What is happening here?
“Like survivors,” Logan corrects, his tone carefully measured. “The doctor might be dead, but the king’s guards are hunting us. We’re outmatched and outnumbered.”
I flinch at the mention of the doctor, a reflexive response I can’t control. The memory of his hands on me, of cold metal tables and clinical cruelty, flashes through my mind like lightning. I push it down, lock it away in that dark corner of my mind where I keep all the things I can’t bear to examine too closely.
“And whose fault is that?” Poe’s voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp as a blade. “You forced a bond on an unwillingOmega. You broke pack law, royal law, and basic decency all at once. And now we’re all paying the price.”
Logan’s eyes flash dangerously. “I did what was necessary to protect all of us.”
“You did what you wanted,” Poe counters. “Don’t pretend it was selfless.”
I watch this exchange with a strange detachment, as if I’m observing strangers argue about someone else’s life. It should matter more, I think. I should feel something stronger than this hollow fascination. But I’ve exhausted my capacity for rage where Logan is concerned. I’ve burned through fear and hatred and landed somewhere beyond both, in a strange emotional wasteland where nothing quite touches me.
“What I want,” Logan says, enunciating each word with careful precision, “is to keep everyone in this room alive. And the only way to do that is to leave the capital as soon as possible.”
“That’s not the only option,” Poe says, pushing away from the wall. “Nikolai offered us another path.”
“A suicidal one,” Logan snaps.
“A chance to fight back,” Poe counters. “A chance to stop running.”
“What other option?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
All eyes turn to me, and I immediately regret speaking. I don’t want to be part of this conversation. Don’t want to be involved in whatever power struggle is playing out between Logan and his once-loyal shadow.
But it’s too late now.
“The rebellion,” Poe says, meeting my gaze directly. “Nikolai has connections. They’re looking for a figurehead, someone to rally behind. Someone with royal blood who isn’t the king or his puppet heir.”
“They want Logan,” I translate, understanding dawning. “They want him to challenge the throne directly.”
“They want to usehim,” Logan corrects, speaking of himself in the third person with an ease that would be comical in any other circumstance. “They want an attack dog that they think is big and strong enough to win a challenge. They’re wrong.”
“Maybe,” Poe concedes. “Or maybe they genuinely want change. Maybe they’re tired of living under a king who executes people for imagined slights. Maybe they’re desperate enough to risk everything for a chance at something better.”
The passion in his voice surprises me. This isn’t the cold, watchful Poe I’ve come to know. This is someone else entirely—someone who believes in something beyond mere survival.
“And you think Logan is that ‘something better’?” I can’t keep the skepticism from my voice.
Logan’s eyes meet mine across the table, and for a moment, I glimpse something raw and vulnerable beneath his usual arrogance. It disappears so quickly I might have imagined it.
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Poe says. “What matters is that we have a choice. And Logan won’t even consider it.”
“Because it’s a death sentence,” Ares interjects, speaking for the first time since I entered. “The king might be old, but he’s still the most dangerous Alpha I’ve ever seen. In his prime, he used to tear challengers apart with his bare hands, and he still has the loyalty of the outer provinces.”
“If the king so much as suspects we’re plotting against him, we won’t survive long enough to gather support,” Logan adds, sounding weary. “He’ll hunt us down and execute us all as traitors.”
“We’re already being hunted,” Poe argues. “At least this way, we’d be fighting for something instead of just running away.”
“Fighting for what?” Logan demands. “What exactly would we be risking our lives for, Poe?”
“For a chance to change things,” Poe says, his voice dropping lower. “For a chance to build something better than what your father created.”
The words hang in the air, weighted with meaning I can only partially grasp. There’s history here, layers of context I’m not privy to. I glance at Cillian, hoping for some clue, but his face is carefully blank, revealing nothing.
“And what about what the rest of us want?” I ask, surprising myself again with my willingness to engage. “Or does only Logan’s opinion matter?”
Ares shifts uncomfortably. “Logan is our pack leader.”
