They all ended up around the heavy oak dining table—the only piece of furniture in the house sturdy enough to hold the weight of the room.
Ashley's brilliant soup slowly went lukewarm in the ceramic bowls. Fresh, crusty bread sat torn and untouched on a cutting board. Ashley kept stirring her spoon in tight circles, just to give her hands something to do besides point at people. Ebony sat rigidly in her chair, her silver eyes heavy and tired, constantly drifting to Raphael's carved profile like she was trying to make his presence make logical sense in her quiet life.
Dr. Marjorie Baptiste took the seat at the head of the table without claiming it. She just sat down, and the architecture of the room immediately arranged itself around her gravity. Dr. Charles Baptiste sat directly beside her, calm as ever, one hand resting flat on the wood like a physical anchor for his family.
Raphael stayed close enough to Ebony that his knee almost brushed her chair. He wasn't hovering. He was just there. Solid. A massive, lethal wall between her and the front door.
Thiago and the rest of the pack took their seats like heavily armed men simultaneously invited to a chaotic family dinner and a hostile legal deposition.
Nobody reached for their phones. That alone felt wrong for a Sunday afternoon.
Ashley cleared her throat, tried for normal, failed, and tried again.
"So… hi," Ashley said, forcing a brittle sliver of brightness into her tone. "Welcome home. I'm sorry the circumstances are… whatever the hell this is."
Marjorie's mouth twitched. "We've landed in worse situations, Ashley."
"Yeah," Charles added, his voice dry and flat. "We once ate a highly tense dinner in a UN tent while a local warlord argued with a goat outside."
Ashley blinked, her spoon freezing. "I'm sorry, what?"
Ebony's silver eyes widened slightly, a ghost of a real smile appearing like she'd forgotten this specific piece of family lore existed. "Dad—don't tell that story."
Charles shrugged. "The goat ultimately won the argument."
That deadpan delivery pulled a short, genuine laugh out of Ashley. Ebony smiled too, looking soft and grateful, like she'd been holding her breath all morning waiting to see if her parents were still the same people they used to be before the trauma.
Marjorie's intense gaze moved to Ebony. The formidable steel softened for one maternal second. "How's your head feeling, baby?"
Ebony hesitated, shrugging one shoulder gently. "It's okay. I'm just… really tired."
Marjorie nodded slowly, diagnosing her just from the rigid posture and dilated pupils. "Eat two more bites of that soup. Then you have permission to be tired."
Ashley leaned slightly toward Ebony, dropping her voice into the intimate Creole dialect they used when they were home-home. "Mwen di'w… she gon' boss you 'til you heal." (I'm telling you... she's going to boss you until you heal.)
Ebony's mouth twitched into a smirk. "Wi… I know."
Charles lifted his dark eyebrows. "You two girls still do that secret language thing."
Ashley sat up straighter, instantly defensive. "It's not a secret language thing."
Marjorie's sharp eyes slid lazily to Ashley. "It is exactly that thing, Ashley."
Ashley groaned, dropping her head back. "Okay. Fine."
The suffocating tension in the room finally loosened a fraction. It wasn't gone. It was just breathing.
But Raphael's team didn't breathe any easier.
Because the second Marjorie and Charles Baptiste walked through the front door, something fundamental in the air of the house had shifted—and it wasn't just "protective parents are mad" energy.
Thiago's disciplined mental voice brushed against the encrypted pack mind-link, laced with a sharp edge.
[Boss… you feel that?]
Raphael didn't look across the table at his Beta. He didn't need to.
[I feel it.]
Dante chimed in, his mental tone lazy but serious. [That is definitively not normal-people energy in the room.]
Mateo cut in fast, trying to rationalize it. [Maybe it's just their parental vibe. Some highly educated doctors just have that intense, commanding aura.]
Isaías was short and blunt. [No. Not a vibe.]
Lucas wasn't physically sitting at the table—he was still hidden at the safehouse, working the shipping clue and monitoring the bound survivor from the alley—but his clinical voice sliced through the long-distance link like a sterile knife.
[They aren't completely human. Neither is that detective Cruz. Your mate is surrounded by unknown variables.]
Raphael's jaw tightened so subtly that only Thiago caught the flex of muscle.
[They're her adopted parents,] Thiago shot back, playing the voice of reason. [They raised her. They won't hurt her.]
Raphael's mental response was freezing cold. [I never leave her unprotected around unknown power.]
Mateo's mental voice got softer, almost pleading with his Alpha not to start a war in a kitchen. [Boss… they raised her. They clearly love her. You can literally smell the affection on them.]
Raphael's golden eyes flicked discreetly down to Marjorie's hands resting lightly on the table. They were steady. Not trembling. They were not the soft hands of a sheltered civilian, or even the pristine hands of a wealthy surgeon.
They were heavily scarred, deeply calloused hands. The hands of a woman who had done dark, violent things in the name of survival.
He didn't answer Mateo. He didn't have to.
Across the wide table, Marjorie was talking like the dining room wasn't full of massive men who moved like apex predators. She acted like it was just a normal Sunday dinner with a few extra chairs.
"We were in Saudi," Marjorie said, her tone conversational. "Not on a luxury vacation. We were working."
Ashley leaned forward over her bowl, curious. "Where exactly?"
Marjorie gave her youngest daughter a withering look that explicitly communicated: You know exactly why I am not saying the coordinates out loud in a room full of armed men.
Ashley held up both hands in surrender. "Okay. Yeah. My bad. Understood. Continue."
Charles took over the narrative without a shred of drama. "We were stationed at a secure safe house. A designated partner clinic. A massive amount of bureaucratic paperwork. A truly agonizing amount of waiting in the dark."
"And a young boy," Marjorie added, her strong voice going softer without losing its underlying steel. "His name is Kian."
Ebony's exhausted gaze lifted. "He's okay?"
Marjorie nodded. "He's stubborn. Frighteningly smart for his age. He doesn't cry easily, which honestly makes me want to fight whoever taught him that specific survival trait."
Ashley's throat tightened. She looked down at her bowl and actively pretended the steam from the soup was making her dark eyes sting.
Marjorie's tone snapped back into practical logistics. "We successfully filed the initial international forms. I'll probably fly back in a week or so if commercial flights behave. Charles and I will finish the extraction process."
"You two are insane," Ashley said, and it wasn't a sarcastic joke. It was a mixture of deep admiration and genuine fear.
Charles's mouth curved into a warm, paternal smile. "We're simply committed to the cause, Ashley."
Ebony's voice came out quiet. "You always do this. You run toward the fire."
Marjorie's dark eyes held hers fiercely. "We always show up when we're needed."
A beat of heavy silence passed.
Then Ashley—fundamentally incapable of sitting in emotional softness for too long without wanting to hit something—pointed her wooden spoon directly at Raphael.
"So," Ashley said, her voice careful but sharp. "Raphael."
Raphael's golden-brown gaze shifted to her face immediately.
Ashley swallowed hard. "We genuinely appreciate you being here. Truly. We owe you. But I need to logically understand what's happening without Ebony having to verbally relive the trauma."
Ebony automatically opened her mouth—probably to politely say it's fine, I can handle it—but Marjorie expertly cut her off with a wave of her hand.
"Let your sister talk, Ebony," Marjorie said firmly.
Ebony closed her mouth. A wave of relief visibly flickered in her silver eyes. She looked like a woman who desperately wanted someone else to carry the crushing weight of the interrogation.
Ashley nodded once, grateful for her mother's flawless backup.
Raphael didn't soften the hard lines of his face, but his voice remained controlled. "Ask your questions."
Ashley's eyebrows jumped up. "Okay. That was… unexpectedly direct for a guy who won't tell me his actual job title."
Raphael said nothing in response. He just waited.
Ashley glanced at her parents, then at Ebony's pale face, then directly back to Raphael's eyes. "What exactly do you know about James Knighton? How long was he watching her before Friday night?"
Raphael's tactical team went completely, terrifyingly still inside the mind-link.
[Thiago: Be careful, Alpha.]
[Dante: Do not say too much. We don't know who they work for yet.]
[Mateo: Don't say nothing either, man. That'll just make them wildly suspicious of us.]
Raphael answered out loud, his tone measured. "He was watching her long enough to formulate a flawless plan."
Marjorie's dark eyes narrowed, zeroing in on the phrasing. "He specifically planned the exact restaurant."
Raphael's gaze flicked to her.
Marjorie's tone didn't change a degree. "Detective Cruz explicitly told us in the hospital. The high-end reservation was made two full weeks ago."
Ebony blinked rapidly. "Two—" She swallowed hard, her throat clicking. "He… he told me at the table that he just got lucky with a cancellation."
Ashley's face tightened with pure disgust. "Of course the sociopath did."
Raphael didn't look at Ebony when he finally spoke. He kept his voice steady so she wouldn't hear the homicidal rage vibrating just under it.
"He wasn't lucky," Raphael said flatly. "He was patient."
The profound silence that followed made the tiny clink of a spoon against a ceramic bowl feel too loud.
Charles's voice came into the void, incredibly calm. "And the black van."
Ashley's head snapped toward her dad. "Wait, you actually knew about the van?"
Charles nodded once. "We received a detailed call from the precinct while we were waiting on the tarmac. We got a thorough briefing. We got the picture."
Ebony's bruised hands curled tightly into fists on the wooden table. Her voice went small, stripping away the academic armor. "There was… there was really a van waiting in the alley?"
Ashley reached under the table and squeezed Ebony's knee once. A quiet, physical tether. I'm right here.
Raphael's golden eyes tracked the small, comforting motion like it mattered to him. Like every single touch Ebony received in her life should only come from someone safe and vetted.
Marjorie spoke without looking away from Ebony's pale face. "Yes, baby. There was a van."
Ebony's breath finally left her lungs in a long, slow, shuddering exhale, like she'd been desperately holding it since Friday night.
Raphael's heavy jaw flexed violently.
Inside the mind-link, Thiago actively tried to pull his Alpha back from the ledge.
[Boss. Hold the line. She's processing the trauma. Do not flare your aura right now. You'll terrify the room.]
Raphael's mental reply was a terrifying, subsonic growl. [I am fine.]
[Mateo: You're not fine, Boss.]
[Dante: He's literally never fine.]
[Isaías: He's contained. That's what matters.]
Contained. That was the best anyone in the pack could say right now.
Ashley lifted her silver spoon again, looking like she needed something physical to do besides shake with rage. "Okay," she said, her voice growing steadier. "So what happens now? What's the actionable plan?"
Raphael's golden eyes stayed locked on Ebony's face while he answered Ashley. "High-end security. Localized cameras. My men will rotate shifts on the perimeter."
Marjorie leaned back slightly in her chair, crossing her arms. "And what about you."
Raphael didn't hesitate for a millisecond. "I stay right here."
Ebony's pale cheeks warmed rapidly. She desperately tried to hide the flush by lifting her bowl and taking a small sip of broth.
Ashley caught the blush and made an exaggerated face at the ceiling, praying for patience.
Charles watched Raphael intensely for a long, heavy moment. His tone was gentle, but dangerous in its own quiet way.
"You keep saying 'stay' like you've already unilaterally decided you belong here in this house."
Raphael's molten gaze met his without flinching. "I do."
That bold statement should have sounded ridiculous coming from a stranger. It didn't sound ridiculous coming from him. It sounded like an unbreakable law of physics.
A wooden chair creaked loudly as Mateo shifted his weight, uncomfortable with how sharp and territorial the conversation was getting.
[Mateo: Boss, they're grilling you like it's a Sunday school interrogation.]
[Raphael: Quiet.]
[Thiago: We can politely leave. Give the family some breathing space to process.]
Raphael didn't entertain the tactical suggestion. [No. I'm not leaving.]
Dante's mind-voice slipped into the link with the worst possible idea. [If we're dealing with an unknown, potentially hostile magical power in these parents, we should bring in Seraphine to sweep the house. Let the witch sniff the room and tell us what they are.]
[Thiago: Absolutely not. Negative.]
[Mateo: Hell no. She's crazy.]
[Isaías: No witches near the mate.]
Raphael's mind went freezing cold. [Do not ever invite that witch to this property.]
[Dante: We wouldn't formally invite her. We'd simply consult her as an asset.]
[Thiago: It's the exact same thing, idiot.]
Raphael's intense eyes stayed locked on Marjorie and Charles, but his heavy jaw tightened as if he could physically feel Seraphine's dark, suffocating presence just from the passing thought of her name.
Marjorie, meanwhile, had relaxed completely back into her chair. She acted like she was just casually listening to everyone talk about the weather.
She acted like she wasn't tracking every microscopic shift in the room's barometric pressure.
She acted like she wasn't hearing the unsaid.
She laughed suddenly—a soft, warm, perfectly timed sound—at something Ashley mumbled under her breath in rapid Creole.
Ashley blinked, confused. "Wait—Mom, you understood that dialect?"
Marjorie smiled, a slow, mysterious curve of her lips. "I understood enough of it."
Then Marjorie's dark, striking eyes slid lazily over to Raphael. She stared directly into his golden-brown irises, looking like she was effortlessly peering through his bronze skin and heavy bone, looking straight into whatever ancient monster lived underneath the human suit.
She didn't raise her voice a single decibel.
She didn't change her relaxed, maternal expression.
She just spoke out loud into the room like it was normal, polite dinner conversation… and at the exact same millisecond, her words landed violently inside Raphael's head with ringing, crystal clarity.
[Do not ever invite a dark witch to my daughters' home.]
Every single supernatural spine sitting at Raphael's side went completely, rigidly straight.
Thiago's dark eyes widened a fraction of an inch in genuine shock. Dante's breath hitched audibly. Mateo froze mid-blink. Isaías's massive hand instantly curled into a tight, ready fist underneath the wooden table.
Raphael didn't move.
He didn't physically react.
But deep inside his chest, the massive jaguar lifted its heavy head—now fully, aggressively awake.
Marjorie kept smiling pleasantly, acting like she'd just finished telling a funny, lighthearted story about a goat.
She casually took another small sip of her lukewarm soup and added, her mental voice still terrifyingly calm, still almost darkly amused—
[You can certainly try.]
A heavy beat.
[But they won't cross my threshold alive.]
The entire dining room stayed completely quiet.
But it wasn't an awkward, polite quiet anymore. It was the silence of absolute, paralyzed shock.
Because Dr. Marjorie Baptiste hadn't just magically heard their highly encrypted pack link.
She'd been casually, effortlessly listening to them the entire time.