18. Aisling
I can’t process it…can’t believe what that assassin said, even hours later as we drive past the gates of Oasis.
Gunnar…he wouldn’t.
I lean forward, hands clutched together, nerves fraying at the edges like a well-worn blanket. “He wouldn’t,” I murmur, my voice barely above the hum of the car’s engine. “Gunnar wouldn’t send killers after us.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Aisling,” Vance replies from the seat in front of me, his tone cutting through my denial like a knife. He doesn’t look at me; his gaze is fixed on the passing lights outside. “But I’ve seen this play before. He’s got a taste of power, and now he wants it all for himself…and he doesn’t care who he hurts in the process.”
Oberon, beside me, shakes his head with a frown furrowing his brow. “No. This has to be a misunderstanding, a ploy from someone else. Gunnar knows killing us would start a war he can’t win—and he wouldn’t hurt Ais.”
“War?” Vance scoffs and finally meets my eyes. “We’re already in one, whether you’ve noticed or not.”
I press my lips together, the taste of dread bitter on my tongue. The thought of betrayal from within our complicated, entangled pack grates against my instincts.
Gunnar, my mate, the one who should defend us, now possibly our enemy? It’s a pill too jagged to swallow.
“Vance,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel, “if this is some kind of power play, what’s our move?”
“Survive,” he says flatly. “Stay one step ahead. And remember, Aisling, in this game, everyone’s playing for keeps.”
The neon signs flash their sordid promises as the car snakes through Oasis, a palace of opulence perched on a rotten core. I press my face to the cool glass of the window, streaks of color blurring together in a dizzying dance of decadence.
“Can you believe this place?” Oberon murmurs, leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the bustling streets outside.
“Too much,” I say, barely above a breath. “It’s all…it’s too much.”
“Glitter hiding grime?” he suggests, his voice low and laced with unease.
“Exactly,” I breathe out, my gaze snagging on a group of scantily clad omegas on a street corner, their bodies commodities under the harsh glow of street lamps. “It’s like Dreamland, Oberon. All these sparkling lights, they’re just a facade. Behind them, there’s nothing but ugliness—businesses that trade pleasure for vice.”
Oberon gazes at me, the dim light from the passing signs casting shadows across his face. “We’re not part of that world anymore, Aisling. You know that, right?”
“Knowing and feeling are two different beasts,” I admit, pulling back from the window, the warmth of Oberon’s presence a stark contrast to the chill of the glass. “Dreamland never really leaves you, does it? It’s always there, lurking in places like this, ready to drag you back under.”
“Hey.” Oberon’s hand finds mine, his touch grounding. “We’ll get through this.”
I nod, squeezing his hand, but can’t quite shake the feeling that we’ve stepped into a viper’s nest, where every glint is the flicker of fangs and every shadow might be our undoing.
The car rolls to a stop. The city pulses like a beast with neon veins, the heat entombing me in glittering sweat. I shove the door open, stepping onto the sidewalk, feeling the grit under my heels.
“Vance,” I start, crossing my arms as he joins me outside the vehicle, his presence a towering contrast to the chaos around us. “This place…it feels wrong.”
“Oasis isn’t Dreamland,” Vance counters, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, eyes scanning the crowd with a practiced ease. “And Inari…she’s not what you’d expect from an omega running this show.”
“An omega?” I echo, my brow furrowing. “In charge?”
“Exactly.” Vance nods, leaning closer. His scent—a mix of leather and something sharply citrus—cuts through the contaminated air. “Inari’s different. She looks out for her own. Keeps the wolves at bay.”
“Protects the women?” I say, skepticism lacing my tone. “From what? Themselves?”
“From becoming just another product on these streets,” he says, gesturing toward a neon sign flickering above a doorway. “She gives them a choice, a way to stand on their own.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, letting his words sink in. The concept of Inari is a patchwork of contradictions stitched together by Vance’s conviction. But this world has taught me that nothing is ever black or white, just shades of survival.
“Can’t be that simple, Vance,” I reply, shaking my head slightly. “Choices in places like this…they’re usually just illusions.”
He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe. But sometimes, Aisling, even an illusion can give hope where there’s none. And that’s a damn sight better than no choice at all.”
“Hope…” I murmur, watching the faces in the crowd. They’re searching for something, maybe the same mirage Vance is talking about.
“Let’s get inside,” Vance says, gesturing toward the entrance of our temporary refuge. “We’ve got allies to meet and plans to make.”
“Right,” I mutter, but as I follow him, the weight of Dreamland’s memory presses close, a reminder that hope is often the most dangerous game to play.
The neon signs of Oasis bleed into the twilight sky as we walk toward the Bellanova—Inari Toure’s base of operations, and the crown jewel of the city. The hotel gleams like a diamond, and bellhops materialize at the doors before the engine even cools. They’re all crisp uniforms and practiced smiles, reaching for our bags with hands that have been extended to a thousand other travelers.
“Welcome to the Bellanova,” one says, tipping his hat. It’s choreographed hospitality, and it sets my teeth on edge.
“Never had this kind of reception,” I mutter to Oberon, watching them unload our things with robotic precision. “Reminds me too much of New Eden.”
Oberon’s hand finds mine, a quiet anchor amid the chaos. “Yeah, but last time, you didn’t have me with you.” His voice is steady, but I can hear the hard edge beneath, the promise that he’ll tear worlds apart before letting that happen again.
“True,” I agree, squeezing his hand back, trying to ignore the way my pulse races, a mix of fear and something darker. “But it doesn’t make the memories any less bitter.”
“Hey,” he says softly, tilting my chin up so I’m looking into his eyes. “We’re here because we choose to be, not because we’re forced. Big difference, Aisling.”
I nod, drawing a deep breath as I step out of the car, my boots hitting the polished cobblestone. I want to believe him, want to trust in the distinction between past and present. But shadows cling to places like these, and I know better than to think they don’t whisper old ghosts back to life.
The lobby of the Bellanova swallows us whole, a sea of tailored suits and silk gowns. Oberon and I, we stand there like a couple of sore thumbs–all leather and denim in a world spun from gold thread and champagne dreams.
“Didn’t exactly pack for a high-society ball,” I mutter, scanning the room for an exit strategy that doesn’t exist. The glinting chandeliers throw a mocking light on my scuffed boots.
Vance sidles up to me, his presence a column of warmth. “Don’t worry about it,” he says low enough so only I can hear. “You need a dress, you’ll have one.”
I glance at him, feeling that old familiar tug–part thrill, part terror. Vance Solace, with his promises wrapped in steel and velvet, but I’ve danced to this tune before. Been the doll in his gilded cage, my will clipped like a bird’s wings.
“Thanks,” I manage, the word tasting like ash. “But let’s not make a habit out of it, yeah? And maybe get me a matching pair of shoes this time.”
He gives me a half-smile, sharp as a razor’s edge. “Hey…I learned the hard way that you’ll always run anyway—no matter how bad I want to keep you.”
And damn if that doesn’t send a shiver through me–not of fear, but something wilder. Because despite everything, Vance knows how to play the strings of my soul like a maestro.
And I hate that I almost want to hear that melody again.
“Room keys for you all.” The desk clerk slides them across the marble counter, her smile tight as a drum. “Ms. Toure took care of everything personally.”
“Isn’t that cozy,” Oberon mutters next to me, his voice low and laced with sarcasm.
“Keep your friends close, huh?” I snatch up the keys, feeling the weight of that personal touch like an anchor in my palm. Gunnar’s possible betrayal still churns in my gut, but now isn’t the time to dwell on it. “And your potential enemies booked in the suite right next door.”
Oberon’s chuckle is a quiet rumble, soothing despite the storm brewing inside me. He grabs his key, and we head to the elevator, Rook and Luka trailing behind. Vance breaks off toward the presidential suite with nothing more than a nod–alpha solitude written in the lines of his back.
The elevator dings at the fourteenth floor, doors sliding open to reveal a corridor lined with plush carpet that swallows our footsteps. A bellhop waits, poised to escort us, his uniform crisp and eyes carefully blank.
“Right this way, Ms. Faye.” His tone is practiced – polished and impersonal.
“Lead on.” I force a smile, though I’m about as comfortable as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
He opens the door to our suite, and it’s like stepping into another world. Crystal chandeliers drip light onto surfaces too clean, too perfect. Everything screams luxury, from the silk drapes to the art on the walls that probably costs more than I’ve ever held in my hands.
The view hits me first, an eerie echo of Dreamland’s manicured deception. Glittering lights blink in the distance, winking like mocking eyes from a world that feels too much like a cage I’ve known before. The room is vast, walls adorned with abstract paintings whispering secrets I’m not sure I want to hear.
“Doesn’t this remind you…?” My voice trails off, and I can’t finish the sentence as my eyes fall on the rack of clothes. They’re the kind of dresses that demand attention, crafted from dreams and priced like nightmares. My fingers brush against a silk gown, and it’s like I can feel the ghosts of Dreamland clinging to the fabric.
Oberon’s hand lands on my shoulder, grounding yet heavy. “Aisling?”
I turn, my face tipping up to meet his gaze. “I hate this,” I admit, the words raw and achingly honest. “It’s like we walked into a painting that’s gonna turn macabre any second now. And Gunnar…” The name is a blade cutting through the already tense air.
“Is he really behind this?” Oberon’s voice is a tether, trying to pull me back from the edge of panic.
“Every instinct screams yes. We shouldn’t have come. Something’s off, Oberon. It’s all too perfect, too staged.” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Like a trap with velvet ropes.”
He nods, his expression set in a frown that echoes the thunderous unease building inside me. “We’ll stay sharp. We always do. But for now, we play along–because whatever game this is, I’m not letting it claim us.” His grip tightens, not just a gesture of comfort but a silent vow of protection.
“Right,” I say, steeling myself with a shaky nod. “Let’s not give them anything more than they already think they know about us.”