Chapter 17
Maya
I’m up early the next morning, slipping out of bed while Logan and Cillian are still sleeping. I don’t like how tempting it is to linger with them.
The library—if it can even be called that—is little more than a dusty corner of the safehouse with a single bookshelf holding maybe two dozen volumes.
Most are practical guides to wilderness survival or outdated maps, but tucked among them I find a collection of Melillan history texts.
I pull one out, settling into the room’s only chair as dust motes dance in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window.
The Unification Wars and the Rise of House Corellian, the cover proclaims in faded gold lettering.
I trace the embossed image of King Leopold I, younger than I’ve ever seen him depicted, standing triumphant on a battlefield.
The romanticized illustration shows none of the brutality that must have accompanied his conquest of the independent city-states, none of the blood spilled to create the unified kingdom of Melilla.
I flip through the pages, scanning passages about strategic brilliance and diplomatic maneuvering.
The sanitized version of history taught in schools and celebrated in national holidays.
Nothing about the resistance he crushed, the dissenters silenced, the cultures subsumed into his vision of a single, unified nation.
“Looking for bedtime reading?”
I glance up to find Logan standing in the doorway, his golden eyes reflecting the sunlight in a way that makes them seem to glow from within. He looks tired, shadows beneath his eyes speaking of sleepless nights, but there’s an alertness to his posture that reminds me he’s never truly off guard.
“Just trying to understand what we’re up against,” I reply, holding up the book. “Or what we might be running from.”
Logan steps into the room, his gaze flicking to the volume in my hands. “My father’s greatest hits,” he says dryly. “I’m sure that particular edition leaves out the less flattering chapters.”
“Like the fact that he might have murdered his own mate?” The words slip out before I can stop them, Poe’s revelation still fresh in my mind.
Logan goes very still, his expression freezing in a way that makes my heart rate quicken. For a moment, I think I’ve gone too far, pushed a button I shouldn’t have touched. But then he sighs, the tension leaving his shoulders as he moves to lean against the bookshelf.
“So Poe told you about that,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “I wondered if he would.”
I set the book aside, studying Logan’s face. “Is it true?”
He’s silent for a long moment, his gaze distant as if seeing something beyond the confines of this dusty room. “I don’t know,” he admits finally. “There were rumors, whispers among the court. My mother’s death was... convenient. For my father’s political ambitions, if nothing else.”
“She opposed him?” I ask, genuinely curious about this queen I’ve only ever heard described in terms of her beauty and her devotion to the king.
“Not openly,” Logan says, his expression thoughtful. “She was too smart for that. But she had her own network of supporters. She advocated for causes my father considered... distractions from his agenda.”
“Like what?”
“She wasn’t a saint, but she wanted to leave her mark on Melilla. Education reform. Healthcare access for the lower districts. Omega rights.” His mouth quirks in a humorless smile. “Dangerous ideas, according to the king.”
“And you think he might have had her killed for that?” I ask, watching Logan’s face carefully.
He shrugs, the gesture deceptively casual.
“I think my father is capable of anything he believes serves his vision for Melilla. Including eliminating those who stand in his way. Even those he loves” His golden eyes meet mine, intense and unblinking.
“But no. The obsession he had for my mother exceeded all rational boundaries. He wouldn’t have killed her.
Chained her to the bed of a remote country residence, maybe.
Never let her be seen in public again. He couldn’t have killed her. ”
I’m not sure I agree with him. “Obsession, you said? Sounds familiar.”
His smile is humorless. “I am my father’s son.”
“Is that what you’re afraid of becoming?” I ask, the question forming before I can consider its wisdom. “If you take the throne? Another version of your father?”
Logan’s expression shifts, something vulnerable flashing across his features before his usual mask of control slides back into place.
“It’s crossed my mind,” he admits, his voice low.
“The crown changes people. I’ve seen it happen—not just with my father, but with Ander too.
The weight of it... it warps perspective.
Makes monsters of men. But a monster is the only thing that can fight monsters.
Taking the throne has always been the only way I’ve ever seen to protect the people who need me. ”
Like the mother he couldn’t protect, I think.
“Is that why you’ve always seemed so eager to claim it?” I press, sensing an opening I hadn’t anticipated. “The throne, I mean.”
Logan moves away from the bookshelf, pacing the small confines of the library with restless energy. “Partly,” he says after a moment. “I’ve never wanted to rule for its own sake. I’m a soldier, not a politician. I understand battlefields far better than political intrigue.”
“And yet here we are,” I observe, “considering a rebellion that would put you on the throne.”
He stops pacing, turning to face me fully. “Here we are,” he agrees, his expression unreadable. “Waiting for you to decide whether that rebellion happens at all.”
The reminder of the decision hanging over me sends a fresh wave of anxiety through my chest. The sun is lowering in the sky, visible through the dusty window. Sunset approaches, and with it, the moment of choice.
“I’ve decided,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
He studies me closely for a moment, though I know my expression gives nothing away. “Then let’s go break the news, then.”
The small front room of the safehouse feels even more cramped with all five of us gathered there.
Logan leans against the wall near the boarded-up window, arms crossed over his chest, his golden eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
Poe has positioned himself in the far corner, half-hidden in shadow as usual, but I can feel his gaze on me too—watchful, assessing.
Ares sits on the edge of the threadbare sofa, his massive frame making the furniture look like dollhouse pieces, while Cillian stands near the doorway, his pale hair catching the last rays of sunlight filtering through the cracks in the boards.
They’re all waiting. For me. For my decision.
The weight of it settles on my shoulders like a physical thing, pressing down until I feel I might collapse beneath it.
How did I end up here? How did I become the one to decide the fate of five people—six, counting myself—when just weeks ago I was nothing more than a captive, a victim, a pawn in games I didn’t understand?
“Before I tell you what I’ve decided,” I begin, my voice steadier than I expected, “I want to make sure we all understand what we’re choosing between.”
No one speaks, but I can feel the tension in the room ratchet up another notch.
I take a deep breath, organizing my thoughts.
I’ve spent days weighing options, considering angles, trying to see beyond the immediate choice to the long-term consequences.
I need them to see what I see—the full picture, not just the parts that align with their own desires.
“If we run,” I say, meeting each of their gazes in turn, “we might escape the immediate danger. We might find somewhere beyond the king’s reach, at least temporarily.
But we’d be looking over our shoulders forever.
And we’d be abandoning everyone else to whatever fate awaits them under King Leopold’s rule—or under the Inquisitor’s influence, if what you say about the crown prince is true. ”
I pause, gauging their reactions. Ares nods slightly, acknowledging the accuracy of my assessment. Poe’s expression remains unreadable, but there’s a tension in his posture that speaks volumes.
“Running means safety in the short term,” I continue, “but a lifetime of exile. Of hiding. Of wondering when—not if, but when—the king will find us again.”
Logan’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny it. We both know it’s true. If I choose to run, I’m effectively choosing to leave him behind—to stretch the bond between us until it’s a constant, aching presence in both our minds.
“If we stay and fight,” I say, turning back to the others, “we risk everything on a rebellion that might fail. We put our lives in the hands of people we don’t know, people whose motives might not align with ours.
We gamble on Logan’s ability to rally support, to challenge his father directly, to win a throne he’s not even sure he wants. ”
Logan’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel a flicker of something through our damaged bond—surprise, perhaps, that I’ve seen through his ambivalence about ruling.
“Staying means danger,” I acknowledge. “It means violence. It means the very real possibility that some or all of us won’t survive what’s coming.”
The room falls silent as my words hang in the air. I can see them processing, weighing, considering the stark reality I’ve laid out. No sugar-coating, no false promises, just the brutal truth of our situation.
“Both choices are bad,” I say finally, my voice softer now. “Both carry costs I’m not sure any of us are prepared to pay. But we have to choose. We can’t stay in this limbo forever.”
Ares shifts on the sofa, the ancient springs creaking beneath his weight. “So what have you decided?”
I take a deep breath, centering myself. This is it. The moment of choice. Once spoken, there’s no taking it back, no pretending we can return to the safety of indecision.