“Professional interest only,” I reply, turning back to the mirror to finish with my collar. “Your face is a tactical asset. We can’t afford to have it permanently rearranged.”
Logan moves to the window, looking out at the manicured gardens below. The summer palace sprawls around us, a gilded cage that’s both sanctuary and prison. We’re safe here, for now, but also trapped—dependent on the Queen Mother’s goodwill and resources, subject to her rules and surveillance.
“Have you seen Poe?” Logan asks, his tone deliberately casual in a way that immediately puts me on alert.
“Not since yesterday,” I answer truthfully. “Why?”
“He didn’t come back last night.” Logan’s reflection in the window shows a tightness around his eyes that belies his neutral tone. “His bed wasn’t slept in.”
I consider this information, turning it over in my mind like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. Poe disappearingisn’t unusual, but not telling Logan is new. A deviation from established patterns that feels significant.
“Maybe he slept in the guard house,” I suggest.
Logan’s jaw tightens, confirming my suspicion that this isn’t just about Poe’s whereabouts. “This isn’t the time for distractions. We need to be focused, unified.”
“Says the man who spent yesterday afternoon building block castles with a four-year-old,” I counter, unable to resist the opening.
“Four and three-quarters,” Logan corrects automatically, then catches himself with a flash of irritation. “That’s different. Elise is family. And Maya—“ He stops abruptly, as if realizing he’s revealed more than intended.
“Ah,” I say, understanding dawning. “So this is about Maya.”
“This is about the pack,” Logan snaps, turning from the window to face me directly. “About loyalty and priorities. About the fact that we’re preparing for war, and Poe is off doing gods know what without bothering to inform me.”
The frustration in his voice is genuine, but so is the uncertainty beneath it, a new development for Logan, who has always projected absolute confidence even when he felt none. I’ve never before seen him question himself, his methods, his right to command absolute loyalty.
“The pack isn’t what it used to be,” I observe, keeping my tone neutral despite the weight of the words. “We’re all adjusting to...new dynamics.”
Logan’s golden eyes narrow, catching the deliberate understatement. “Is that what we’re calling it now? New dynamics?”
“Would you prefer ‘the consequences of forcing a bond on an unwilling Omega’?” I ask, the words sharper than intended. “Or perhaps ‘the inevitable result of making unilateral decisions that affect us all’?”
The silence that follows is heavy, charged with years of unspoken truths and recent wounds still raw enough to bleed. Logan doesn’t flinch from my gaze, but I see the impact of my words in the slight tightening of his shoulders, the barely perceptible shift in his stance.
“Our pack has become a group of lone wolves,” he says finally, bitterness edging his voice. “Everyone making their own decisions, following their own priorities. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work.”
I finish with my collar, smoothing the fabric with deliberate care. “What did you expect?” I ask, my voice quiet but clear in the still room. “You split us down the middle with your decisions. You created these fractures yourself.”
Logan’s expression hardens, pride and temper flaring in those golden eyes. For a moment, I think he’ll lash out—assert his dominance, remind me of my place, fall back on the Alpha authority that has always been his default when challenged.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he exhales slowly, a deliberate release of tension that speaks of control I didn’t know he possessed.
“I did what I thought was necessary at the time,” he says, his voice carefully measured.
“And now?” I press, pushing against boundaries I once would have respected without question. “What’s necessary now, Logan? More secrets? More unilateral decisions? More forcing people into roles they didn’t choose?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us is ready to fully acknowledge. Logan studies me, his gaze searching for something—understanding, perhaps, or the unwavering loyalty I once offered without hesitation.
“I’m trying,” he says finally, the admission clearly costing him. “To be better. To listen. To consider what others want, not just what I think they need.”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. This isn’t the Logan I’ve known for years—the commanding Alpha who expected obedience as his due. This is someone new, someone still forming, someone struggling to reconcile the leader he was trained to be with the man he wants to become.
“I know,” I acknowledge, softening my tone slightly. “But trying isn’t the same as succeeding. And some wounds don’t heal just because you’ve stopped making them worse.”
Logan flinches at that, a barely perceptible reaction that most would miss. But I’ve spent years studying him, learning to read the microexpressions that betray his thoughts when his words reveal nothing.
“Maya said something similar,” he admits, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. The casual intimacy of the gesture—Logan making himself at home in my space—feels both familiar and strange, a reminder of what we once were to each other. What we might still be, if circumstances were different.
“She’s perceptive,” I say, turning to face him fully. “And she’s had more practice than most at recognizing when someone’s actions don’t match their words.”
