My voice echoes across the training yard, bouncing off stone walls as two dozen royal guards scramble to correct their formation. They’re sloppy—palace-bred and battle-soft despite their impressive uniforms. The old king preferred guards chosen for loyalty rather than skill. A mistake I’m determined to correct before someone puts a knife in Logan’s back.
“Again!” I bark, circling the formation with measured steps. “Intruder from the east entrance. Standard containment protocol. Move!”
They shift into position, marginally better than their first attempt. Still too slow, still too hesitant, but improvement nonetheless. I make mental notes of the weakest links, the ones who’ll need extra training or reassignment to less critical posts.
The wound in my side throbs dully, a constant reminder of my own recent failure. Two weeks since Logan claimed the throne, since I hung in chains while he fought his father to the death. My ribs have mostly healed, but the royal physician still clucks his tongue whenever I exert myself. As if I have the luxury of convalescence when there’s a kingdom to secure and a new king to protect.
“Better,” I acknowledge grudgingly. “But ‘better’ still gets you killed in a real attack. Again!”
A flicker of movement at the edge of the yard catches my attention—a splash of purple against the dull stone of the palace walls. Maya. She stands in the shadow of an archway, watching the training session with an expression I can’t quite read from this distance.
Something tightens in my chest at the sight of her. Unexpected. Unwelcome. I force my attention back to the guards, but my awareness of her presence lingers like a physical touch.
“Captain Deveraux, take over,” I order, nodding to my second-in-command. “Run them through the assassination response protocols. I want them moving as a unit, not twenty individuals in matching uniforms.”
Deveraux salutes crisply. “Yes, sir.”
I stride across the yard, my body automatically adjusting to minimize the pull on healing wounds. Maya steps forward as I approach, emerging from the shadows into the harsh sunlight.She’s wearing a simple dress of deep blue, her purple hair loose around her shoulders. No royal finery, no Omega submission. Just Maya, as fierce and unyielding as the day we met.
“Terrorizing the new recruits?” she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Training them,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there? They look equally terrified either way.”
I shrug, unwilling to admit she has a point. “Fear is an excellent motivator. They’ll learn faster if they’re afraid of failing.”
Maya’s expression shifts subtly, something like disappointment flickering across her features. “Some things haven’t changed, I see.”
The observation stings more than it should. I study her face, noting the shadows beneath her eyes, the tension she carries in her shoulders despite her casual stance. She’s exhausted. We all are. Rebuilding a kingdom, dismantling the old king’s corrupt institutions, establishing Logan’s authority—none of it leaves much room for rest.
But there’s something else in her demeanor, a nervous energy that seems out of place. She’s not usually one to seek me out without purpose.
“What brings you to the training yard?” I ask, cutting through the small talk. “I doubt you came to critique my teaching methods.”
Her eyes meet mine directly, unflinching in a way that still surprises me. Most Omega avoid direct eye contact with Alphas. Not Maya. Never Maya.
“I need to know if you’ll be in the royal suite tonight,” she says, the words coming out in a rush. “Or if you’re traveling again.”
The question catches me off guard. Since Logan claimed the throne, I’ve been serving as his envoy to the outlying provinces,delivering royal decrees and assessing the loyalty of regional governors. It’s necessary work, but it keeps me away from the palace for days at a time.
Away from the pack. Away from her.
I study her more carefully, noting the flush rising to her cheeks, the slight dilation of her pupils, the way her scent has sweetened almost imperceptibly. Recognition dawns with a jolt of something between alarm and desire.
Heat. She’s approaching her heat.
“Maya,” I begin, lowering my voice despite the distance between us and the nearest guards. “You shouldn’t be out here. Not when you’re?—“
“I know exactly what I am,” she interrupts, a flash of irritation crossing her features. “And I’m perfectly capable of managing my own condition.”
I raise an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Then why do you ask?”
Her flush deepens, but she doesn’t back down. “I’m asking because I need to make plans. Because unlike some people, I don’t make decisions that affect others without consulting them first.”
The barb lands precisely where she intended. I incline my head, acknowledging the hit. “Fair enough. To answer your question, I’m not sure. I may need to travel to the southern border, but nothing’s been decided.”
Maya nods, processing this information with a slight frown. “I see.”
