“Don’t worry,” he says, patting my cheek with mock sympathy. “You’ll be joining her soon enough. The king has special plans for you.”
I lunge forward, chains be damned, driven by a fury that overwhelms caution. My forehead connects with his nose, the satisfying crunch of cartilage followed by a spray of warm blood. He stumbles back, howling in pain and outrage.
“You’ll pay for that,” he snarls, drawing his baton. “I’m going to enjoy teaching you some manners before the Inquisitor gets his turn.”
I brace myself for the beating I know is coming, a strange calm settling over me. Let him do his worst. Physical pain I can endure. It’s nothing compared to the knowledge of what awaits Dani, what awaits any Omega or female Alpha who falls into the king’s hands.
The first blow lands across my ribs, driving the air from my lungs in a harsh gasp. The second catches my temple, sending stars exploding across my vision. I taste blood, copper and salt flooding my mouth as I sink to my knees.
But even as the baton rises and falls, even as pain blooms across my body in bright bursts of agony, my mind remains clear, focused on one absolute certainty: I will escape this place. I will find Dani. I will burn those clinics to the ground, with everyone responsible for them inside.
And if I die in the attempt—well, that was always how this story was going to end.
CHAPTER 31
Maya
The car jolts over another pothole, sending a jab of pain through my lower back. I shift uncomfortably, the elaborate gown Saffron insisted I wear rustling with each movement. The fabric—some gauzy, delicate material from the Queen Mother’s extensive wardrobe—feels foreign against my skin, like I’m wearing someone else’s identity.
In many ways, I suppose I am.
“Stop fidgeting,” Ares mutters from the passenger seat, his massive frame making the vehicle feel even smaller than it is. “You’ll wrinkle the dress.”
“Heaven forbid I arrive at my own execution with wrinkles,” I reply dryly, but I force myself to sit still. The dress is the least of my concerns, but I understand its importance to our charade. The perfect Omega, returning to her rightful place. Repentant. Submissive. Everything I’m not.
Logan’s eyes flick to mine in the rearview mirror, his golden gaze unreadable in the dim light. He’s been unnervingly quiet since we left the summer palace, his knuckles white on the steering wheel of this nondescript sedan—chosen specificallybecause it looks nothing like a royal vehicle. Just another car on the road, carrying nothing more interesting than a driver, his companion, and a purple-haired woman in an evening gown.
Nothing to see here. Nothing worth stopping.
“We’re approaching the checkpoint,” Logan says, his voice tight with controlled tension. “Two miles ahead. I’ll pull over just before the bend in the road.”
I nod, my heart accelerating despite my best efforts to remain calm. This is it. The point of no return. Once I step out of this car, once I approach those guards alone, everything changes. The plan we’ve argued about for days, the strategy we’ve refined through endless debates and compromises, will be set irrevocably in motion.
And I’ll be on my own.
“Run through it again,” Ares says, turning in his seat to face me. His expression is grim, the playfulness that usually lurks in his green eyes completely absent. “Every step.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. We’ve been over this a dozen times already. But I understand his concern—understand that this repetition is as much for his comfort as my preparation.
“I approach the checkpoint on foot,” I recite, keeping my voice steady. “I surrender myself to the guards, claiming I’ve escaped from Logan’s captivity and wish to return to the king’s protection. They’ll verify my identity, then escort me to the palace.”
“And if they don’t believe you?” Ares presses.
“They will,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “The king has been hunting for me since we fled. I’m too valuable to turn away.”
“And once you’re inside the palace?” Logan asks, his eyes still fixed on the road ahead, though I can hear the strain in his voice. This part of the plan troubles him the most—the part where I’m beyond his reach, beyond his protection.
“I demand an audience with the king,” I continue. “I tell him what he wants to hear—that you forced the bond, that I never wanted to reject royal favor, that I’ve come to my senses and wish to make amends.”
“And Poe?” Ares prompts.
“If I can find out where he is without revealing myself, I will,” I say firmly. “Otherwise, I have no loyalty to the prince’s enforcer. I have no connection to any rebellion. I’m just a confused Omega who made a terrible mistake and wants forgiveness.”
Logan’s jaw tightens visibly, but he says nothing. We’ve been over this particular point repeatedly. I can’t risk any attempt to help Poe, not immediately. My own position will be precarious enough without drawing attention to connections with known rebels.
“And the poison?” Ares asks, his voice dropping even though we’re alone in the car.
I touch the delicate silver pendant hanging at my throat—an heirloom piece from the Queen Mother’s collection that looks innocuous but contains enough concentrated nightshade to kill a dozen men.
