Born To Be More

Lost Angel

Max

I’m raging.

I grip the back of the seat in front of me, trying to breathe through the white-hot fury pulsing in my veins. I need to pull myself together before she comes back. I can’t let her see me like this—not yet.

Tyson paces inside my head, growling, ears pinned back.

“He touched our mate. We should’ve ripped his throat out.”

“I know. I f*****g know.”

I spot the senior flight attendant a few seats ahead.

“Veronica.”

She turns and smiles politely.

“Yes, sir?”

“A man was up here a minute ago—older than me, black ripped jeans, black shirt, longish dark hair. Who is he?”

Her smile falters.

“There’s no one of that description in business class, sir.”

“Are you sure?” I snap, the edge in my voice unmistakable.

She straightens a little, lips tight.

“Sir, I can assure you—he’s not seated in business class.”

“Then you need to find out who the hell he is and where he’s sitting,” I growl. “He was harassing a passenger. A business-class passenger.”

Her face pales.

“Yes, sir. I’ll look into it right away.”

“And Veronica,” I add, lowering my voice. “Be discreet.”

She nods stiffly and walks off.

I pull out my phone and fire off a message to my assistant—flight records, seat maps, surveillance if needed. I want that bastard’s name, his address, his f*****g blood type.

Then I head back to my seat to wait for Raine, jaw clenched so hard it might snap.

Because if I ever see that guy again, it won’t be security escorting him away.

We take our seats and buckle up for the landing. I feel her tense beside me, so I reach for her hand. She doesn’t pull away. That simple touch settles something in both of us—brings her calm, and gives me purpose. Tyson, too, quiets inside my head.

We land smoothly in Los Angeles. I’m surprised when she doesn’t hesitate to give me her phone number—and even more surprised when she kisses me softly on the cheek.

“Thank you for your company,” she says.

Fuck, my chest tightens. How the hell did I go from loner alpha to whipped mess in under twenty-four hours?

As she walks toward customs, Veronica steps up beside me and slips me a folded slip of paper.

“The information you asked for, sir.”

“Thank you.”

I watch Raine go. I hate leaving her alone, even for a second. But there are things I need to take care of—things that will keep her safe. This isn’t just a coincidence. That bastard on the plane had intent.

“Max, I feel her wolf getting stronger.”

Tyson’s voice is softer now, thoughtful.

“But I still can’t reach her. I don’t think she knows how to communicate with her wolf. Yet. But the more time we spend with her, the stronger she gets.”

“It’ll be okay,” I promise.

“She’s ours, Tyson. We’ll be there for her when the time comes. We’ll help her find who she really is.”

I only hope we’re not too late. Normally, kids grow up in the pack, learning what it means to shift, to bond. But Raine? She's been flying blind her whole life. No wonder she’s so lost in all this.

I pull out my phone and call Luke. He picks up after a couple rings.

“Luke, I need everything you can get me on Raine Marshall, the Shine Agency, and a man named Mark Thompson—he was on the same flight as me.”

“No problem, boss. I’ve already sent you a file on Raine. I’ll get started on the rest.”

“Good. I also need a car waiting for me at the domestic arrivals terminal. I’m heading straight to the pack house office. Contact my father—I want him to meet me there.”

“You got it.”

I hang up and head for security. Of course, I get flagged. Apparently, flying one way and buying a new domestic ticket is suspicious behavior. Nosy bastards.

After finally getting through, I make my way back into the departure lounge, scanning the crowd.

Time to find Raine.

I head toward the bar and notice a crowd of police and security clustered near the entrance. Curious, I slow—until I catch sight of the person at the center of their attention.

My heart stops.

“Mate’s hurt,” Tyson growls, his voice deadly.

No. No, no, no.

“Rainey, is everything okay here?” I ask, dread churning in my gut.

“Max—” Her voice breaks as she bursts into tears, and I move without thinking. I pull her into my arms, wrapping her in my strength. I want to f*****g roar. To tear the place apart until every threat to her is eradicated.

I glare at the nearest officer, my voice rough with restrained fury.

“Explain. Now.”

The older cop in front steps forward, glancing at Raine before speaking. She gives a faint nod. The officer relays everything she told them, and every word drives another spike of rage into my chest.

My grip tightens instinctively. I need her close. But she winces, hissing in pain, and Tyson lunges forward in my head with a growl.

I pull back immediately, eyes scanning her.

“Are you hurt, Angel?”

“A little,” she says quietly, her voice shaky.

“Fuck.” I release her gently and let her step out of my grasp, though my arms ache to pull her right back.

I turn to the officer again, fury hardening my tone.

“Did you get the arsehole?”

“Yes. He’s in custody and not going anywhere.”

The officer pauses.

“You should also know… he was booked on the same flight as Miss Marshall. To New York.”

I clench my jaw, trying to contain the firestorm building in my chest.

He followed her.

From the plane.

That piece of s**t was hunting her.

“What’s his name?”

The officers glance at each other before the older one answers.

“Mark Thompson.”

Thompson.

Fucking Thompson.

The name from Raine’s agent. From Shine.

I take a deep breath, leashing the rage for now.

“Thank you.”

I hand the officer my card. His eyes widen slightly as he reads the name, and he gives a respectful nod before walking off.

I turn back to the bar, nodding at the bartender.

“Scotch. On the rocks.”

I wrap an arm gently around Raine, needing to feel her close.

"Do you need to get checked out, Angel? A doctor maybe?"

"No," she murmurs, "I just want to get to my apartment."

Her voice is small. Lost.

It breaks something inside me.

Without another word, I lead her to the massage chairs, helping her down gently into the seat. I kneel in front of her and slide her heels off, placing her feet into the massage slots.

She raises a brow at me, the corner of her mouth twitching despite everything.

"Trust me, Angel. It'll help you relax."

I turn on the machine, and her sigh of relief makes me smile.

The barman returns with our drinks and sets them on the side table. He glances at Raine, then passes me a small ice pack.

"For her head," he says quietly.

I stiffen.

"Thanks, man."

He gives me a nod and walks away.

I turn to Raine, who’s now letting the massage chair work its magic.

"Angel… you’ve got a sore head, and you didn’t tell me?"

She shrugs a little.

"Yeah… just a small bump. It’s fine now."

No.

No, it’s not.

I move behind her and carefully part her hair, my fingers brushing the back of her scalp until I find it—hot and swollen.

Fuck. That’s not small.

I press the ice pack gently to the spot, and she lets out a small whimper of pain.

"Sorry, Angel," I say softly, adjusting it so she doesn’t have to hold it. I secure it against the headrest with a folded towel from the chair pocket and sit down beside her again.

I glance at her, jaw still tight from the earlier adrenaline. But all I feel now is this fierce ache to make everything better for her.

She’s safe.

For now.

But not for long unless I figure out how to protect her.

A text alert from Luke flashes across my phone: The information you asked for is ready.

Good. I tap out a quick reply, letting him know what happened at the airport. I also tell him to follow up with Chic about Raine’s security—I want my men on her detail, 24/7. No gaps. No excuses.

Dad has investments in Chic and still sits on their board. He’ll support me—he always has, especially when it comes to pack matters. And this is a pack matter, whether Raine knows it or not.

We land in New York, and for the first time since L.A., I feel a breath of relief. Home. Closer to the pack. Closer to my resources.

I glance over at Raine and see that same sense of relief on her face—but hers is wrapped in exhaustion. She's quieter, withdrawn. Lost in her head for most of the flight.

She never once asked why I was seated next to her again.

We pass through arrivals, grab our bags, and head toward the main exit. Every step feels heavier. I don’t want to let her go. Every instinct in me is screaming to bring her home. But she’s not ready. She doesn’t even know who she is yet.

"Angel," I say softly.

She looks up at me, eyes glassy, and I notice she’s shivering.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes," she replies, but her voice is small—too small.

I pull her into my arms and hold her, letting her lean against me. She melts into my chest like she was made for it.

"Is it weird I’m not ready to leave you, even though I only met you yesterday?" she murmurs into me.

"No, Angel. It’s perfectly normal."

I chuckle lightly, brushing my lips against her hair.

Perfectly normal—for fated mates.

She sighs and slowly pulls away, her fingers lingering at my coat for just a moment longer than she probably realizes.

"Thank you for everything," she says.

I nod and give her one last hug, memorizing the way she feels against me. Then I walk her toward the exit, resisting the deep, primal urge to throw her over my shoulder and never let her out of my sight again.

I spot a man standing near the terminal exit, holding a sign with her name: Miss Marshall.

I gently guide her in his direction. She hesitates for half a second before stepping forward.

"I'm Miss Marshall," she says quietly when we reach him.

"Great! I’m Caine, from Chic. I’ll be getting you settled into your accommodation today." He smiles, reaching out to shake her hand.

His gaze flicks toward me, curious.

I hand him my card, my tone firm.

"I’m a friend of Miss Marshall’s. Please contact me directly if anything comes up. Anything at all."

Caine takes the card and reads my name. His brows lift slightly before he glances back at Raine—his smile turning a little wider, a little more respectful.

"Rainey," I say, turning my full attention to her, "you have my number. You call me if there’s any problem. I don’t care what time it is. I’ll be there. I’m at your disposal."

She nods slowly, eyes a little glassy but clear.

"Okay," she whispers.

"Are you ready, Miss Marshall?" Caine asks her.

"Yes," she replies, this time with more strength. Her spine straightens. Her chin lifts.

That’s my girl, I think, pride swelling in my chest. I smile.

"Don’t forget our date," I tease gently. "I’ll call you later. Enjoy your first day in New York."

I lean in and kiss her cheek—soft, lingering longer than necessary.

"Bye, Angel."

She turns, smiling back at me, her eyes bright.

"Bye, Wolf."