He laughs, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. “Don’t sound so shocked. I’m capable of growth, you know.”
“Evidently.” I study him through the steam, seeing him with new eyes. “So you’re really not concerned about Maya bearing your child? About continuing your direct line?”
“I’m concerned with Maya being happy,” Logan says simply. “With her having the freedom to choose her own path. If that path includes children—mine or anyone else’s—I’ll support her decision. But I won’t pressure her, and I won’t use her body as a political tool.” His eyes harden slightly. “And neither will anyone else, if they value their continued existence.”
The threat is subtle but unmistakable. King or not, Logan remains the most dangerous Alpha I’ve ever known. And while his priorities may have shifted, his capacity for violence in defense of what he cares about has not diminished in the slightest.
“Fair enough,” I concede, raising my hands in mock surrender. “Consider the subject dropped.”
Logan nods, seemingly satisfied. “Good. Now, was there anything else, or did you just come in here for the pleasure of my company while boiling alive?”
I hesitate, debating whether to push further. There are other matters that need his attention—border disputes that threaten to escalate, nobles still resistant to his reforms, the ongoing process of dismantling his father’s fertility clinics. But those can wait. For now, I’m content to sit in companionable silence withthis new version of Logan, this king who has learned that true strength sometimes lies in letting go.
“Just the pleasure of your company,” I say finally, settling back against the wall. “Though I might regret it when my skin melts off.”
Logan laughs again, the sound freer than I’ve heard in months. “Weak,” he teases. “I thought you were supposed to be tough.”
“Tough, yes. Suicidal, no.” I reach for the water pitcher, pouring myself a cup. “Some of us still have self-preservation instincts.”
“Overrated,” Logan dismisses, but there’s no heat in it. Just the easy banter of old friends who’ve seen each other at their worst and survived to tell the tale.
We lapse into comfortable silence, the hiss of steam and the occasional drip of water the only sounds in the small room. I close my eyes, letting the heat work its way into muscles perpetually tense from the constant vigilance my position requires. For this brief moment, there are no threats to assess, no dangers to anticipate. Just peace, and the knowledge that the man I've followed through hell and back has finally found his way to something resembling wisdom.
It won't last, of course. Nothing does in the volatile world of court politics. But for now, it's enough.
CHAPTER 37
Cillian
Our armored jolts over another pothole, sending a spike of pain through my still-healing side. I hide my wince, keeping my expression neutral as Logan glances my way. No sense in giving him another reason to regret bringing me along on this expedition.
“How much further?” Maya asks from beside me.
“Not far,” Logan replies, his eyes fixed on the passing landscape beyond the carriage window. “Another mile, perhaps less.”
I study his profile, noting the tension in his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows. He’s been unusually quiet during our journey, offering only vague explanations about why he wanted us to accompany him to one of the recently cleared fertility clinics. Something about seeing the progress firsthand and assessing the situation together. But there’s more to it—I can sense it through our bond, a muted anxiety that he’s trying to suppress.
“You still haven’t told us why we’re really here,” I say, breaking the tense silence. “This isn’t just a routine inspection.”
Logan’s golden eyes meet mine briefly before returning to the window. “No,” he admits. “It isn’t.”
“Then what is it?” Maya presses, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve been secretive since we left the palace.”
Logan sighs, running a hand through his hair—a rare display of uncertainty from a man who’s made decisiveness his hallmark. “I’d rather show you than try to explain.”
The evasiveness is unlike him. Since claiming the throne, Logan has embraced a new transparency with us—a deliberate rejection of his father’s secretive governance. This reversion to cryptic half-answers sets my teeth on edge.
“Is it dangerous?” I ask, my hand instinctively moving to the knife concealed beneath my jacket. “Should we expect trouble?”
“Not dangerous,” Logan assures me, his expression softening slightly. “Just... difficult.”
Before I can press further, the carriage slows, gravel crunching beneath the wheels as we turn onto what must be the clinic’s access road. Through the window, I catch my first glimpse of the facility—a sprawling concrete structure surrounded by a high wall topped with razor wire. Despite the royal banners now flying above the entrance, there’s no disguising its original purpose. This place was built to contain, not to heal.
We stop before a set of iron gates that stand open, royal guards stationed on either side. Logan steps out first, offering his hand to Maya with a formality that feels out of place given our usual dynamics. I follow, moving carefully to avoid aggravating my injury.
The clinic’s courtyard is eerily silent, absent the bustle of activity I’d expected. A few guards patrol the perimeter, and I spot what appear to be medical staff entering a side building, but the space feels hollow, abandoned.
“This way,” Logan says, leading us toward the main entrance. “The director is expecting us.”
