Logan studies me for a long moment, as if seeing me for the first time. Perhaps he is. Perhaps we’re both seeing each other clearly now, without the distortions of blind loyalty or unquestioning obedience.
“If—“ Logan begins, then stops, recalibrating. “What would this look like? Practically speaking.”
Nikolai leans forward, energy animating his tired features. “We have people inside the palace. Military support from disaffected officers. Financial backing from nobles who’ve grown weary of the king’s increasingly erratic taxes and trade policies.”
“Numbers,” Logan demands, slipping effortlessly into his commander’s role.
“Three hundred fighters within the city walls,” Nikolai replies promptly. “Another five hundred who could be mobilized within a week. Plus whatever forces you could turn from the royal guard itself.”
“Not enough,” Logan and I say simultaneously.
“Not for a frontal assault,” Nikolai agrees. “But we’re not suggesting open warfare. This would be... surgical. Precise.”
“Assassination,” I translate, the word hanging heavy in the air.
Nikolai doesn’t flinch. “Regime change,” he corrects, though we all know it’s the same thing. “The king is already losing support. We’d simply...accelerate the inevitable.”
“I need time,” Logan says finally. “To think about this.”
Nikolai nods, hope evident in his expression. “The smuggler won’t be leaving for another week.”
“And if I choose to leave?” Logan asks. “If I take Maya and the others and disappear beyond the border?”
“Then I wish you a long and peaceful exile,” Nikolai replies, though his expression suggests he doesn’t believe that’s the choice Logan will make. “But consider this, little brother—howlong before the king’s reach extends beyond the city? How far can you really run?”
The questions hang in the air, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable. Logan stands, signaling the end of the meeting. I rise with him, the habit of years too ingrained to break even now.
“One week,” Logan confirms. “I’ll send word.”
Nikolai nods, rising to embrace his brother in a brief, fierce hug. “Be careful,” he murmurs. “Eyes everywhere these days.”
“Always,” Logan replies, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
We leave the way we came, through the bar and back into the damp night. The rain has stopped, leaving the streets slick and reflective, each puddle a mirror for the sparse streetlights. We walk in silence, maintaining our charade of being strangers until we’re well clear of the district.
It’s only when we reach the relative safety of a deserted park that Logan speaks, his voice low and troubled.
“You’ve been quiet.”
I glance at him, measuring my response. “I think everything that needs to be said has been said. You’re the one who has to make the decision.”
He huffs out a laugh devoid of humor. “Am I?”
“You’ve always been the one makes all the decisions up until now.”
“This isn’t political anymore…this is personal.”
“Is there a difference anymore?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Logan’s steps falter, just for a moment. “There should be.”
“But there isn’t,” I press, the words spilling out now that the dam has broken. “Not for us. Not for the pack. Everything you do affects all of us. Every choice you make shapes our lives.”
“You think I don’t know that?” There’s an edge to his voice now, the first hint of the temper I know simmers beneath hiscontrolled exterior. “You think I don’t feel the weight of it every day?”
“Maybe you feel it,” I acknowledge. “I’m just not sure you consider it.”
Logan stops walking entirely, turning to face me with an expression I can’t quite read in the dim light.
