I don’t know. And that uncertainty—that crack in the foundation of loyalty I’ve built my life upon—terrifies me more than any external threat we’ve ever faced.
Because a pack divided against itself cannot stand. And if we fall, we all fall together.
CHAPTER 21
Maya
The truck door creaks as I push it open, my muscles stiff from hours of confinement. Beside me, Cillian moves with silent grace despite his recent injuries, his hand never straying far from the knife concealed in his boot. The smuggler watches us with growing impatience, clearly eager to complete this transaction and be on his way.
“Are you going in or not?” he asks, jingling a set of keys in his hand. “I’ve got other deliveries to make today.”
I exchange a glance with Cillian, reading the wariness in his ice-blue eyes. We’ve come this far—might as well see it through.
“We’re going,” I say, stepping down from the truck.
My legs nearly buckle as they take my weight, pins and needles shooting through my calves after hours of immobility. Cillian’s hand catches my elbow, steadying me without comment. The gesture is casual but deliberate, his touch light enough to maintain my dignity while preventing an embarrassing fall.
The courtyard around us is smaller than it appeared from inside the truck, enclosed by high stone walls covered inclimbing ivy. The house itself is modest by royal standards—a two-story manor of weathered gray stone with narrow windows and a slate roof. Not exactly the summer palace I’d imagined, but certainly more secure-looking than our previous safehouse.
“This way,” the smuggler says, already walking toward the heavy wooden door at the front of the house. “Someone’s waiting for you inside.”
“Someone?” Cillian asks, his voice deceptively calm. “Who, exactly?”
The smuggler shrugs without turning around. “Not my business. I just drive.”
I feel Cillian tense beside me, his body coiling like a spring ready to release. His hand drifts closer to his boot, ready to draw his weapon at the first sign of trouble. I find myself mirroring his alertness, scanning our surroundings for potential threats or escape routes.
The smuggler pounds on the door three times, then twice more in quick succession—a signal, I realize. A code to identify himself to whoever waits inside.
For a long moment, nothing happens. Then I hear the sound of multiple locks disengaging, and the door swings open.
I’m not sure what I expected, but this certainly wasn’t it.
Saffron stands in the doorway wearing an elaborate dress that would look at home in the royal court, her vibrant red hair arranged in an intricate style that must have taken hours to create. The contrast between her polished appearance and our disheveled state after hours in the truck is almost comical.
“Finally,” she says, her voice carrying that distinctive Omega lilt that I’ve always found both familiar and grating. “I was beginning to think you’d been intercepted.”
The smuggler grunts, already backing toward his truck. “Stay away from the windows.”
Saffron nods. “Stay safe, Bastin.”
Without another word to us, he climbs back into his truck and starts the engine.
I watch him drive away with a strange mix of emotions—relief that we’ve apparently reached safety, suspicion at this unexpected turn of events, and a lingering anxiety about what comes next. Beside me, Cillian remains tense, his eyes never leaving Saffron as she gestures us inside.
“You should come in,” she says, glancing nervously at the sky. “It’s not safe to linger out in the open.”
The interior of the house is as unexpected as Saffron’s presence. While the exterior suggests a modest country manor, the inside has been transformed into a luxurious retreat. Plush carpets cover polished wood floors, silk draperies frame the narrow windows, and delicate furniture that looks too fragile to support actual human weight is arranged in careful groupings throughout the front parlor.
At the center of it all sits an elaborate tea service—silver pot, fine china cups, and a three-tiered stand laden with tiny sandwiches and pastries. It looks like something from an Enclave etiquette lesson, a perfect tableau of Omega hospitality.
“Please, sit,” Saffron says, gesturing to the arrangement. “You must be famished after driving half the day.”
Cillian positions himself between me and Saffron, his body language making it clear he’s not ready to relax just yet. “Where are we?” he asks, ignoring the invitation. “And why are you here?”
Saffron’s carefully composed expression flickers, a brief glimpse of something more genuine beneath the polished exterior. “This house belongs to Nikolai,” she explains, moving to pour tea despite our continued wariness. “As for why I’m here...well, Nikolai thought it would be a good opportunity to get me out of the palace as well.”
“Nikolai?” I repeat, surprise momentarily overriding caution. “Nikolai is part of the resistance?”
