The rain starts again, a fine mist that clings to my skin. I pull the fabric wrapped around my neck higher, covering my mouth and nose, and leaving only my eyes exposed.
Logan pauses at a corner, pretending to check the street name. The dim blue light of a lamp illuminates his face from below, casting strange shadows across features I’ve known since childhood. For a moment, he looks like a stranger. Perhaps he is.
When did I stop recognizing the man I’ve followed for fifteen years? Was it when he forced the bond on Maya? Or earlier, when he began treating pack members as pawns rather than family? Or has he always been this way, and I’ve only recently allowed myself to see it?
The thoughts circle like vultures, picking at the carcass of my loyalty.
Logan continues walking, not bothering to look back. He knows I’ll follow. That’s the problem with spending years devoted beyond reason. Loyalty becomes obligation. Love becomes duty. Until you can’t tell where your own desires end and the pack’s needs begin.
But he’s right about one thing. Now isn’t the time for internal conflict. We have no idea who is waiting for us or what they might want in return for their help. Assuming our new connection even wants to help and hasn’t already sold us out.
Logan stops at the door of a nondescript bar. He approaches without hesitation, pushing through the door like he belongs there. I count to sixty this time before following.
Inside, the bar is dimly lit and thick with smoke. The clientele—mostly men, mostly wearing hooded jackets or masks of some kind—barely glance up as I enter. Their studied indifference speaks volumes. This isn’t a place for casual drinking. This is where people come when they don’t want to be found.
I resist the urge to adjust my face covering, feeling the fabric stick to my lips as I breathe. The disguise feels like a lie against my skin. I’ve spent my life working in the shadows, but I’ve never felt any need to hide my face before now.
Logan stands at the bar, shoulders hunched in a posture so unlike his usual imperial stance that for a moment I almost believe the disguise myself. The bartender—a bear of a man with a scar bisecting one eyebrow—leans close, muttering something I can’t hear. Logan nods once, sliding a folded note across the scarred wood.
The bartender jerks his head toward a discreet set of stairs next to the bar.
I linger, ordering a whiskey I won’t drink, watching in my peripheral vision as Logan descends the stairs. The glass is sticky when it arrives, smudged with fingerprints from previous patrons. I lift it to my lips without drinking, maintaining the charade for the benefit of no one in particular.
Three minutes pass before I follow, leaving the untouched drink and another folded bill on the counter.
The stairs creak beneath my weight, but that’s the only sound. No shouting or gunfire, so if someone managed to take Logan down, they were able to do it quietly.
I push open the door at the bottom of the stairs, prepared for the worst.
Nikolai looks up as I enter, a tired smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He’s thinner than when I last saw him, the bones of his face more prominent, but his eyes hold the same intelligent light.
The room is small, windowless, lit by a single hanging bulb and lined with boxes. Clearly a storage room, thought the small folding table placed in the center with three stools around it is likely for our benefit.
I unwrap the face covering, air cool against my damp skin.“Prince Nikolai.”
“Poe,” he nods in greeting. “Still keeping my brother from getting himself killed, I see.”
“Trying to,” I reply, taking the seat beside Logan. “He doesn’t make it easy.”
“I thought my cloak and dagger days were behind me,” Nikolai says, turning back to Logan. “But if anyone was going to drag me back into palace intrigue, it would be you, little brother.
Logan’s expression hasn’t changed, but I can sense him relax. “Thank you for coming, Nik.”
Nikolai’s eyebrows lift slightly, a note of amusement in his gaze. “Well, you know I’d do anything for you. Even commit treason, apparently.”
Logan drums his fingers on the table. “Let’s get down to it.”
“I suppose there isn’t time for socializing,” Nikolai says, eyes shifting between us. “Not with half the king’s guard hunting you down.”
“Not hunting all of us,” I point out, before Logan respond.
Logan sighs, but he doesn’t contradict me. We all know it’s true. The king’s proclamation named Maya, Ares, Cillian, and me as fugitives to be captured or killed. Logan’s name was conspicuously absent from the list.
“The king has made his position clear,” Nikolai confirms, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “He’s willing to welcome the prodigal son back to the fold—but only if Logan returns sufficiently humbled.”
“It’s a trick,” Logan replies coldly. “The king hopes to lure me back and catch me unawares. He’ll make my execution a spectacle.”
Nikolai considers that. “You can’t be absolutely sure of his plans.”
