My fingers slip lower, pressing inside where I’m empty and aching. It’s not enough—nowhere near enough—but it’s all I have. All I’m willing to allow myself.
“If I were in there with you,” Ares continues, his voice a seductive promise, “I’d lay you out on that bed. Spread your legs wide so I could see all of you. Kiss my way up those soft thighs until you were begging me to taste you.”
Another moan escapes me, louder this time. I’m beyond caring who hears, beyond worrying what he thinks. There’s only the building pressure, the desperate need for release.
“I’d make you come on my tongue first,” he says, and I can hear the strain in his voice now, the evidence that he’s affected too. “Hold your hips down while you shook apart. Then, when you were soft and pliant and still trembling, I’d slide into you. Fill you up the way you need. The way you’re made for.”
My fingers move faster, my back arching away from the door as tension coils tighter in my core. I’m close, so close, balanced on the edge of release.
“Come for me, Maya,” Ares commands, his voice dropping low enough that I feel it echo in my bones. “Show me how good it feels.”
The orgasm crashes through me like a wave, intense and unexpected. I cry out, unable to contain the sound as pleasure radiates outward from my core, leaving me trembling and breathless. For a moment, there’s nothing but sensation—no fear, no anger, no complicated feelings about designation or choice or freedom. Just release.
Reality returns slowly, bringing with it a flush of shame that has nothing to do with biology and everything to do with what just happened. What I just allowed to happen. I withdraw my hand from my pants, wiping my fingers on the fabric as if I can erase the evidence of my weakness.
Silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words. I wait for him to say something smug or possessive, to claim some victory in making me respond to him. But when he finally speaks, his voice is surprisingly gentle.
“I know you’re angry with us,” he says quietly. “And you’re justified in feeling that way. We’ve given you every reason.”
I press my forehead against my knees, trying to steady my breathing, to find some center in the aftermath of release and the continued low simmer of heat.
“But whether you like it or not, you need us, Maya.” His words are soft but firm, a statement of fact rather than a demand. “Not just because of biology, though that’s part of it. You need protection. You need safety. And as much as you might wish otherwise, we’re the ones who can give you that.”
The truth in his words stings more because it’s the truth. Because he’s right, and we both know it. We’ve been declaredtraitors and fugitives from the king’s justice. Even now, the king’s guards are searching for all of us. I have nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to.
I need them. I just don’t want to need them.
“Rest now,” Ares says, his voice fading as if he’s standing up, moving away from the door. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
The double meaning isn’t lost on me. He’ll be there if I need protection. If I need safety.
If I need more.
I practically crawl to the bed, too exhausted to care about pushing to my feet. The sheets are cool against my overheated skin as I curl onto my side, facing away from the door. Sleep pulls at me, the combination of emotional exhaustion and post-orgasmic lassitude too powerful to resist.
As consciousness fades, one thought circles in my mind, inescapable in its clarity: I might hate them for what they’ve done, for the choices they’ve taken from me.
But I hate myself more for still wanting them anyway.
CHAPTER 7
Poe
I keep ten paces behind Logan, my eyes fixed on the back of his head. The oversized coat and hood he wears does little to disguise the arrogant set of his shoulders. Even in this threadbare disguise, in this forgotten corner of the city where the streetlights flicker and die, he moves like he owns the ground beneath his feet.
Like a prince.
The thought tastes bitter. I adjust the collar of my jacket, pulling it higher against the night chill. My earpiece crackles with static, then silence. Logan hasn’t spoken since we left the safehouse. Neither have I.
The streets grow narrower as we delve deeper into the district locals call the Sump. Buildings lean against each other like drunks, windows boarded or broken. Graffiti marks territory—gang signs and warnings that mean nothing to outsiders but everything to those who live here. I note each one, cataloging potential threats. Old habits.
A woman leans against a doorway, eyes following Logan with predatory interest. She doesn’t look at me. No one ever does.That’s the point of me. The shadow that follows. The knife that waits.
Logan turns down an alley so narrow his shoulders nearly brush both walls. I hang back, counting to thirty before following. We’re playing the game of strangers—two men with no connection, heading coincidentally to the same destination. It’s a thin pretense. Anyone watching closely enough would see the truth.
But then, seeing truth has never been my problem.
I’ve always seen too much. Known too much. Understood the ugly realities beneath polished surfaces. It’s what makes me valuable to the pack. To Logan. My ability to look at a room full of smiling faces and identify which ones would slide a blade between your ribs given half a chance.
