And let him think that Logan has been keeping me locked away in the summer palace like a treasured pet. Certainly not someone capable of planning and executing an assassination attempt by herself.
The road curves ahead, taking me out of sight of the car. I resist the urge to look back, to reassure myself that Logan and Ares are still there, still watching over me. From this point forward, I’m on my own.
The checkpoint appears around the bend—a small, fortified building straddling the road, barriers lowered to stop all traffic.Floodlights illuminate the area, harsh and unforgiving against the surrounding darkness. Guards in royal livery stand at attention, weapons visible at their sides.
One of the guards spots me, nudging his companion, as I hurry toward them. They stare, clearly confused by the sight of a lone woman in an evening gown approaching their checkpoint on foot in the middle of the night. I continue forward, my heart pounding so loudly I’m certain they must hear it.
“Halt!” the first guard calls when I’m about twenty paces away. “Identify yourself!”
I stop, keeping my posture perfect, my expression appropriately demure. “My name is Maya Tantamount,” I call back, my voice clear in the night air. “I wish to surrender myself to the king’s mercy.”
The guards exchange glances, their confusion evident even at this distance. The first one—older than the others, with sergeant’s stripes on his uniform—steps forward cautiously.
“Approach slowly,” he orders, his hand resting on his weapon. “Keep your hands visible.”
I obey, moving forward with small, careful steps, my hands held slightly away from my body to show I carry no weapons. As I draw closer, I can see recognition dawning in the sergeant’s eyes. My purple hair is distinctive, my face has been on wanted posters throughout the kingdom for weeks.
Yet he pretends not to know me.
“What business brings you to this checkpoint at this hour?” he asks, his tone deliberately casual despite the tension in his posture.
I glance at the display screen mounted on the checkpoint wall—where my own face stares back at me from a wanted poster, the words “DANGEROUS FUGITIVE” emblazoned across the top. The sergeant follows my gaze, then looks back at me, his expression unreadable.
“I believe you know exactly who I am,” I say quietly. “And I believe the king would be most displeased to learn you delayed my return to the palace.”
The sergeant’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t deny it. Instead, he gestures to one of the younger guards. “Search her.”
I remain perfectly still as the guard approaches, his hands trembling slightly as he pats me down. His touch lingers a moment too long on my waist, his fingers brushing against the side of my breast in a way that is definitely not part of standard procedure.
“She’s clean,” he reports, stepping back with a smirk that makes my skin crawl.
The sergeant studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Take her inside. I’ll call for transport.”
The young guard grabs my arm, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he drags me toward the checkpoint building. I don’t resist, maintaining my demure Omega facade despite the anger bubbling beneath the surface. This is just the beginning, I remind myself. I need to conserve my energy for the challenges ahead.
Inside, the checkpoint is sparse and functional—a desk, several chairs, communication equipment, and a small detention cell in the corner. The guard shoves me into a chair, his hand lingering on my shoulder.
“Pretty thing, aren’t you?” he says, leaning close enough that I can smell the cheap alcohol on his breath. “All dressed up for us.”
I say nothing, keeping my eyes downcast as a proper Omega should. Inside, I’m calculating distances, assessing threats, planning responses. There are four guards total—the sergeant, this leering young one, and two others who’ve remained outside. The sergeant is the only real threat; the others are too inexperienced, too undisciplined.
“Transport won’t be here for at least an hour,” the sergeant announces, hanging up a communications device. He looks at me, then at the young guard still hovering too close. “Secure the prisoner until then.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard replies, his tone suggesting he has his own ideas about what “securing” might entail.
The sergeant hesitates, glancing between us. For a moment, I think he might intervene, might insist on proper procedure. Then he shrugs, turning away. “I’ll check the perimeter. Make sure she didn’t bring friends.”
He exits, leaving me alone with the young guard, whose smile widens unpleasantly. “Well now,” he says, circling my chair slowly. “Looks like it’s just you and me for a while.”
I remain silent, watching him from beneath lowered lashes. He’s young—barely twenty—and clearly drunk on the small power his uniform grants him. Dangerous in his unpredictability, but not in his competence.
“Not very talkative, are you?” he continues, stopping behind my chair. His hands land heavily on my shoulders, fingers kneading painfully. “That’s alright. We don’t need to talk.”
His hands slide lower, tracing the neckline of my gown. I sit perfectly still, my mind racing through options. I could take him down easily—the self-defense training Cillian insisted on during our weeks at the summer palace has prepared me for this. But violence now would jeopardize the entire mission. I need to reach the palace, need to get close to the king.
The door opens, and another guard enters—one of the two who had been stationed outside. He pauses, taking in the scene before him, then grins. “Starting without me, Tanner?”
“Plenty to go around,” Tanner replies, his hands still wandering across my collarbone. “Royal fugitive, this one. Nobody’s going to miss her if she arrives a little disheveled.”
