Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
MAYA
I wake sandwiched between two warm bodies, my limbs tangled with theirs in a way that feels disturbingly natural. Logan’s arm lies heavy across my waist, his face buried in my hair. Behind me, Cillian’s breath tickles my neck, his chest rising and falling against my back in a steady rhythm.
For a moment, I allow myself to enjoy the warmth, the sense of security that comes from being surrounded by their scents. The treacherous bond hums contentedly between us, a physical sensation like the pleasant buzz after a glass of champagne.
I hate that it feels good.
Last night replays in my mind. Logan’s insistent hands, my calculated resistance, and then my desperate call to Cillian.
It had been a gamble, one I wasn’t sure would pay off.
When I felt Cillian’s consciousness slide into mine through our bond, responding to my plea, surprise had mingled with relief.
I hadn’t truly believed he would help me against Logan.
But he did.
I’m not sure exactly what it means yet, but it’s something. It’s progress toward my goal of undermining them. Making them pay.
I turn my head slightly to study Cillian’s sleeping face.
Without his usual guardedness, he looks younger, almost vulnerable.
The sharp angles of his cheekbones soften in sleep, his pale lashes resting against his skin.
It’s hard to reconcile this peaceful figure with the man who has treated me with such cold hostility.
My anger toward him has shifted into something more complicated. Sympathy, maybe. Or recognition. We’re both trapped in Logan’s orbit, pulled in by forces beyond our control. Both of us carrying secrets we can’t afford to reveal.
What did Logan do to earn such loyalty from Cillian? And what keeps Cillian loyal to him despite the obvious pain it causes?
Their relationship is Logan’s greatest vulnerability. I see that now with perfect clarity. Whatever lies between them, whatever history they share, it’s a weakness I can exploit. The cracks in their relationship are already forming. I just need to turn them into uncrossable chasms.
Cillian could be my most valuable ally or my most dangerous opponent.
Teaching him to manage Logan better might seem counterproductive to my goals, but gaining his trust is worth the investment.
If I can make him believe we’re partners against Logan’s control, I can use him to destroy Logan from within.
Logan stole my future, my choice, my body. He deserves to lose everything he values.
And Cillian—with that desperate longing for his Alpha he can’t hide and complete disconnection from his own dynamic—might just be the key to my revenge.
I brush my fingers over the pendant resting in the hollow of my neck, the sigil for House Corellian, resisting the urge to rip it off and toss it across the room.
As if the twin bite marks on my neck aren’t enough of a sign of ownership.
If I make Logan feel any more insecure in his claim on me, there is no telling what he might do.
I shift my gaze to Logan’s sleeping form, studying the sharp lines of his patrician features. His jaw, usually clenched in stubborn authority, now relaxes in sleep. Dark lashes rest against his cheekbones, and his almost too plush lips are slightly parted.
Damn him for being so beautiful.
I hate that I still find him attractive. Hate that my body responds to something as simple as his scent and physical presence even after everything he’s done to me. It’s a betrayal of my own resolve, this unwanted desire that lingers beneath my skin.
Last night replays in my mind with startling clarity. Logan’s hands grasping my hips, holding me in place as he filled me. The shocking intrusion of Cillian’s consciousness into mine when I called for him. The way Cillian’s tongue had played along my seam while I clenched around Logan’s knot.
Heat pools between my legs at the memory, and I curse my treacherous body. I shouldn’t want either of them. I should be repulsed by what they’ve done to me, by the way they’ve claimed me without permission.
Instead, I’m aroused.
I slide my hand down my stomach, careful not to disturb either man. My fingers slip between my thighs, seeking relief from this unwanted need. I touch myself the way I’ve done countless times before, the way that always brought me release during those excruciating heats back at the Enclave.
But something’s wrong. My body responds. I’m wet, sensitive, but the tension builds without cresting. I try different rhythms, different pressures, growing increasingly frustrated as release hovers just out of reach.
The realization is like a splash of cold water to my libido. This cruel bond has rewired my nervous system so thoroughly that I can’t even pleasure myself without their involvement.
The thought is infuriating. Another freedom stolen, another part of myself that is no longer my own.
I bite my lip to keep from making noise as I continue my futile efforts. My frustration grows with each passing moment, tears of anger pricking at the corners of my eyes. I want to scream, to wake them both and demand they fix what they’ve broken in me.
Instead, I withdraw my hand and curl it into a fist. This is just one more thing to add to my growing list of grievances.
One more reason to hold on to my rage no matter how pretty Cillian looks with his tongue at my center or how carefully Logan lays out a tablecloth on the bed before presenting me with a late-night buffet that even Ares would approve of.
I glance at Logan’s sleeping face again, this time seeing beyond the beauty to the entitlement beneath. He takes what he wants without any thought of the consequences. He’s never had to consider what it means to be powerless.
I’ll teach him. I’ll teach all of them.
And when I’m done, they’ll understand exactly what they’ve done to me.
Because I’m going to make it hurt.
I smooth my hands over the silk of my dress, adjusting the delicate silver chains that drape across my shoulders.
The gown is the most elegant thing I’ve worn outside of a palace event and a far cry from the practical clothes I’d chosen for my little field trip with Poe.
The bodice hugs my curves before flowing into a skirt that whispers against the floor when I walk.
“You look very nice,” Cillian murmurs from beside me. His voice low enough that only I can hear.
I lift my chin and give him a forced smile. “That’s the point.”
I’m not the only one who seems to have something to prove.
Ares and Poe are loaded down with the maximum number of weapons they’re legally allowed to carry in the palace halls.
Logan actually has a thin coronet nestled on top of his dark hair, ensuring no one will mistake his status as a crowned prince.
Even Cillian is dressed in the guard uniform typically reserved for official functions.
The meeting room feels suffocating despite its grandeur.
High ceilings with ornate molding, heavy brocade curtains, and a polished table that reflects our tense faces.
Naturally, Logan sits at the head of the table with me to his right.
Cillian stands behind my chair while Poe and Ares flank the door like sentinels.
“He’s late,” Logan says, drumming his fingers against the table.
“Calculated power move,” Poe responds, his eyes never leaving the door.
When the Inquisitor finally arrives, I straighten my spine and fix my expression into one of practiced serenity. I’ve dressed to command attention, to show the man who held me hostage for a year—and only just tried to kidnap me a handful of days ago—that I’m not afraid of him.
Even though I’m terrified.
But the Inquisitor doesn’t so much as spare me a glance as he enters.
He’s a slight man with wire-rimmed glasses and thinning hair, dressed in an impeccable gray suit without adornments. Nothing about him suggests power or danger, yet the room temperature seems to drop several degrees when he takes his seat across from Logan.
His eyes slide over me as if I’m a piece of furniture. Not the reaction I’d been expecting. But what did I think would happen, really? That he would launch himself across the table, to come at me with grasping hands and evil intent.
He’s here for me. He has to be. And I’m stupid enough to serve myself up on a pretty platter.
But my nightmare doesn’t so much as spare me a glance as he addresses the man beside me.
“Prince Logan,” he says, voice crisp and clinical. “Thank you for accommodating my request to meet with you.”
Logan’s jaw tightens. “Before we begin, I’d like to know exactly who you are and what credentials qualify you to question my pack about my brother’s death.”
“Aside from the king’s direct command, I assume you mean.” The Inquisitor’s lips twitch in what might be amusement. “ I am Doctor Sionis Thane, the foremost medical scientist in Melilla and a long-standing personal confidante of your father, King Leopold.”
A medical expert. My skin prickles with unease at the reminder, sweat dampening my palms as I struggle to control my suddenly rapid breathing. I refuse to close my eyes because I know what images I’ll see.
I can already feel the sharp bite of a scalpel against my skin.
“Funny,” Poe says from his position by the door, interrupting my spiral before I can run screaming out of the room. “We’ve never heard of you.”
“Perhaps your subscription to the more prominent medical journals has lapsed,” Thane dryly replies. “My work is of a sensitive nature, requiring discretion rather than public recognition.”
Logan drums his fingers on the table. “What exactly is your area of expertise, Doctor?”
Thane spares me the barest glance before returning his attention to Logan. “Reproductive biology, primarily. With a particular interest in designation genetics.”
A chill runs through me. Designation genetics. The science behind what makes someone their dynamic.