She helped me, even though she didn’t have to.
The realization settles over me like a warm blanket.
I study her more carefully, noting the slight flush to her cheeks, the lingering softness around her eyes. Her heat has receded but not completely passed—I can smell it in the subtle sweetening of her scent, see it in the way she holds herself, slightly more relaxed than her usual rigid control would allow.
Understanding dawns slowly. She’s still operating partly on instinct—the Omega drive to nurture, to heal, to protect pack members even when consciously she might prefer to let us suffer. The biological imperative is muted but present, guiding her actions even as her mind rebels against it.
It’s why she’s here in my bed rather than locked in her room. Why she stitched my wound instead of letting me bleed. Why the fear that’s been her constant companion since Logan forced the bond has temporarily receded, allowing her to be this close to me without flinching.
The knowledge should disappoint me—that it’s biology rather than choice bringing her to my side. Instead, I find myself oddly grateful for this glimpse of what might be possible between us if circumstances were different. If we’d met as equalsrather than captor and captive. If Logan hadn’t complicated everything with his desperate, possessive claim.
“We should join the others,” I say, careful to keep my tone neutral. “Logan will want everyone there for the debrief.”
Maya’s expression closes like a shutter, wariness returning full force at the mention of Logan’s name. For a moment, I think she’ll refuse—retreat back to her room and the isolation she’s clung to since our escape. The thought sends a pang through me that has nothing to do with my physical wound.
But then she nods, a single sharp movement that seems to cost her. “Fine.”
She slides from the bed with careful grace, putting distance between us as quickly as dignity allows. I follow more slowly, each movement a negotiation with pain. Standing takes more effort than it should, my body reminding me just how close to death I came.
How close I still might be, if the wound reopens or infection sets in.
Maya watches my struggle without offering help, but I can see the concern she’s trying to hide. It shows in the slight furrow between her brows, the way her hands twitch at her sides as if fighting the impulse to reach for me.
“I don’t need help,” I say, answering the question she hasn’t asked.
“I didn’t offer any.” Her voice is cool, but there’s no real bite to it. Another sign of her lingering heat—the softening of her usual sharp edges.
We move toward the door together, an awkward dance of maintaining distance while navigating the small room. I reach it first, pulling it open and stepping back to let her pass. Our eyes meet briefly as she moves by me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
For that single moment, something passes between us—an acknowledgment, perhaps. A recognition of the strange, fragile connection forming despite all the reasons it shouldn’t. Despite Logan. Despite everything.
Then she’s past me, heading down the hallway toward the voices from the main room, her spine straightening with each step as she armors herself for whatever comes next. I follow, surprised and oddly relieved when she doesn’t increase her pace to put more distance between us.
It feels like a small victory, though I couldn’t say exactly what battle I’m fighting. Or if it’s one I should be trying to win at all.
CHAPTER 11
Maya
I feel the weight of four pairs of eyes on me as I step into the main room of the safehouse. The air is thick with tension, a pressure that settles on my skin like static electricity before a storm. I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene before committing to enter this battlefield of wills.
Logan stands at the head of a scarred wooden table, hands planted firmly on its surface, golden eyes bright with barely contained energy. Poe leans against the far wall, arms crossed, watching Logan with an expression I can’t quite decipher—not quite hostility, but certainly not the blind loyalty I’ve come to expect from him. Ares has positioned himself between them, as if anticipating the need to physically separate the two.
And then there’s Cillian, who enters the room behind me, his presence a warm shadow at my back. I can hear the slight hitch in his breathing that betrays the pain he’s hiding.
No one speaks as I enter. The conversation that had been raging moments before dies instantly, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. I hate how they look at me—like I’m a bombthat might detonate, like I’m something fragile and volatile all at once.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I say, moving toward the empty chair farthest from Logan. “I’m just here for the show.”
Cillian follows, taking the seat beside mine. The movement costs him; I can see it in the tightness around his eyes, the careful way he lowers himself into the chair. I resist the urge to help him, to steady him with a hand on his arm. That’s not who we are to each other. That’s not what this is.
But I can’t stop glancing over as he settles into the chair, watchful for every wince of pain.
Logan clears his throat, drawing all attention back to him. “As I was saying,” he continues, “we need to leave Melilla. The smuggler Nikolai mentioned can get us across the southern border in a week. From there, we can disappear.”
“Run, you mean,” Poe says, voice flat. “Like cowards.”
The challenge in his tone makes Logan’s jaw tighten. I watch the muscle jump beneath his tanned skin, fascinated despite myself by the evidence of his restraint. The Logan I remember would have already put Poe in his place.
