“You think you could best me in a physical confrontation?” I ask, genuinely curious rather than mocking. “I’ve been trained in combat since childhood. I’ve killed more people than you’ve met in your lifetime.”
“I don’t think I could beat you in a fair fight,” Maya concedes, her gaze steady on mine. “But I also don’t think you want to hurt me. I, on the other hand, have no such reservations about hurting you.”
The declaration should be laughable—this slip of a woman threatening me, one of the most lethal operatives in Melilla. But there’s something in her eyes, something cold and determined, that gives me pause.
She means it. She would fight me—fight all of us—to stay. To be part of whatever comes next, regardless of the danger.
I reassess my options, calculating risks and probabilities with the speed of long practice. I could overpower her easily—she’s right about that. But forcing her to the summer palace against her will would damage the fragile trust we’ve been building. It would reinforce every negative belief she holds about Alphas and their disregard for Omega autonomy.
And if I’m being entirely honest with myself, a part of me respects her refusal to be sidelined. Admires it, even.
“We need you safe,” I say finally, softening my approach. “The entire rebellion could hinge on it. Logan will be useless if something happens to you.”
She clearly doesn’t appreciate hearing that, judging from the look on her face.
We stand there, locked in a silent battle of wills, neither willing to concede. I’m not used to being challenged like this—not by anyone outside the pack, and certainly not by an Omega. It’s... unsettling. And strangely exhilarating.
“You’re being unreasonable,” I say, but the heat has gone out of my words.
“Probably,” she agrees, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. “But I’m still not going.”
I take a step closer, close enough now that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body, can catch the subtle shift in her scent as her pulse quickens. “And how do you plan to stop me if I decide to take you anyway?” I ask, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
I expect her to back down, to flinch away from the implicit threat. Instead, she leans in, her face tilting up to mine with a boldness that catches me off guard.
“I’d make you regret it,” she says, her breath warm against my chin.
The air between us changes, charged suddenly with something that isn’t quite anger but burns just as hot. I’m acutely aware of her proximity, of the slight part of her lips, of the challenge in her eyes that hasn’t wavered despite our closeness.
I should step back. Should reestablish the professional distance I’ve maintained since her decision to stay and fight. Should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
Instead, I reach for her.
My hand closes around her upper arm, intending to move her aside, to end this confrontation before it escalates further. But the moment my skin touches hers, something electric passes between us. Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers, her pupils dilating slightly as her gaze locks with mine.
“Let go,” she says, but there’s no force behind the words. No real desire for me to comply.
I don’t. Instead, I tighten my grip slightly, testing. “Make me.”
It’s a challenge, a dare, a reckless invitation I have no business extending. But the words hang between us, impossible to take back.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then Maya’s free hand comes up, not to push me away as I expected, but to fist in the front of my shirt, yanking me down to her level with surprising strength.
“I warned you,” she breathes against my mouth, and then she’s kissing me.
The contact is electric, a shock that runs from my lips straight to my core. Her mouth is warm and insistent against mine, nothing tentative in the way she claims this kiss. I respond instinctively, my free hand coming up to tangle in her purple hair, angling her head to deepen the contact.
She makes a small sound against my lips—not quite a moan, but something close—and the last threads of my self-control begin to fray. I back her against the counter, lifting her easily to sit on its edge, stepping between her thighs as they part to accommodate me.
The kiss turns hungry, desperate, all teeth and tongue and barely restrained violence. Her nails dig into my shoulders, sharp enough to sting even through the fabric of my shirt. I retaliate by nipping at her lower lip, hard enough to draw a gasp but not quite hard enough to break skin.
“I’m still angry with you,” she says against my mouth, her voice breathless and ragged.
“I know,” I reply, trailing kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat. “I’m angry too.”
“About what?” she challenges, her head falling back to give me better access.
I pause, my lips hovering over her pulse point. “About how much I’ve missed you,” I admit, the words torn from somewhere deep and vulnerable. “More than I thought possible.”
