the stuff. Coyle’s gonna have a damn aneurysm.” He then tossed a bundle of black lace at her. It landed on her arm. “Now that.”
It was a lingerie set. Delicate, intricate, powerfully insubstantial.
Bunny felt a blush heat her neck. “Maverick.”
“What? It’s armor. Different kind. Now try the jacket.”
It became a blur. The leather jacket transformed her, made her shoulders look sharper. The heels made her legs feel endless, even as she wobbled. The jeans made her feel strong. She said yes to some things, no to others, finding a thread of her own taste beneath the avalanche of his enthusiasm.
At the register, the pile was monumental. The saleswoman rang it up, her disdain now mixed with a hungry glee at the total scrolling on the screen.
Maverick pulled out a sleek black credit card and tossed it on the counter.
Bunny leaned in. “Is that…?”
“Coyle’s. Obviously.” He winked. “He’s convalescing. He needs a hobby. Fraud investigation will be fun for him.”
“He’s going to kill you.”
“Only if he can catch me.” He tapped the pin into the reader with a flourish. The machine beeped acceptance.
They carried out a dozen glossy bags, stuffing them into the Chevelle’s backseat until it overflowed. Bunny climbed into the passenger seat, a strange, buoyant feeling in her chest. It wasn’t joy, not exactly. It was a kind of defiant ownership. Of fabric, of choice, of a moment that didn’t belong to fear.
As Maverick fired up the engine, she caught her reflection in the side mirror. A woman in a leather jacket, color in her cheeks, bags of plundered goods at her feet. She almost didn’t recognize herself.
Back in the warehouse, Coyle’s phone buzzed on the nightstand beside the plastic test. He fumbled for it, his fingers clumsy.
The screen flashed with a banking app notification.
Transaction Alert: $3,847.21 at SELF STYLES BOUTIQUE.
He blinked at it. Then another notification popped up.
Transaction Alert: $1,225.50 at SELF STYLES BOUTIQUE.
Then another.
Ghost, who was mixing a nutrient shake that smelled like chalk and regret, glanced over. “What’s that look? You finally pass a kidney stone?”
Coyle held up the phone, the screen glowing in the dark room. Notification after notification rolled down, a digital ticker-tape of extravagance.
Ghost walked over, peered at it, and a slow, genuine smirk spread across his exhausted face. He let out a short, sharp laugh. “Told you it was a bad idea.” He gestured to the phone with the spoon. “But look at it this way. She’s not stressing about her cellular conflict of interest right now, is she?”
Coyle stared at the staggering total now flashing on his screen. The panic, the protectiveness, the sheer, bewildered rage at Maverick’s audacity… it all swirled together. And underneath it, a thread of something else. She was out there. She was alive. She was spending a truly ridiculous amount of his money.
He dropped the phone onto his chest and stared at the ceiling, a faint, helpless sound escaping him. It was almost a laugh.
It was almost a laugh. The sound died in his throat, strangled by a fresh wave of pain as he shifted, but the ghost of it remained in the tight line of his mouth. Ghost watched him, the smirk fading into something more assessing.
“That’s new,” Ghost muttered, turning back to his foul-smelling concoction.
The Chevelle’s engine was a comforting, rumbling purr as they left the boutique district behind. Bunny watched the city blur past, her fingers tracing the buttery-soft leather of the jacket she’d kept on. The bags in the back rustled with every turn.
“I think I need to return the heels,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I’ll break an ankle.”
“Nonsense. You’ll learn. Or you’ll wear them just to sit on the bike and look devastating. Both are valid.” Maverick drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to a song only he could hear. “Feel better?”
“I feel… something.” She glanced at him. “Lighter. Which is stupid, given the…”
She trailed off, her hand drifting unconsciously to rest low on her stomach, over the silky fabric of the new dress. It was a small, protective gesture. She didn’t even realize she was doing it.
Maverick caught the movement from the corner of his eye. His drumming stopped. “You okay? Got a cramp or something? Ghost said you were off your food.” His tone was casually concerned, no trace of his usual manic energy.
“No, it’s not a cramp.” She took a breath, the words feeling too big for the car’s interior. “I was just thinking. Some of this stuff might not fit for long. I might need, you know, some comfy clothes soon. For later.”
Maverick flicked his indicator, changing lanes. “For later? What, like pajamas? We got that sweater. That thing is a cloud.”
“Not for sleeping. For… when I start showing.” The words hung in the air, simple and devastating.
Maverick was silent for three full seconds. The car drifted slightly toward the curb. “Showing what?” he asked, his voice genuinely confused.
Bunny turned to look at him fully, her green eyes wide and serious. “Mav.”
He glanced at her, saw the profound weight in her expression, and his brain finally made the connection. His foot slipped off the gas. The car lurched.
“You mean showing showing?” he croaked. His head snapped between her and the road. “As in— with a— you and Coyle— a baby showing?”
“Yes.” The word was a whisper.
Maverick’s mouth opened. No sound came out. He made a wet, choking noise in the back of his throat, like he’d swallowed his own tongue. The Chevelle swerved sharply toward the concrete curb, tires screeching.
Bunny grabbed the dashboard. “Mav! The road!”
He yanked the wheel, over-correcting, sending them into a wobbly fishtail before he regained control. He pulled the car roughly into the next available parking spot, a tight space between two SUVs, and slammed it into park. The engine died with a cough.
Silence, except for the rough sound of his breathing. He stared straight ahead through the windshield, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“You’re pregnant.” He said it not as a question, but as a fact he was trying to etch into reality. “Bunny is pregnant. Coyle… Coyle’s gonna be a dad.” He turned to her, his eyes wider than she’d ever seen them. “The test. That’s what that was on the nightstand. That’s why Ghost looked like death warmed over.”
She nodded, her throat tight.
A cascade of expressions flooded his face—shock, disbelief, dawning panic, then a wild, glittering amazement. “Holy shit.” He unbuckled his seatbelt with a frantic click and turned fully in his seat. “Holy, holy shit. Does Cain know? Please tell me that bastard doesn’t know.”
“No. Just Coyle, Ghost, and now you.”
“And me,” he repeated, slumping back. He ran both hands over his face, pulling at his skin. “Okay. Okay. This is huge. This is… a whole person. A tiny wolf-person. Running around.” He dropped his hands, his gaze sharpening on her. “Are you okay? Like, for real? Ghost was whispering doom and gloom.”
“I’m scared,” she admitted, the honesty a relief. “Everything’s… precarious. Ghost says my body is a conflict of interest.”
“Ghost says a lot of things. Mostly complainy things.” Maverick’s energy was returning, channeling now into a fierce, protective focus. “But you’re here. You’re buying stupidly expensive jackets. You’re not… you know. Bleeding or anything?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Good. That’s step one.” He nodded, a plan visibly forming behind his eyes. “Okay. New mission parameters. Everything is baby-support now. Those heels? Gone. We’re returning them for… I don’t know, orthopedic inserts and steak. You need protein. And calcium. Do wolves need extra calcium?”
“Mav.”
“Right. Breathe. I’m breathing.” He took an exaggerated, deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. The initial shock was receding, replaced by a giddy, terrifying wonder. “A pup. The pack’s gonna lose its collective mind.”
He looked at the bags piled in the back, his perspective on them utterly transformed. The lace, the silk, the leather—it all seemed suddenly beside the point. “We need to go back,” he said, his voice decisive.
“To the store?”
“No. Home. To Coyle. He’s lying there alone thinking about credit fraud while his whole world just changed dimensions.” Maverick restarted the car, his movements deliberate. “And I need to look him in the eye after basically stealing his money to buy his pregnant… mate… lingerie. This is either the best or worst thing I’ve ever done.”
He pulled back into traffic, driving with an uncharacteristic, solemn care. The neon glow of the city seemed softer, the noises more distant.
Bunny watched him, the usual restless vibration in his limbs replaced by a steady, focused intensity. The secret was out, and it was in Maverick’s hands now. That thought was less frightening than she’d imagined.
“He’s not going to be mad about the money,” she said quietly.
“Oh, he’s gonna be pissed about the money. But he’s gonna be too busy having a permanent brain short-circuit over the other thing to do anything about it.” A slow, real grin spread across Maverick’s face. “This is gonna be so fun.”
Back at the warehouse, Coyle’s phone had gone mercifully silent. The heavy, medicinal pull was dragging him under again despite his fighting it. The door downstairs banged open.
He heard the rustle of countless bags, Maverick’s loud, stage-whisper, “Don’t drop that one, it’s the delicate stuff!”, and Bunny’s soft, shushing reply.
Footsteps on the stairs. Not just Bunny’s light step, but Maverick’s purposeful tread right alongside her. They stopped outside the bedroom door.
Coyle forced his eyes open, his head heavy on the pillow. The door pushed open.
Bunny stepped in first, her silhouette framed in the doorway, the new leather jacket shaping her shoulders. Her expression was different. Calmer. Softer at the edges.
Maverick filled the space behind her, his hands full of glossy bags. He met Coyle’s gaze over her head. The usual irreverent glint in his eye was gone, replaced by something sober and deeply earnest. He gave Coyle a single, slow, meaningful nod.
It was a communication as clear as words. I know. I’ve got her.
Then the manic energy flooded back into his features, a mask snapped neatly into place. “Mission accomplished, Boss,” he announced, his voice just a hair too loud. “Spent a ton of your cash. No regrets. She looks killer. You’re welcome.” He dumped the bags just inside the door with a dramatic flourish.
Coyle’s exhausted gaze moved from Maverick’s performed nonchalance to Bunny’s quiet face. The unspoken understanding settled in the room, thick and new. The fraud alerts, the near-crash, the secret now held between them all—it was just noise.
The only thing that mattered was the small, certain smile touching Bunny’s lips as she walked toward the bed.