19. Rook
I zip up my jacket, giving myself a once-over in the mirror before I step out. Luka’s already waiting outside his room, looking sharp and grim as usual. We make our way down the hall, a silent agreement to play this night cool.
The door to Aisling and Oberon’s room swings open as we approach, and there she is.
…and my lungs feel like they’ve hit vacuum for a second.
She’s wearing this dress that clings to her like it’s got a mind of its own, short enough to make imaginations run wild, red as Eve’s apple and sparkling like the night sky above the Bellanova.
“Wow,” is all I manage, and I’m pretty damn sure it comes out more breathless than I intend.
Aisling catches my eye, a smirk playing on her lips, and she bites down on them, a move so teasing it’s criminal. Oberon’s standing next to her, leaned back against the wall. He clocks the way I’m looking at Aisling, and a knowing smirk curls his lips.
“Easy, Rook,” Oberon teases, pushing away from the wall. “She’ll incinerate us all with that look if you don’t reel it in.”
“Shut it, Oberon,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. How could there be when Aisling’s in that dress? None of my words could possibly match her fire. I clear my throat, try to find some semblance of the plan we had going into this night. “You ready, Stargazer?”
“As I’ll ever be,” she says, voice steady, but there’s a hint of something else there—anticipation, maybe, or nerves. Hell, probably both.
“Alright then, let’s do this,” I say, attempting to sound more confident than I feel. “Inari’s waiting.”
My eyes dart to Luka, hoping he’s too preoccupied adjusting the cuff of his sleeve to notice my earlier slip-up. But I think he’s more preoccupied with Aisling than anything else—just as drawn to her, if not more so, and resisting the urge to grab her and kiss her.
I’m not an alpha…but somehow, I still get it.
“Everyone good?” I ask, and the question hangs between us like a challenge. It’s not just about being ready to leave; it’s a silent call to arms, a reminder of the stakes we’re all tangled up in.
Luka nods, his expression carved from stone. “Let’s go.”
I catch Aisling’s gaze once more. There’s a steel in her grey eyes that wasn’t there before, a quiet determination that speaks volumes of the battles she’s fought and the ones she’s bracing for.
Oberon moves first, stepping forward with the grace of a predator, his hand finding Aisling’s arm with protective familiarity. It’s a gesture that holds more than simple touch—it’s a claim, a reassurance, a promise of solidarity.
“Lead the way,” he says, voice low and steady.
The four of us head toward the elevator, our steps synchronized without need for rehearsal. We find an omega female bodyguard already stationed by the doors—she’s tall, her posture unyielding, the epitome of silent strength. She acknowledges us with a nod, her presence a stark reminder of the power plays at work in this gilded cage of a city. Omega guards are rare, but they’re all over here—and armed to the teeth. That’s Inari’s style though; her gang, the Palms, has more omegas than any other.
“Ms. Toure’s waiting for us,” I tell the bodyguard.
“I’m aware,” she says.
The bodyguard produces a keycard from the inner pocket of her blazer, a small action that somehow feels significant, like she’s unlocking more than just an elevator ride. She slides the card through the reader with a practiced motion, and the doors slide open, inviting us into the belly of the beast.
“Here we go,” I murmur to myself, as we step inside the elevator. The doors close with a soft hiss, sealing us off from the rest of the world for the brief ascent that awaits.
The elevator begins its ascent with a smooth hum, the lights above us casting a sterile glow on our faces. I’m standing close to Aisling, and I can feel the tension radiating from her like heat from pavement in high summer. Her skin is paler than usual, and those stormy grey eyes are clouded with memories best left forgotten. Dreamland—her prison, her nightmare—must be playing on repeat in her head.
“Easy, love,” Oberon murmurs, his arm slipping protectively around Aisling’s waist. He’s all calm reassurance, his presence a balm to her frayed nerves. “It’s just an elevator ride.”
I catch Aisling biting her lip—a nervous habit I’ve noticed only a couple times over the past few weeks.—and I have to look away before Luka notices the way my jaw clenches at the sight.
“Right. Just an elevator.” Her voice is a soft flutter, a stark contrast to the power I know roils beneath her surface. She’s a storm in human form, but even storms have their moments of stillness.
We rise higher, the digital floor indicator ticking off numbers like a countdown. I don’t miss the way Aisling’s hand grips the hem of her dress, her knuckles whitening. The red sequins shimmer under the artificial light, tiny flames flickering against the dark backdrop that is the rest of us. It’s a splash of color in a sea of muted tones, and it takes everything in me not to reach out and steady her trembling fingers.
“Almost there,” I say instead, keeping my voice neutral as I glance at the display. We’re nearing our destination, the top floor where Inari plays queen in her luxurious court.
As if on cue, the elevator dings its arrival, and the doors slide open to reveal the office—a vast expanse of power and wealth masked as decor. Priceless pre-Mutation art adorns the walls, scenes of battles and seduction that seem almost alive in the golden glow of elegant sconces. Plush rugs muffle our steps as we cross the threshold, their intricate patterns a silent testament to the opulence that permeates every inch of this space.
“Wow,” Luka breathes out, the awe evident in his voice.
If I hadn’t been here before, I’d have the same shock…but as it is, I can just appreciate Inari’s decor choices.
The view through the panoramic windows steals the breath from my lungs—it always does. Oasis sprawls out before us, a city of lights and shadows, of secrets whispered in the quiet spaces between heartbeats.
“Welcome to the lioness’ den,” I say under my breath, my gaze lingering on the skyline, the jagged teeth of a world both beautiful and cruel. The room is bathed in the soft glow of evening light, casting long shadows across the expensive furniture and priceless art that adorn Inari Toure’s office. It feels like walking into a still life painting—one wrong move and the whole scene might shatter.
“Rook,” Inari greets, her voice smooth as silk but with an edge that could cut glass. She sits poised at her desk, a picture of omega grace and power. Vance Solace leans against it, his bright eyes flicking over to us, a smirk teasing his lips. But it’s not him that sends my heart into a tailspin—it’s the figure standing quietly behind Inari.
Isla Connolly.
A ghost from my past that I never expected to haunt these halls. Her presence is a punch to the gut, a reminder of dirty secrets and blood-stained alleys.
The last time I saw her was the night I was arrested…when the European Authority busted the Bluestockings in Dublin. She blamed me for it all.
And now, she’s here.
Glaring at me.
“Been a while, Rook,” Isla says, her voice low and measured, her Irish accent achingly nostalgic. She narrows her eyes at me, and I feel the weight of years between us, heavy with things left unsaid.
“Didn’t think I’d see you on this side of purgatory,” I manage to say, keeping my tone neutral. We take our seats, the leather creaking under our collective weight. I angle myself so I can keep an eye on both her and Inari.
“Care for a drink?” Inari’s offer slices through the tension, her eyes glittering with unspoken challenges.
“Sure,” Aisling chimes in, eager to ease the atmosphere.
“Vance, darling, would you do the honors?” Inari’s command rolls off her tongue, sweetened with honey but laced with steel.
We all go quiet. Vance is the Archangel, not Inari’s lackey. This is the boldest damn power move I’ve seen in months.
And yet…
Vance chuckles—a sound that doesn’t quite reach his eyes—and pushes away from the desk. He moves to the bar with a grace that belies his size, pouring scotch with a steady hand. His movements are a carefully choreographed dance, a show of obedience to Inari’s will, but his stance screams defiance.
“Scotch, Rook?” he asks, holding up a glass filled with amber liquid.
“Hit me.” I nod, watching as he fills another glass and sets it before me, the liquid catching the light as if it contains the fire of the city below.
The air is thick with the scent of power plays and old vendettas as glasses clink and whiskey burns down our throats. Oberon watches the exchange, his expression unreadable, while Aisling remains quiet, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. I wonder what game we’ve stepped into and how many moves ahead Inari has already planned.
I lean back in the plush leather chair, a silent player in this high-stakes game, my gaze lingering on Isla’s hardened features. The air is thick with the scent of old books and ambition, and the clinking of glasses underscores the undercurrents of power swirling around us.
“Welcome to Oasis,” Inari purrs from behind her desk. Her eyes are sharp, cunning—a predator disguised in silk and smiles. “I hope you’ll find our amenities to your liking.”
Amenities like the Archangel playing bartender? I don’t say the words, even though I wonder how Vance would react. Aisling’s voice cuts through the pleasantries like a blade. “And why exactly are we here, Inari? What’s your angle?”
A smirk plays at the corners of Inari’s lips. She leans forward slightly, elbows on the mahogany desk, relishing in the directness. “Aisling, darling, I admire your forthrightness. I assure you, my intentions are quite simple—I aim to empower omegas, to lift us from beneath the heels of alphas and betas alike.”
Her fingers drum a soft rhythm on the polished wood, a telltale sign that she’s about to drop the other shoe. “In fact, I’d like to discuss some…opportunities with you. Alone.”
The room shifts, an unspoken tension coiling tight. Oberon’s jaw sets hard, the muscles flexing visibly as he glances between Aisling and Inari. Luka’s hand twitches, a subtle but clear sign of his unease. And me? I’m a silent observer, the quiet before the storm, my instincts screaming that this is a pivotal moment.
“Everyone else,” Inari continues, her voice velvet over steel, “please feel free to enjoy the comforts of my establishment. Oberon, Luka, Rook—this won’t take long.”
There’s a beat of silence, a collective breath held before the inevitable exhale. Oberon stands, the picture of reluctant compliance, while Luka shuffles his feet, casting a wary glance toward Aisling. I rise slowly, my mind racing, every sense heightened.
“Take your time,” I say, my voice steady despite the chaos brewing within. “We’ll be around.”
As we’re ushered out, I can’t help but wonder what cards Inari holds close to her chest—and what game she’s really playing.
I push back my chair and stand, the legs scraping against the lush carpet with a sound that echoes too loudly in the suddenly tense room. Oberon’s up next to me, his movements stiff as if every muscle in his body’s protesting. Luka follows suit, his eyes darting around, looking for something or someone to punch.
“Sure thing,” I mutter, but my mind’s spinning, trying to piece together Inari’s endgame.
We’re halfway to the door when Vance’s voice, smooth as aged whiskey, cuts through the thick atmosphere. “Gents,” he says, standing with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Care to join me downstairs for a drink?”
“Lead the way,” Oberon grumbles, the growl in his tone saying it’s the last thing he wants.
But we all know you don’t say no to Vance Solace or Inari Toure, not unless you’re tired of breathing.