“It matters to her,” he says finally. “It should matter to you.”
I drain the last of my whiskey, setting the empty glass on the side table with deliberate care.
“If you or Ares are still planning to challenge me for pack leadership,” I say, my voice deceptively soft, “I’d suggest waiting until Maya makes her decision. No sense in complicating things further. And I’d hate to kill men I might need.”
We both know what’s been building—the growing discontent and questioning of my leadership. The traditional way to resolve such conflicts is through combat, through the assertion of dominance that has governed pack dynamics since the beginning of our kind.
But we’re beyond tradition now, outside of the boundaries of society. There are no more rules now.
Poe scoffs. “You assume you’d win?”
I raise a mocking eyebrow. “I could have sworn you were the one insisting I challenge my father. If you thought you could enter best the king yourself, you’d have said so. It only follows that you know who would walk away from a direct challenge between us.”
The question isn’t whether I could kill Poe, but whether Iwould.
Poe studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “If Maya chooses to flee the city,” he says finally, “you won’t be going with us.”
I don’t let the effect of his words show on my face. “Is that so?”
“The king would never stop searching if he thought you were out there, potentially gathering support for a rebellion.” Poe’s voice is matter-of-fact, stripped of emotion. “You’re too valuable, too dangerous to leave unchecked. He’d hunt you to the ends of the earth—and all of us along with you.”
I lean back in my chair, feigning a casualness I don’t feel. “I’m well aware of that.”
“Is Maya?”
The question pierces deeper than I expected. Does Maya understand what her choice really means? That choosing to run would effectively separate us, perhaps permanently? That the bond we share—forced and unwanted as it may be—would stretch across whatever distance lies between us, a constant reminder of what was taken and what was lost?
“She does if she’s as smart as I think she is,” I reply, keeping my voice steady.
But inwardly, I’m less certain. Not of Maya’s intelligence—she’s proven herself more than capable of strategic thinking—but of my own reaction should she choose to leave. I meant what I said when I offered her the choice. I want her to decide our next move, to have agency in a situation where I’ve denied her any.
But the Alpha in me, the possessive, primal part that recognized her as mine from the first moment I caught her scent, recoils at the thought of letting her walk away. I’m not absolutely sure that my inner Alpha will allow Maya to leave, even if I genuinely want to give her that choice.
It’s a contradiction I haven’t resolved, a battle between my better nature and the beast that lives beneath my skin.
“It’s interesting,” Poe says, breaking into my thoughts, “that the king hasn’t declared you a fugitive enemy of the state.” He moves to stand by the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peer at the pre-dawn sky. “You could still go back, tail sufficiently tucked between your legs, and return to your old life. The king would probably even let you choose a new Omega, if he thinks the old one is dead and buried. Or both Omegas, in this case.”
The suggestion sends a surge of rage through me, so powerful I have to grip the arms of my chair to keep from lashing out. The thought of returning to court without Maya, of pretending she never existed, of taking another Omega in her place—it’s abhorrent on a level so visceral I can taste bile rising in my throat.
“A third Omega would be indulgent, even for me,” I reply, my voice dry despite the fury coursing through my veins.
Poe turns from the window, and I don’t miss the flash of hurt that crosses his features before his customary mask of indifference slides back into place. “Why didn’t you ever tell us about your bond with Cillian?”
It’s a question I’ve been expecting. I consider deflecting, changing the subject, maintaining the fiction that has served us all for so long. But I’m tired. Tired of secrets, tired of pretending, tired of the weight of unspoken truths that has bent our pack into something unrecognizable.
“Because Cillian begged me not to and I agreed,” I tell him. It’s not a satisfying answer, not for Poe and certainly not for myself. But it’s the truth. I’ve never fully understood my own reluctance to acknowledge what exists between Cillian and me—the bond that formed years ago, in circumstances neither of us chose.
Poe’s expression hardens, the hurt now unmistakable in his eyes. “If you were incapable of trusting your own pack mates,” he says, his voice tight with controlled emotion, “you should have made that clear from the beginning.”
“It wasn’t about trust.”
“What was it about, then?” Poe demands, taking a step closer. “What other possible reason could you have for hiding something so fundamental from the people who have followed you, protected you, bled for you?”
I stand, unable to remain seated under the weight of his accusation. “Acknowledging the situation would have made it something that needed to be dealt with,” I say, the words coming out harsher than intended. “And Cillian obviously didn’t want to be my Omega.”
Poe laughs, the sound sharp and condescending. “It would be more accurate to say that Cillian didn’t want to be a dirty secret.”
“He rejected me,” I say, hearing the defensiveness in my own voice and hating it.
