“We need to grab what we can and move,” I say, already reaching for the supply pack in the trunk. “There’ll be patrols sweeping this area once Willam reports back.”
“If he reports back,” Poe corrects, giving me a look I can’t quite decipher. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill him when you had the chance.”
I pause, the weight of the supply pack heavy in my hands. The question in his words is clear, though he hasn’t directly asked it. Why show mercy now, when I’ve never hesitated to eliminate threats before?
“If I’m going to take the throne from my father,” I say finally, “I need to be better than him. Melilla has seen enough blood spilled over petty rivalries and power struggles.”
Poe’s eyebrows lift slightly, genuine surprise flickering across his normally impassive features. “That’s... unexpectedly compassionate of you.”
“Don’t look so shocked,” I reply, shouldering the pack. “I’m not incapable of mercy.”
“Just historically disinclined toward it,” he counters, though there’s less bite in the words than I might have expected.
I consider defending myself, explaining that ruthlessness has always been necessary—to survive my father, to protect my position, to keep the pack safe. But excuses change nothing. My hands are stained with the blood of enemies and innocents alike, and no amount of justification will wash them clean.
“Perhaps it’s time for that to change,” I say instead.
Ares approaches, carrying another pack filled with weapons and medical supplies. “Touching as this philosophical discussion is, we need to move. Now. Those guards will have relayed their position, more of them will come.”
He’s right, of course. This isn’t the time for introspection or debates about morality. We’re exposed, vulnerable, and our enemies know exactly where to find us.
Ares busies himself ripping the tracking device out of one of the vehicles, while Poe and I set the other one to autopilot itself in the opposite direction we’re going.
As we prepare to leave, Poe gives me another of those speculative looks.
“If you want to rule differently than your father,” he says quietly, “you might actually need to be different from him. Not just in your words, but in your actions.”
I think of all the ways I’ve emulated my father over the years—his ruthlessness, his calculating nature, his willingness to sacrifice others for the greater goal. I’ve told myself I was different, better somehow, but how much of that was self-deception?
“I know,” I reply simply. “I will.”
Poe holds my gaze for a moment longer, then nods. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
CHAPTER 24
Maya
The commotion in the entrance hall pulls me from my book. I’ve been trying to distract myself with one of the Queen Mother’s historical texts—a surprisingly candid account of the Restoration War—but the sudden flurry of activity sends my heart racing with anticipation. After five days at the summer palace, I’ve learned to recognize the signs of important arrivals.
I mark my place and set the book aside, moving to the window that overlooks the main courtyard. A military vehicle has pulled up to the entrance, mud-splattered and travel-worn. Not the ornate conveyance I’d expect for royal visitors, but practical for those trying to avoid attention.
My breath catches in my throat. Could it be them? Logan, Poe, and Ares were supposed to arrive days ago, following different routes to avoid detection. Each passing day without word has stretched my nerves thinner, the bond between us aching with distance and uncertainty.
I press my palm against the glass, leaning closer as the carriage door swings open. The first figure to emerge is unmistakable—Ares, his massive frame making the carriageseem toy-like by comparison. Relief floods through me at the sight of him, whole and apparently unharmed.
Poe follows, his movements fluid and controlled as always, eyes scanning the courtyard with predatory alertness. And then finally, Logan steps down, and my heart stutters in my chest.
Even from this distance, I can see he’s injured. His normally perfect posture is slightly hunched, one arm held protectively against his ribs. A bandage crosses the bridge of his nose, and dark bruises shadow his eyes. He moves with the careful precision of someone managing significant pain.
My feet are carrying me toward the stairs before I’ve made a conscious decision to move. I catch myself on the banister, forcing my body to stillness. This sudden, overwhelming urge to rush to Logan’s side—to check his injuries, to assure myself he’s truly alive—catches me off guard. Is it the bond pulling at me? Or something else, something I’m not ready to acknowledge?
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. I won’t run to him like some lovesick Omega from a romance novel. I won’t give him—or the Queen Mother’s ever-watchful staff—the satisfaction of seeing me so affected by his presence.
Instead, I descend the stairs with deliberate calm, keeping my face composed as I enter the entrance hall. The Queen Mother’s steward is already there, directing servants to take luggage and offering refreshments to the new arrivals.
Ares spots me first, his green eyes lighting with what might be relief. “Little bird,” he calls, his voice carrying across the marble expanse. “Still in one piece, I see.”
“More than I can say for some of us,” I reply, my gaze sliding to Logan.
