The observation lands with unexpected force, challenging assumptions I’ve held about him—about all Alphas—since my earliest days at the Enclave. Is it possible that Logan, with all his privilege and power, feels as trapped by his designation as I do by mine?
“I never thought of it that way,” I admit, the honesty costing me less than expected.
“No one does,” Logan says, his voice tired but without rancor. “It’s easier to see the crown than the chains that come with it.”
We fall into silence, the metaphor hanging between us. I finish packing away the medical supplies, my mind turning over this new perspective, this glimpse of Logan I’ve never allowed myself to see before.
“You should meet with the Queen Mother before she gets impatient,” I say finally, returning to practical matters. “She’ll expect you to be at your sharpest, injuries or not.”
Logan nods, making no move to rise from the chair. “Thank you,” he says simply. “For this. For...” He gestures vaguely between us. “For talking to me like I’m a person, not just an Alpha to be feared or a prince to be obeyed.”
The gratitude in his voice, so unexpected and sincere, catches me off guard again. “You are a person,” I say, the words coming out softer than intended. “A frustrating, complicated, occasionally decent person.”
A genuine smile touches his lips, transforming his face despite the bruises and bandages. “I’ll take ‘occasionally decent’ as high praise, coming from you.”
Something has shifted between us—something fundamental that I can’t quite name. Not forgiveness, exactly. I’m not ready for that, not sure I’ll ever be ready for that. But understanding, perhaps. A glimpse beyond the masks we both wear, the roles we’ve been assigned by biology and circumstance.
A recognition that beneath the designations that divide us—Alpha and Omega, prince and subject, captor and captive—we might both be searching for the same thing.
CHAPTER 25
Logan
The Blue Salon feels like a cage despite its opulence. Grandmother has always had exquisite taste—every surface gleams with polish, every fabric chosen for both beauty and comfort. Even the air smells expensive, perfumed with the subtle scent of fresh flowers and beeswax.
I hate it.
I stand before the massive windows overlooking the immaculate gardens, my hands clasped behind my back to hide their restlessness. My ribs protest the formal posture, but I refuse to show weakness. Not here. Not with her.
“You look terrible.”
I don’t turn at the sound of my grandmother’s voice. Queen Mother Eleanora Corellian doesn’t require acknowledgment—she simply assumes it, as she has for the seven decades of her formidable existence.
“I’ve had worse,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral despite the throbbing pain in my nose and ribs. Maya’s ministrations helped, but nothing short of time will heal these injuries completely.
“Yes, I imagine you have.” Her voice draws closer, the soft rustle of expensive silk accompanying her approach. “Though usually at your father’s hands, not your brother’s.”
That makes me turn. Grandmother stands a few paces away, resplendent in midnight blue that makes her silver hair gleam like polished steel. Despite her advanced age, she carries herself with the rigid posture of a much younger woman. Only the fine network of lines around her golden eyes—eyes I inherited—betrays her years.
“You know about Willam,” I say, not bothering to phrase it as a question.
She arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I know everything that happens in this kingdom, Logan. Particularly when it involves my grandsons trying to kill each other on public roads.”
“I didn’t try to kill him,” I correct her. “If I had, he’d be dead.”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. You’ve never been one for half measures.” She moves to the ornate tea service laid out on a nearby table. “Sit. You look like you might collapse at any moment, and I refuse to have the servants gossip about me letting you bleed on my carpets.”
I obey, not because she commands it but because my body demands it. The chair is as comfortable as it looks, and I sink into it with poorly concealed relief. Grandmother pours tea into delicate porcelain cups, her movements precise and elegant despite her age.
“Your Omega has quite the healing touch,” she observes, handing me a cup. “Though I imagine her skills were honed through necessity rather than choice.”
I accept the tea, letting the warmth seep into my palms. “Maya’s history is not a topic I wish to discuss with you right now.”
“No?” She settles into the chair opposite mine, studying me over the rim of her cup. “And yet she is the reason you’re here,is she not? The catalyst for this rebellion you’re so determined to launch?”
“The rebellion was inevitable,” I say, meeting her gaze directly. “The king has gone too far. The fertility clinics are just the latest evidence of his deteriorating judgment.”
Grandmother’s expression hardens at the mention of the clinics. “Yes,” she agrees, her voice taking on an edge I rarely hear. “Those abominations are a stain on our family’s legacy.”
