The room erupts into a cacophony of voices, everyone speaking at once. Ares cursing, Poe demanding details, Cillian asking pointed questions about locations and security. But I hear none of it clearly, their voices fading to a dull roar as my mind races with the implications.
The doctor hadn’t been working alone. His experiments—the ones that left me scarred physically and mentally—were part of something larger, something sanctioned at the highest levels. And now they’re expanding, institutionalizing what was done to me, preparing to inflict it on others.
“But that doesn’t make sense,” I say, cutting through the noise. Everyone falls silent, turning to look at me. “Any Omegas created through these fertility clinics won’t be of age for political marriages for at least sixteen years, probably more. What’s the point? The king won’t even be alive by then.”
A heavy silence falls over the room. Poe steps forward, his face a mask of barely contained rage.
“You’re assuming,” he says, his voice deadly quiet, “that they’ll wait until these Omegas reach adulthood before selling them off for political gain.”
“They wouldn’t,” I whisper, but even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. Of course they would. The king, the doctor, the entire system—they’ve never seen Omegas as people. Just as resources to be exploited, as tools for consolidating power.
“They would,” Poe confirms, his eyes burning with a cold fury I’ve never seen before. “They absolutely would.”
I look around the room, at the faces of these men who have become, against all odds, something like allies to me. Ares, his massive frame vibrating with barely contained rage. Cillian, his pale eyes calculating, already planning. Poe, his usual mask of indifference shattered by genuine anger.
And Logan, watching me with an intensity that speaks of his own struggle—to contain his fury, to think clearly, to be the leader we need rather than the avenging Alpha he wants to be.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
Logan doesn’t flinch. “Because I knew it would sway your decision. I knew you wouldn’t be able to walk away from this.”
“This changes things,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “We’re not just fighting for ourselves anymore. We’re not even just fighting for the current victims of the king’s regime.”
“We’re fighting for the future,” Cillian finishes for me, his voice soft but certain.
I nod, a new resolve hardening within me. The decision I made moments ago—to stay and fight—now feels inevitable, the only possible choice. Running was never really an option, not with this horror unfolding behind us.
“We need to move quickly,” Logan says, shifting into the commander role that seems to come so naturally to him. “Nikolai says the first clinic has already opened in the capital. Others will follow within weeks.”
“We need more information,” Poe counters. “Locations, security protocols, who’s running these facilities.”
“And we need allies,” Ares adds, surprising me with his immediate shift to strategy now that the decision has been made. “Not just Nikolai’s rebels, but people inside the system. Medical staff, guards, anyone who might be sympathetic.”
The discussion continues, plans forming and evolving in real-time as we all contribute ideas, concerns, questions. I listen, offering my own insights where I can, but part of me remains distant, processing the enormity of what we’re facing.
This isn’t just about overthrowing a king anymore. It’s about dismantling an entire system designed to exploit and abuse the most vulnerable. It’s about preventing a future where childrenare created specifically to be sold, where Omegas are bred like livestock for political gain.
It’s about ensuring that what happened to me never happens to anyone else.
CHAPTER 18
Poe
The kitchen is too small for the both of us. Maya stands at the cupboard, her back to me as she reaches for a mug. Her shoulders tense when she finds the shelf empty, a small frown creasing her brow. I’ve been watching her for three minutes and seventeen seconds, cataloging her movements with the precision that’s kept me alive all these years. The slight hitch in her breathing when she stretches. The careful way she tests her weight on her right ankle—still favoring it after that sprint through the woods last week. The purple strands of hair that fall across her face when she bends to check the lower shelves.
She doesn’t know I’m here. Or she’s pretending not to.
“We’re moving tonight,” I say, my voice cutting through the silence.
Maya startles, spinning to face me with the kind of fluid grace that speaks of survival instincts rather than training. Her eyes—those remarkable eyes that reveal everything while trying to conceal it all—narrow as they find me in the doorway.
“Moving where?” she asks, her tone carefully neutral. But I catch the micro-expression that flits across her features—theslight widening of her eyes, the momentary flare of her nostrils. Fear, quickly suppressed.
I step fully into the kitchen, deliberately keeping my movements slow and unthreatening. “The process will be gradual. We can’t all leave at once—too conspicuous.” I lean against the counter, maintaining the careful distance I’ve established between us since her decision three days ago. “You’ll go first. Tonight.”
Her posture shifts, spine straightening as defiance replaces caution. “And where exactly am I going?”
“You can’t know,” I say, watching her reaction closely. “Secrecy is the point.”
