“I always knew you were more brawn than brain,” Poe says, almost to himself, “but I didn’t know you were this stupid.” He shakes his head, genuine disbelief in his expression. “It’s been obvious to anyone with a functioning brainstem that Cillian has been in love with you for years. Not wanting to warm your bed while you fuck harem betas or search for the Omega you can be seen in public with doesn’t change that.”
I want to deny the words, to dismiss Poe’s assessment as projection or misunderstanding. But I can’t. Because beneath the anger and defensiveness, I know he’s right.
I’ve always known how Cillian feels. I’ve seen it in his eyes, felt it through our bond, recognized it in a thousand small gestures and unspoken moments. I’ve known, and I’ve chosen to ignore it—to pretend it wasn’t there, to act as if our relationship was simpler, cleaner, less complicated than the messy reality.
Why?
The question echoes in my mind, demanding an answer I’m not sure I have. Was it fear? Cowardice? The knowledge that acknowledging Cillian’s feelings would require confronting my own? Or something deeper, more insidious—the recognition that as a royal Alpha, my path was predetermined, my choices limited by duty and expectation?
“It wouldn’t have worked,” I say finally, the words hollow even to my own ears. “An Alpha prince can’t take a male Omega as his mate. Not officially. Not publicly.”
“And once again an Omega pays for the price for your impulsive decision,” Poe says flatly.
The barb lands, but not quite the way he intends it to. “You’re right. I’m sure the both of them would be much better off without my influence. I should have left Cillian to Ander and Maya to whatever Alpha would have gotten to her next. I’m certainly a fate worse than death.”
We stare at each other, the air between us sparking with challenge.
“You made Maya a promise,” Poe bites out eventually. “I’m going to hold you to it.”
I raise my empty glass. “I’d expect nothing less.”
With a scoffing sound, he stalks away.
The sun is nearly fully risen, pale light seeping around the edges of the curtains. Soon the safehouse will stir to life, and decisions will need to be made. Maya will give her answer about our next move. We’ll either prepare to flee or to fight. And beneath those practical considerations, the more complex dynamics of our pack will continue to evolve, to shift, to find new equilibrium.
Or to break entirely.
CHAPTER 15
Maya
I step into the kitchen, drawn by the mouthwatering scent of something cooking. My stomach growls, reminding me how little I’ve eaten in the last few days.
Ares stands at the stove with his back to me, broad shoulders hunched as he stirs something in a battered pot. He mutters under his breath, the words too low to make out but the tone unmistakably irritated. Steam rises around him, softening the hard edges of his silhouette, making him look more approachable than I’ve ever seen him before.
I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene. This domestic version of Ares has always been my favorite.
“Next time we’re on the run for our lives, we should make sure the kitchen is better stocked,” I say, stepping fully into the room.
Ares jumps—actually jumps—and nearly drops the egg he’s holding. He spins around, eyes wide with surprise before recognition settles his features into something closer to relief.
“Fuck’s sake, princess,” he growls, though there’s no real heat behind it. “Make some noise when you move, would you? I nearly crushed our last egg.”
I raise an eyebrow, moving closer to peer into the pot he’s been stirring. “Last egg?”
“Yeah.” He looks down at the egg in his hand with something like reverence. “I was just about to fry it up for you. Only bit of protein left in this place.”
The gesture catches me off guard. I’m not sure how to respond, so I default to practicality.
“Save it for Cillian,” I say, trying to sound casual. “He needs it more than I do. He’s still recovering.”
Ares studies me for a moment, his green eyes assessing in a way that makes me want to squirm. Then he nods, setting the egg carefully on the counter.
“Fine. But don’t complain when all I can offer you is barley soup without the pepper we just ran out of.” He sighs, turning back to the pot. “Might be the blandest meal you’ve ever had.”
I shrug, leaning against the counter. “I’ve had worse.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, carrying more weight than I intended. Memories of the doctor’s compound flash through my mind. Days without food as part of his “experiments,” tasteless nutrient pastes when he needed me functional, water rationed to the point where my lips cracked and bled.
