"Can't... have that," I manage, forcing one foot in front of the other.
A rebel appears from behind a burning Humvee, raising his rifle. I raise my pistol, but my hand shakes too badly to aim. Cillian pivots, placing his body between me and the threat, firing three rapid shots. The rebel falls, but not before getting off a burst of his own.
Cillian grunts, stumbling slightly.
"You hit?" I demand.
"Flesh wound," he dismisses. "Keep moving."
Another figure darts from behind the rubble of a collapsed wall. Smaller than the others. Much smaller.
A child.
A boy no older than twelve, face streaked with dirt and eyes wild with fear or fervor, I can't tell which. My finger freezes on the trigger. The child's hands are empty, but then they move behind his back.
“Don’t—“ I start to say.
The world narrows to the child's hands as they reappear, gripping something metal. My muscles tense but won't respond. The part of me trained for combat screams to fire, but something deeper holds me back.
A shot rings out. I flinch, bracing for the pain that doesn't come.
Instead, a perfect red dot appears on the child's forehead. His eyes go wide with surprise before emptying entirely. He topples backward like a puppet with cut strings, the weapon, a crude pistol, clattering from lifeless fingers.
I turn to see Cillian beside me, his rifle still raised, expression unchanged. No hesitation. No remorse.
"That was a child," I say, my voice hollow.
Cillian lowers his weapon, eyes already scanning for the next threat. "It was an armed combatant aiming at you."
"He was a boy."
"He was about to put a bullet in your head." Cillian meets my gaze, ice-chip eyes utterly calm. "Could have been the freshly risen god of all creation, and I would have done the same thing."
The certainty in his voice chills me. Not because it's cruel, though it might be. But because I recognize an essential truth. Cillian would kill anyone, anything, that threatened me. No hesitation. No moral calculus. Just the cold, clean arithmetic of my survival above all else.
Most men would hesitate. The rebels count on that intrinsic hesitation to harm a child. They wouldn’t have put him here, guarding their escape route, otherwise.
Not Cillian.
And that makes him more valuable to me than a dozen other men combined.
FIVE YEARS AGO
I recline against the rough wooden bench, the tavern's din washing over me. Two beta women perch on my lap, their bodies warm and pliant. They've doused themselves in artificial Omega scent that is almost convincing. Almost. The cloying sweetness is too overpowering and lacks the complex undertones of a true Omega. But after weeks in the field, I'm not complaining.
"Another drink, Your Highness?" A third woman leans forward, pressing her generous bosom against my face as she offers a tankard. "Or perhaps you'd prefer something... upstairs?"
Her smile promises everything a victorious Alpha could want.
I glance around the tavern. My men have earned this celebration after the bloody work of liberating this village. Our campaign in the Outlands is finally coming to an end and we will all finally return to the capital, blooded and victorious.
My military service has lasted longer than is typical. With so many princes vying for our father’s favor, I have no choice but to do something to distinguish myself. And I’ve managed to form a powerful pack, specifically chosen from the most impressive soldiers in my regiment. Ares arm-wrestles a local while two women cheer him on. Poe broods in a corner, a woman on each knee, though his eyes remain alert.
But Cillian is nowhere to be seen.
Strange. He is usually at my side during these celebrations, especially when there are women to be shared. We've spent many nights passing the same beta between us, our unique rhythm perfected over years.
"Have you seen my guard commander?" I ask the woman practically in my face.
