“Have you forgotten who I am?” Logan steps closer, keeping his voice low but unable to mask the threat underneath. “I your prince and your pack Alpha.”
I don’t move an inch. “We’re all traitors to the crown now, aren’t we? Seems like that fancy hierarchy got shattered the moment you decided to run rather than face your father.” The words taste like freedom on my tongue. “Hard to be a prince when you’ve abandoned the kingdom.”
Logan’s eyes turn the color of molten gold, his control slipping. “Are you challenging me, Ares?”
Silence expands between us, weighted with years of and instinct. I realize with startling clarity that I might be doing exactly that.
“You’re not getting through this door.” The words come out softer than intended, but no less firm.
Logan’s nostrils flare, his scent sharpening with anger and surprise. He wasn’t expecting this—not from me, his enforcer, the one who’s always done the dirty work without question. The shock in his eyes almost makes me laugh. Did he think loyalty meant blindness? That I wouldn’t eventually see him for what he is?
“Think carefully about what you’re doing here,” Logan whispers, threat dripping from every syllable.
The tension between us crackles like live wire. My mind slips backward through time, away from this hallway standoff to another standoff entirely—mud-soaked trenches in the Outlands, artillery fire splitting the sky overhead.
I was nineteen. Terrified. Three days without sleep and covered in another soldier’s dried blood. The Reformation Wars had dragged on for years, and we were losing ground with every passing hour. The rebels had pushed us back to our final defensive position, and I’d lost half my squad to a surprise attack.
That’s when Logan appeared, a shadow moving through smoke and chaos.
“Hold this position,” he’d ordered, voice cutting through the thunderous barrage. Not the crowned prince then—just Commander Corellian, one of many of the king’s sons sent to prove himself in battle.
I remember how he assessed the situation in seconds, golden eyes scanning the battlefield with cold calculation. No hesitation. No fear. Just pure tactical brilliance as he reorganized our scattered forces, using terrain and limited resources to maximum advantage.
When the rebel forces charged our position, Logan was first over the trench wall, leading the counterattack that should have been suicide. I followed without thinking, drawn to his certainty like a compass to north.
The battle blurs in memory—gunfire, shouting, the metallic tang of blood—but one moment remains crystal clear: Logan knocking me sideways as a grenade landed where I’d been standing. The explosion showered us with dirt and shrapnel, his body sheltering mine from the worst of it.
“Stay focused,” he’d growled, hauling me to my feet. “I need you alive.”
We took back three miles of territory that day. Against impossible odds, we pushed the rebels back, reclaimed strategic positions, and turned the tide of the entire western campaign.
That night, kneeling in blood-soaked mud, I pledged myself to Logan Corellian. Not to the crown, not to Melilla, but to theman who’d saved my life and seemed incapable of defeat. The greatest military commander I’d ever witnessed in action.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
But Logan never stopped fighting a war. Every situation, every relationship, every interaction—he approaches them all with the same tactical precision he used in the Outlands. Always maneuvering for advantage, always identifying vulnerabilities, always pressing forward at any cost.
Maya was never really a person to him. She was territory to be claimed, a strategic acquisition. Her resistance was just another battle to be won. Her negative feelings were only important as obstacles to his objective.
We’ve all followed him so willingly because he’s brilliant at what he does. He wins. Always. But integrating Maya into our pack was never supposed to be a war.
“I’ve followed everywhere you’ve ever led me,” I tell him in the here and now. “You need to think about what it means that I’m not doing it right now.”
Logan’s golden eyes hold mine, filled with the same calculating intensity I’ve seen across dozens of battlefields. I can almost hear the gears turning in his head, weighing options, considering consequences, plotting his next move. The wolf in me tenses, preparing for confrontation.
Then something shifts. He blows out a harsh breath, shoulders dropping just enough to signal retreat—for now.
“I’m meeting with a contact from the underground, someone from the resistance who can help coordinate our move out of the city,” he says, his voice clipped. “I wanted to let Maya know in case I don’t come back.”
I can’t keep the surprise off my face. The rebellion against King Leopold has always been poorly organized, mostly because of my one efforts gathering intelligence for the crown. Meeting with someone from the resistance is as likely to get Logan killedas anything else. But instead of that making him hesitate, he just wants one last goodbye.
“You’re going alone?” I ask, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“Poe is coming.”
“It wouldn’t be safer to send him alone?”
Logan’s mouth quirks in a humorless smile. “The contact won’t agree to meet unless I come in person.”
