Chapter 15 Maya
Maya
I step into the kitchen, drawn by the mouthwatering scent of something cooking. My stomach growls, reminding me how little I’ve eaten in the last few days.
Ares stands at the stove with his back to me, broad shoulders hunched as he stirs something in a battered pot.
He mutters under his breath, the words too low to make out but the tone unmistakably irritated.
Steam rises around him, softening the hard edges of his silhouette, making him look more approachable than I’ve ever seen him before.
I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene. This domestic version of Ares has always been my favorite.
“Next time we’re on the run for our lives, we should make sure the kitchen is better stocked,” I say, stepping fully into the room.
Ares jumps—actually jumps—and nearly drops the egg he’s holding. He spins around, eyes wide with surprise before recognition settles his features into something closer to relief.
“Fuck’s sake, princess,” he growls, though there’s no real heat behind it. “Make some noise when you move, would you? I nearly crushed our last egg.”
I raise an eyebrow, moving closer to peer into the pot he’s been stirring. “Last egg?”
“Yeah.” He looks down at the egg in his hand with something like reverence. “I was just about to fry it up for you. Only bit of protein left in this place.”
The gesture catches me off guard. I’m not sure how to respond, so I default to practicality.
“Save it for Cillian,” I say, trying to sound casual. “He needs it more than I do. He’s still recovering.”
Ares studies me for a moment, his green eyes assessing in a way that makes me want to squirm. Then he nods, setting the egg carefully on the counter.
“Fine. But don’t complain when all I can offer you is barley soup without the pepper we just ran out of.” He sighs, turning back to the pot. “Might be the blandest meal you’ve ever had.”
I shrug, leaning against the counter. “I’ve had worse.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, carrying more weight than I intended.
Memories of the doctor’s compound flash through my mind.
Days without food as part of his “experiments,” tasteless nutrient pastes when he needed me functional, water rationed to the point where my lips cracked and bled.
Ares doesn’t comment on my slip, but I see his jaw tighten, the muscles in his neck cording with tension. He knows what I’m referring to, even if I don’t say it explicitly.
“How much longer can we stay here?” I ask, changing the subject before the memories can take stronger hold.
Ares stirs the soup with more force than necessary, his movements jerky with restrained emotion.
“Not much longer,” he says finally, his voice carefully neutral.
“We’re burning through supplies faster than expected.
Making a supply run carries risks, could lead someone right to us.
”He pauses, seeming to weigh his next words.
“When we leave, it needs to be for good. No coming back.”
The finality in his voice sends a chill through me. This safehouse, as sparse and temporary as it is, has become a strange sort of sanctuary. The thought of leaving it makes my heart race.
“So we don’t have a week,” I say quietly. “I have to make a decision now.”
“You do,” a new voice says from the doorway.
I turn to find Poe leaning against the frame, his dark eyes unreadable as always. How long has he been there? His ability to appear without warning still unnerves me, even after all this time.
“Logan’s base of support grows daily,” Poe continues, stepping into the kitchen. “And Nikolai has already found us safe harbor if we choose to join the resistance.”
Ares scoffs, turning from the stove to face Poe. “Safe harbor? With the king’s guards combing every inch of the city for us?”
“He swears it is.”
“And where is this mythical safe haven exactly?”
Poe grimaces. “We won’t know until we get there. He can’t risk the location being compromised.”
Ares groans. “Sounds like a great plan.”
“Better than running with our tails between our legs,” Poe counters, his voice deceptively calm. “Better than spending the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders, waiting for the king’s reach to find us.”
“And better to die quickly in a failed rebellion than slowly on the run?” Ares demands, his voice rising. “Because that’s what we’re talking about, Poe. A suicide mission.
“Enough,” I say, my voice cutting through their argument. “I haven’t decided yet, and this isn’t helping.”
They both turn to me, surprise evident in their expressions. It’s as if they’d forgotten I was there, or at least forgotten that I’m not just the subject of their debate but an active participant in it.
“Maya—“ Ares begins, but I hold up a hand, stopping him.
“I know the stakes,” I say, meeting his gaze steadily. “I know the risks of both options. I don’t need them repeated every time two of you are in a room together.”
Ares has the grace to look slightly abashed, but Poe’s expression remains unreadable, his dark eyes studying me with that unsettling intensity that always makes me feel like he’s seeing more than I want to reveal.
“When will you decide?” he asks, his voice neutral once more.
I take a deep breath, centering myself. “Tomorrow,” I say, the word feeling final as it leaves my lips. “I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”
Something shifts in Poe’s expression—satisfaction, perhaps, or relief. It’s gone too quickly for me to be sure.
“Good,” he says simply.
With that, he turns and leaves, his footsteps silent as he disappears down the hallway. Ares watches him go, tension still evident in the set of his shoulders.
“He’s right about one thing,” Ares says after a moment, turning back to the stove. “We can’t stay in this limbo much longer. It’s tearing us apart.”
I nod, though he isn’t looking at me to see it.
The weight of responsibility settles more heavily on my shoulders, a physical pressure that makes it hard to breathe.
Whatever I decide today will change all our lives irrevocably.
There’s no going back, no middle ground, no perfect solution that keeps everyone safe and satisfied.
“I know,” I say quietly.
Ares glances at me over his shoulder, his green eyes surprisingly gentle. “For what it’s worth, princess, I think you’ll make the right choice. Whatever that ends up being.”
“Let’s hope you still think that after I’ve made it,” I reply.
After lunch, I find myself wandering through the safehouse, restless energy driving me from room to room. The decision looms over me like a storm cloud, dark and threatening, impossible to ignore.
I pause at a window in the hallway, staring out at the overgrown garden behind the house.
Weeds choke what might once have been flower beds, nature reclaiming what humans abandoned.
Somehow, it feels like a metaphor for my life—wild and uncontrolled where once there had been structure, however confining.
“Trying to find inspiration in the weeds?”
I turn to find Cillian leaning against the wall a few feet away, his pale hair falling across his forehead in a way that softens his usually sharp features.
He looks better than he did yesterday—some color has returned to his face, and he stands without the slight hunch of pain I’d grown accustomed to seeing.
“Something like that,” I reply, turning back to the window. “How are you feeling?”
He moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the feverish heat radiating from his body but not so close that we touch. “Better.”
I cast a critical eye over the flushed skin on his face, the pain setting wrinkles into his forehead, and don’t believe him for a second. “That’s good. We need you at full strength.”
Cillian only shrugs at that, avoiding my gaze.
“I hear you might have decided?” Cillian asks after a moment of silence.
I sigh, resting my forehead against the cool glass of the window. “Not yet. But I will.”
His voice is gentle, lacking any apparent urgency. “What’s holding you back?”
I turn to face him fully, studying his expression. There’s no judgment there, no impatience, just genuine curiosity and something that might be concern.
“I keep thinking about what happens after,” I admit, the words coming more easily than I expected. “Not just the immediate consequences, but the long-term ones. What kind of life we’d have, either way.”
Cillian nods, his pale eyes thoughtful. “And neither option looks particularly appealing.”
“Exactly.” The relief of being understood, of not having to explain myself further, loosens something in my chest. “If we run, we’re looking at a lifetime of hiding, of always looking over our shoulders. If we stay and fight, we’re risking everything on a rebellion that might fail spectacularly.”
“And even if it succeeds,” Cillian adds, “it’s impossible to calculate the cost of victory. People will die.”
A shiver rocks down my spine as I repeat, “People will die.”
A small smile touches Cillian’s lips. “You would make an excellent queen, at least. I can’t think of anyone more suited to a crown.”
The compliment catches me off guard. “Being good at something and wanting to do it are very much not the same thing.”
“You’d have the power to make the court what you want it to be.”
Assuming I survive long enough to even lay eyes on the crown, is what he doesn’t say.
He shifts closer, that subtle change in his demeanor making my skin prickle with awareness. Heat rises to my face, and I turn back to the window, hoping he doesn’t notice. But of course he does. Cillian notices everything.
“You’re thinking about it,” he says, his voice dropping lower.
My fingers clench. “I don’t know what you mean.”