Metal rattles against metal as the delivery truck hits another pothole. My teeth clack together painfully, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. The taste of copper fills my mouth—blood. Perfect. Just what I need to calm my already frayed nerves.
Beside me, Cillian shifts, his shoulder pressing against mine as he braces himself against the truck’s violent lurching. In the darkness of the cargo hold, I can barely make out his silhouette, but I feel the tension radiating from his body. He’s on high alert, has been since we left the safehouse three hours ago.
“You okay?” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
I nod, then realize he probably can’t see the gesture in the near-total darkness. “Fine,” I murmur back. “Just wishing our smuggler friend knew how to avoid potholes.”
A soft huff of laughter escapes him, the sound so unexpected it momentarily distracts me from the fear churning in my gut. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard Cillian laugh since we met. The rarity of it makes me want to hoard thesound, tuck it away somewhere safe where I can revisit it when things inevitably go to hell again.
The truck lurches again, sending us sliding across the metal floor. Cillian’s arm shoots out, steadying me before I can crash into the wall. His touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, and I find myself leaning into it, seeking comfort in the solid warmth of him.
This wasn’t the plan. Not originally. Poe had insisted I go on my own, but no number of orgasms were going to get me to agree with that. He’d agreed to find another solution, but I hadn’t expected that solution to involve a still recovering Cillian accompanying me while the others followed later.
“It’s a compromise,” Poe had explained, his expression unreadable as always. “You won’t be alone, but we won’t be traveling in a conspicuous group either.”
I’d wanted to argue, to insist we all stay together, but the logic was sound. As much as I hated to admit it, five people traveling together—especially with Logan’s distinctive golden eyes and Ares’s impossible-to-disguise bulk—would attract attention we couldn’t afford. And with the king’s guards combing the city for us and the doctor’s associates potentially still hunting me, attention was the last thing we needed.
So here we are, bouncing around in the back of a delivery truck driven by some smuggler contact of Nikolai’s, headed for the summer palace where the Queen Mother supposedly waits to offer sanctuary. Just Cillian and me, while the others plan to follow in two days’ time, taking separate routes to avoid detection.
It feels wrong, being separated from the pack. The bond—unwanted as it is—pulls at me, a constant awareness of distance growing between us and the others. It’s not painful, exactly, but uncomfortable, like an itch I can’t quite reach. I wonder if Cillianfeels it too, this strange emptiness where the pack connection should be strongest.
The truck suddenly slows, the change in momentum sending me sliding forward. Cillian catches me again, his hand firm on my upper arm.
“We’re stopping,” he whispers, his voice tight with tension.
Fear spikes through me, sharp and immediate. We’re not supposed to stop. Not until we reach the rendezvous point where another resistant contact will meet us with a more discreet vehicle. Any deviation from the plan means danger.
“Maybe he’s just—“ I start, but Cillian’s hand covers my mouth, cutting off my words.
His body goes completely still beside me, head tilted slightly as he listens. I strain my ears too, catching the muffled sound of voices from outside the truck. Male voices, authoritative and sharp.
Guardians.
My heart pounds so violently I’m sure Cillian can hear it, even without his enhanced Alpha senses. His hand remains over my mouth, gentle but firm, a silent command to stay quiet. I nod against his palm, and he slowly withdraws, his fingers trailing across my cheek in what might be reassurance.
The voices grow louder as they approach the back of the truck. I can make out words now, fragments of conversation that confirm my worst fears.
“Identification and transit card.“
A sound of agreement from the driver. “All my papers are in order?—“
“Then hand them over.”
Checkpoint. Of course. The king has tightened security throughout the city since our escape, establishing checkpoints on all major roads leading out of the capital. We’d known this, had planned our route specifically to avoid them. Either ourinformation was wrong, or the smuggler took a different path than agreed upon.
Either way, we’re fucked.
Cillian shifts beside me, his movements silent and precise as he reaches for something in his boot. The gleam of metal catches what little light filters through the cracks in the truck’s paneling—a knife. Small but lethal-looking, the kind of weapon that’s meant for close combat. For killing quickly, quietly.
The realization of what he’s preparing to do hits me with sickening clarity. If those guards open the back of this truck and find us, Cillian intends to fight. To kill if necessary. The thought should horrify me, but all I feel is a cold, practical acceptance. Better them than us. Better their blood than ours.
When did I become this person? The question flits through my mind, distant and abstract, as if asked by someone else entirely. The Maya from the Enclave—the one who recited political theory and dreamed of changing the world through diplomacy—would be appalled at what I’ve become. At what I’m willing to accept.
But that Maya died on a medical table, strapped to a table while a sadistic doctor carved her open in the name of science. This new Maya, forged in pain and desperation, understands that survival sometimes requires blood.
The truck door creaks open—not the back where we hide, but the driver’s side. I hear the smuggler’s voice, pitched low and casual, talking to the guards. He sounds relaxed, confident. Either he’s an excellent actor, or he has no idea what kind of cargo he’s really carrying.
Cillian’s hand finds mine in the darkness, his fingers intertwining with mine. The gesture surprises me—it’s too intimate, too vulnerable for the cold-eyed Beta who keeps everyone at arm’s length. But I don’t pull away. Instead, I squeeze back, drawing strength from the contact.
