Rose & Shadow: a spy story
Chapter 3: Just Out of Reach preview
The warehouse squats at the edge of the pier like a smudge in the dark, its shape barely distinguishable from the line of derelict buildings along the water. A single sodium lamp hums weakly above a loading door, casting a thin pool of light across warped planks and rusted railings. Below, the water slaps against the pylons in a slow, uneven rhythm, carrying the smell of salt, oil, and old wood.
Azriel stops half a block out.
Windows along the upper level. Most of them blacked out. A fire ladder bolted to the far wall, vanishing into shadow.
He’d already scoped the place online. Old records. Outdated images. Nothing useful.
In the end, there’s only one way in.
Straight through the loading door.
He doesn’t reach it before it opens.
Light spills out—warm, bright—a sharp contrast to the dead façade that made the building look abandoned from the outside. For a split second, he registers movement, shape—
Then a woman steps into the doorway.
“About time,” she says casually.
The recognition of her voice hits him like a misstep—sudden, disorienting.
Feyre Velaris looks barely out of her twenties, her face open and unguarded in a way that feels almost reckless, given the circumstances. Soft trousers. A loose sweater. Entirely at ease.
Before he can respond, her smile widens a fraction. “Come in. You’re going to freeze out there.”
Azriel crosses the threshold.
And the space opens up around him all at once.
Concrete floors worn smooth with use. Exposed beams overhead. A long table dominating the centre of the room, scattered with books and loose papers, a laptop left open beside a half-empty mug. A couch pulled close to a low coffee table stacked with files, cups, and the careless debris of daily life.
A small pair of shoes near the wall.
A home, hiding in plain sight.
Feyre watches him take it in, calm, observant—letting him find his footing.
“I’m Feyre,” she says lightly. “I realise that since you contacted me, you probably know that already. But it felt rude not to say it.”
She nods, then adds, “This is Rhys.”
Agent Nightfall—Rhys—is standing at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, an apron tied around his waist like this is the most natural place in the world for him to be.
He glances over his shoulder, assesses Azriel in a single sweep, and smiles.
“Shadow. You made good time.”
Azriel stares at him. “You’re… cooking.”
“Well,” Rhys says mildly, “it is my kitchen.”
Azriel turns slowly back to Feyre. “And you?”
She meets his gaze, then flicks a look over his shoulder to Rhys—quick, unreadable.
“I live here too,” she says. “When I’m not working.”
“Amongst other things,” Rhys says cheerfully, without turning around.
He turns, instinct snapping tight. The gun at his hip is up in the same breath, body already angling to put distance between the threat and the people behind him.
A woman steps into view on the upper level—and the response is immediate. Another weapon is drawn, levelled back at him without hesitation.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moves.
Bundled against the woman’s shoulder. Half-asleep. One small hand curled into her shirt.
The gun in Azriel’s hand feels suddenly—unmistakably—wrong.
“I always liked you, Shadow,” the woman says coolly. “So I’m going to give you the opportunity to stop pointing your gun at my nephew before I put a bullet in your head.”
There’s something in that voice—the cadence. The precision.
Azriel lowers his weapon.
