“Is that what you think of me?” he asks quietly. “That I don’t consider the consequences of my actions on the pack?”
I could lie. Should lie, probably. But we’re beyond that now.
“I think you consider the consequences as they affect your goals,” I say carefully. “Not necessarily as they affect us individually.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” I challenge, surprised by my own boldness. “Would you have forced the bond on Maya if you’d truly considered what it would do to her? What about Cillian? Were you thinking about the rest of us when you decided to keep his designation a secret?”
Logan flinches as if I’d struck him. “Maya signed a contract. I didn’t force her to do anything she hadn’t already agreed to do.”
“Cillian—”
“Bonding Cillian was anaccident,something done in the heat of the moment. And it never would have happened if he hadn’t hidden his designation from me for years.” Logan glares back at me, fire in his eyes. “I murdered my own fucking brother to save Cillian and I kept his secret because he fucking begged me to.”
The words taste bitter on my tongue, but I still say them. “And somehow things always work out to you getting your own way.”
Logan studies me for a long moment, then sighs, the anger stiffening his posture despite the softness of his voice. “What would you have me do, Poe? Take Maya and run? Spend ourlives looking over our shoulders? Or stay and fight for something better? Go ahead and make the decision, so you can live with the consequences.”
“I don’t know,” I admit, the honesty costing me. “I just know that whatever you decide affects all of us. And this time, we should all have a say.”
A democratic pack,” Logan says, a hint of his old sardonic humor returning. “How progressive of you.”
“Call it what you want,” I shrug. “But Maya deserves a voice in this. So do Ares and Cillian.”
“And you?” Logan asks, his gaze intent. “What do you want, Poe?”
The question catches me off guard. No one asks what I want. I’m the shadow, the knife in the dark. I execute orders. I don’t give them or question them.
Except that’s no longer true, is it? I’ve been questioning everything lately. Every order, every assumption, every loyalty that once seemed unshakable.
“I want...” I begin, then stop, uncertain how to articulate the tangle of desires and fears that have been growing inside me. “I want to be more than your weapon.”
The words hang between us, raw and honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be. Logan’s expression softens, something like understanding flickering in his eyes.
“You’ve never been just a weapon to me, Poe,” he says quietly. “Never.”
I want to believe him. Part of me does. But the rest remembers too many missions, too many targets, too many nights washing blood from beneath my fingernails while Logan slept peacefully, secure in the knowledge that his orders had been carried out without question.
“Then prove it,” I challenge. “Talk to the others. Really talk to them. Listen to what they want before you decide our futures.”
Logan is silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the shadows. Finally, he nods, a single sharp movement that feels simultaneously like a victory and a surrender.
CHAPTER 8
Cillian
The blade slices through air instead of flesh, my arm following a practiced arc that sends fire racing from shoulder to fingertips. I don’t stop. Can’t stop. Each movement flows into the next—parry, thrust, sidestep—the ancient combat forms drilled into muscle memory since I was old enough to hold a weapon.
My reflection in the cracked mirror shows a stranger—pale hair darkened with sweat, skin pulled tight over cheekbones, eyes too bright with pain or fever or both. The wound at my side pulses in time with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of how close I came to death. How close I still might be.
I shift into the next stance, teeth grinding together as torn flesh protests. The knife in my hand feels heavier than it should, the balance wrong, though I know it’s perfect. It’s me that’s off-balance. Broken in ways that go beyond physical injury.
Focus on the pain. Use it.
The mantra circles in my head as I force my body through another sequence, slower than usual but precise. Pain is clarifying. Pain is present. Pain keeps me anchored in the now instead of drowning in memory—of Maya’s terrified eyes, of myown blood pooling on sterile tile as I tried and failed to protect us.
The bottle of painkillers sits untouched on the bedside table, a silent accusation. Dr. Linden left them when she checked my stitches yesterday, her expression making it clear she knew I wouldn’t take them. Not because I enjoy suffering, but because pain serves a purpose. It keeps my mind from wandering to places I can’t afford to go.
