Chapter 13 #2
“What does that have to do with this investigation?” I whisper, before I can stop myself.
Thane’s gaze finally settles on me, and I immediately regret drawing his attention. His eyes are flat and cold, like polished stone.
Logan’s hand finds my knee under the table, his grip tight enough to bruise. A warning to stay quiet, or a reaction to my obvious discomfort?
“I fail to see how your medical expertise relates to investigating my brother’s death,” Logan says.
“Don’t you? I find that rather surprising, Your Highness.” Thane replies, his voice so soft it’s almost a whisper. “I thought you were aware that I conducted the autopsy of Prince Ander. I am the one who determined that the cause of death was murder.”
“And now you’ve been tasked with leading the investigation,” Logan flatly states, though the question hanging in the air between them is obviously implied.
Thane’s smile is faint. “Though I do not specialize in forensic science, the king thought my expertise would be useful in evaluating the physical evidence collected from where Ander’s body was found. And my skills for investigating medical mysteries should translate well to a criminal one.”
“I see.” Logan steeples his fingers in front of him on the table, back straight as he stares down at the smaller man. “I’ve been told you have questions for me.”
I watch the back-and-forth between Logan and Thane like a tennis match, my initial terror giving way to confusion, then suspicion. The doctor’s questions are precise, clinical. He asks about Ander’s relationship with Logan, their last interactions, Logan’s whereabouts on the night of the murder.
Logan’s responses grow increasingly terse, each answer shorter than the last. His knee presses against mine under the table, the movement jittery and out of character for a man who is usually in perfect physical control.
Any emotions through the bond are hazy and difficult to identify, but I feel something I’ve never quite felt from him before.
Unease.
“Prince Ander was found with significant trauma to his skull and neck,” Thane says, adjusting his glasses. “The injuries suggest a struggle with someone of considerable strength.”
Logan’s jaw imperceptibly tightens. “That sounds consistent with murder. Must be those keen investigative skills of yours at work.”
Thane’s small form might be unassuming, harmless, but his eyes gleam with a predatory light. “The timeline places Ander’s death between midnight and two on the morning of October 12th. Are you able to provide an alibi for that time?”
“I was in my quarters,” Logan says flatly. “As is typical for the middle of the night.”
Cillian shifts his weight slightly behind me.
“Alone?” Thane presses.
“With my pack.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
Thane makes a note in his small leather-bound book. “And can anyone outside your pack corroborate your whereabouts?”
“No.” Logan’s voice is ice. “We value our privacy.”
Another note. “I see.”
Fear courses through me, too strong to be solely my own. The anxiety spikes so high that I have to grip the edges of the table to steady a sudden urge to flee from the room.
My gaze flies to Cillian, who stares at the Inquisitor as if the man has suddenly grown a second head.
He catches me looking at him, and a mental wall slams down between us, leaving only a cold vacuum behind where all that emotion had been.
But not before I drank deep of that deep, dark pool, long enough to recognize the precise feeling.
Pure terror.
And suddenly, I understand.
The strange tension that has been between all of them from the moment I arrived. Logan’s determination to see himself named as heir. Cillian’s fear that rides so high, I can still taste it at the back of my throat.
And the most obvious clue of all—the existence of the bond between Logan and Cillian that neither would have chosen outside of an extreme catalyst.
Logan killed his brother.
I might not know the details, how it happened or the specific circumstances that triggered the deadly encounter, but I have absolutely no doubts.
Maybe Ander discovered the secret of Cillian’s designation and threatened to turn him into Oversight.
Maybe it was all just a tragic accident that the whole pack is now trying to hide.
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter.
This knowledge is more than enough to take them all down.
I just have to figure out how to use it.
After the interview is over, our walk back to the apartment is tense. No one speaks, but the air practically vibrates with tension. The Inquisitor’s pointed questions have shaken something loose in all of them. I can feel it.
I watch them all carefully once we’re inside the apartment, my eyes tracking their movements like a predator studying potential prey.
Ares immediately pours himself a drink, knocking it back in one swift motion before pouring another.
His usual grace is replaced with rigid movements, shoulders tight with tension.
Poe prowls the perimeter of the room, checking windows and doors as if expecting an attack at any moment.
Logan and Cillian drift to a corner of the living area, their heads bent close together. Their voices are too low to hear, but their body language screams urgency. Logan’s hand grips Cillian’s forearm with white-knuckled intensity. Cillian’s already pale face is drained of color.
They both have their ends of the bond so locked down that I could almost believe it has ceased to exist.
My suspicion crystallizes into certainty. The furtive glances, the collective anxiety and this inexplicable silence. They all know something that they think I don’t. All of them are involved in this.
For a brief, wild moment, I consider going straight to the king.
I could tell him what I know, or more frustratingly accurate, what I suspect.
Even among princes, fratricide is technically a capital crime, even if it’s rarely enforced.
The accusation might be enough to see Logan and his pack locked away in a dungeon or sent away to die like men in the trenches of the Outlands.
Maybe I would be sent to one of the care homes reserved for Omegas driven mad by the broken bond created through the death of their mates. Maybe I wouldn’t survive it at all.
Maybe I don’t care either way.
But the thought dissipates as quickly as it formed. What evidence do I actually have? Feelings through a bond. Suspicions. Observations of guilty behavior.
No proof.
The Inquisitor—Dr. Sionis Thane—is obviously still looking for some tangible evidence, even if he has suspicions. Throwing out accusations with nothing to back them up will only ensure that I never get another chance. Or worse, I might just find myself back in the doctor’s care for questioning.
No. Whatever move I make has to be decisive. Final.
There won’t be any coming back from it.
My fingers absently trace the Corellian pendant at my throat as I watch Logan and Cillian continue their hushed conversations. I may be trapped in this apartment with murderers, but I’m not powerless. Not anymore.
I will find that proof. I’ll uncover whatever they’re hiding—the weapon, witness statements, security footage, whatever it takes. And when I do, I won’t just have leverage over Logan.
I’ll have the power to destroy them all.
A fter what feels like hours of being practically ignored, Cillian finally disappears down the hall toward the bedroom we now share, and I quietly follow him. Ares and Poe are bent over a terminal and Logan was called away for a meeting, so it’s easy to slip away.
It’s obvious that they’re all still on edge from the interview, but I have more immediate concerns.
The stress of Logan’s constant attention and the anxiety I felt seeing the doctor again were enough to distract me, but now the signs are becoming impossible to ignore. Like all recently mated Omegas, my heats will become more frequent and more erratic until I get pregnant.
Cillian jumps, spinning around with his hands defensively raised, when I slam the bedroom door shut behind me.
“Did you ever find a new supplier of heat suppressants?” I ask without preamble.
He blinks several times before answering. “The black market is more unstable that it’s ever been.”
“That isn’t an answer. Do you have any?”
Cillian’s ice-chip eyes flicker with surprise before his expression shutters. “I do.”
“Great. Give me half of whatever you’ve got.” I hold out my hand expectantly.
He shifts uncomfortably. “I only have enough for myself.”
“What?” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” His gaze darts to the door behind me. “I can’t give them to you.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
He scrubs the side of his face with one hand, looking suddenly exhausted. “You know why.”
“Logan ordered you not to give them to me,” I state flatly.
Cillian grimaces, as if saying the words is akin to actually pulling teeth. “He doesn’t have to tell me. I already know he won’t want you to have them.”
That might be even more infuriating than him being subject to a direct order. “Why not?”
He winces, looking anywhere but at me. “The king will expect an heir from Logan as soon as possible. Now that you’re officially bonded, there will be pressure to...produce results.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “Well, that’s not likely to happen, is it? Not with Logan anyway.”
He has the nerve to look confused. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb, Cillian. No matter how much we might enjoy living in delusion, I’m not Logan’s actual Omega. You are.” I tap my chest where the bond pulses like a coiled snake. “My body won’t accept fertilization from an Alpha who already has a mate. That’s basic biology.”
His face pales. “But?—“