Chapter 24
Maya
The commotion in the entrance hall pulls me from my book.
I’ve been trying to distract myself with one of the Queen Mother’s historical texts—a surprisingly candid account of the Restoration War—but the sudden flurry of activity sends my heart racing with anticipation.
After five days at the summer palace, I’ve learned to recognize the signs of important arrivals.
I mark my place and set the book aside, moving to the window that overlooks the main courtyard. A military vehicle has pulled up to the entrance, mud-splattered and travel-worn. Not the ornate conveyance I’d expect for royal visitors, but practical for those trying to avoid attention.
My breath catches in my throat. Could it be them? Logan, Poe, and Ares were supposed to arrive days ago, following different routes to avoid detection. Each passing day without word has stretched my nerves thinner, the bond between us aching with distance and uncertainty.
I press my palm against the glass, leaning closer as the carriage door swings open. The first figure to emerge is unmistakable—Ares, his massive frame making the carriage seem toy-like by comparison. Relief floods through me at the sight of him, whole and apparently unharmed.
Poe follows, his movements fluid and controlled as always, eyes scanning the courtyard with predatory alertness. And then finally, Logan steps down, and my heart stutters in my chest.
Even from this distance, I can see he’s injured. His normally perfect posture is slightly hunched, one arm held protectively against his ribs. A bandage crosses the bridge of his nose, and dark bruises shadow his eyes. He moves with the careful precision of someone managing significant pain.
My feet are carrying me toward the stairs before I’ve made a conscious decision to move.
I catch myself on the banister, forcing my body to stillness.
This sudden, overwhelming urge to rush to Logan’s side—to check his injuries, to assure myself he’s truly alive—catches me off guard.
Is it the bond pulling at me? Or something else, something I’m not ready to acknowledge?
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. I won’t run to him like some lovesick Omega from a romance novel. I won’t give him—or the Queen Mother’s ever-watchful staff—the satisfaction of seeing me so affected by his presence.
Instead, I descend the stairs with deliberate calm, keeping my face composed as I enter the entrance hall. The Queen Mother’s steward is already there, directing servants to take luggage and offering refreshments to the new arrivals.
Ares spots me first, his green eyes lighting with what might be relief. “Little bird,” he calls, his voice carrying across the marble expanse. “Still in one piece, I see.”
“More than I can say for some of us,” I reply, my gaze sliding to Logan.
Up close, his injuries look worse. The bandage across his nose doesn’t quite hide the swelling beneath, and the bruises under his eyes have bloomed in vivid purple and yellow. There’s a stiffness to his movements that speaks of pain he’s trying to conceal.
Logan’s golden eyes meet mine, and something electric passes between us, a surprise shock of current through the bond that’s been stretched thin. For a moment, I feel everything he’s feeling—exhaustion, pain, relief at seeing me safe, and something deeper, more complex that I can’t quite name.
“Maya,” he says, my name a rough whisper on his lips. “You’re safe.”
“I am,” I confirm, fighting the inexplicable urge to touch him, to verify his solidity with my own hands. “Cillian and I arrived last night without a problem.”
“Where is he?” Poe asks, his dark eyes scanning the entrance hall.
“Meeting with the Queen Mother’s security chief,” I explain. “Reviewing protocols, comparing notes. You know how he is.”
Poe nods, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
“What happened to you?” I ask Logan, unable to keep the question contained any longer. “You look like you’ve been beaten to a pulp.”
Logan’s mouth quirks. “We ran into some trouble on the road.”
“Trouble?” I repeat.
“My brother Willam,” Logan clarifies, his voice neutral despite the tension I can feel radiating from him. “He and six of the king’s men ambushed us near the northern crossing.”
My stomach drops. “The king knows you’re here? He sent men after you?”
“Willam found us on his own,” Poe interjects, his voice low. “Likely didn’t even call it in because he didn’t want any of the other princes taking credit. We made sure no one followed us here.”
I process this, trying to understand the implications. “But if Willam found you, others could too. The king might figure out—“
“The king knows nothing,” Logan interrupts, a hint of his usual arrogance surfacing through the pain. “Willam won’t report his failure. His pride wouldn’t allow it.”
“How can you be sure?” I press, anxiety clawing at my chest.
“Because I wouldn’t risk you by bringing a problem to the gates,” Logan says, something cold and dangerous entering his voice. “If you believe nothing else, believe that.”
I study Logan’s face, looking beyond the physical injuries to the emotional ones beneath. There’s something different about him—a hardness that wasn’t there before, or perhaps was always there but better concealed.
“You killed him,” I say, not a question but a statement.
Logan’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel a flicker of something through our bond. “No,” he says after a moment. “I spared him. This time.”
The qualification sends a chill through me. This time. As if next time, mercy won’t be an option. Because killing his own brother is a line Logan is definitely prepared to cross if necessary.
I should be horrified by this. By the casual way he contemplates fratricide. By the cold calculation in his golden eyes as he weighs the life of his own blood against our safety.
But all I feel is a strange, hollow relief. I don’t want to be bonded to a murderer. But we need a leader willing to kill when it’s necessary.
“Your Highness,” the steward interrupts, bowing slightly to Logan. “The Queen Mother requests your presence once you’ve refreshed from your journey. She awaits you in the Blue Salon.”
Logan nods, royal training taking over despite his obvious exhaustion. “Please inform Her Highness that I will attend her shortly.”
The steward bows again and withdraws, leaving us alone in the entrance hall. The moment he’s gone, Logan’s posture slumps slightly, a grimace of pain crossing his features before he can mask it.
“You need medical attention,” I say, the words escaping before I can stop them.
“What I need is a bath and about twelve hours of sleep,” Logan counters, attempting a smile that looks more like a wince. “But grandmother waits for no man, not even her favorite grandson.”
“The Queen Mother doesn’t have a doctor in residence?” I ask, looking to Poe for confirmation.
“Doctors are typically men,” Poe says, his expression unreadable. “Before us, no men have ever been allowed to reside in the summer palace.”
“I can help,” I offer, surprising myself as much as them. “Clean and bandage the wounds, at least. I did it for Cillian when his stitches tore.”
Logan’s golden eyes meet mine, something vulnerable flickering in their depths before his mask reasserts itself. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve had worse.”
“Don’t be stupid,” I say, irritation flaring at his stubborn pride. “I can see you’re still bleeding. Come let me bandage you, at least.”
A startled laugh escapes Ares, quickly smothered when Logan glares at him.
“She’s right,” Ares says, raising his hands in mock surrender.
“Grandmother or not, the Queen Mother is evaluating every move you make. Showing up looking like you lost a bar fight isn’t going to inspire confidence in your leadership. ”
Logan’s jaw tightens, but I can see the moment he acknowledges the logic of our argument. “Fine,” he concedes. “But be quick about it. Keeping my grandmother waiting isn’t a good idea.”
“I’ll have supplies sent to your room,” Poe says, already moving toward one of the servants hovering at the edge of the hall. “Ares and I will unpack the essentials and join you for the audience afterward.”
Logan nods, his gaze returning to me. “Lead the way, then. Apparently I’m in need of your nursing skills.”
The words could be mocking, but there’s something in his tone—a weariness, perhaps, or a vulnerability—that takes the edge off them. I turn without responding, leading him up the grand staircase toward the wing where we’ve been housed.
The summer palace is a maze of corridors and hidden passages, but I’ve spent the past five days exploring, mapping its layout in my mind. I lead Logan through the less traveled routes, avoiding the main hallways where we might encounter staff or, worse, the Queen Mother herself.
“You’ve learned the palace quickly,” Logan observes as we slip through a servant’s passage that cuts the distance to my assigned chambers in half.
“I like to know my escape routes,” I reply, not slowing my pace.
He makes a sound that might be a laugh if it didn’t catch on what I suspect is a broken rib. “Always planning for the worst. I appreciate that about you.”
We reach my room without further conversation. A servant is already waiting at the door with an armful of medical supplies.
Logan enters slowly behind me, as if still unsure of his welcome despite my express invitation.
“Let me see,” I say, setting the medical supplies on a nearby table and approaching him.
Logan’s golden eyes meet mine, something complicated passing through them. “See what, exactly? I have a collection of injuries for you to choose from.”
“Start from the top,” I say, keeping my voice practical.
He hesitates, then gestures to his ribs. “At least one is broken, I think.”
I nod, moving closer. “I need to see. Take off your shirt.”
A hint of his old smirk touches his lips. “So demanding. I like this side of you.”