Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
MAYA
I squeeze between Cillian and Poe in the back of the car as we head toward the coliseum.
Ares drives while Logan sits in the passenger seat, both of them tense and silent.
The mood is heavy with anticipation for the royal games—a tradition that suddenly feels more like a potential execution than a celebration.
Through the tinted windows, I watch the city pass by in a blur. Citizens line the streets, waving flags bearing the Corellian crest. To them, this is a festival. To us, it’s something far darker.
I glance at Poe beside me. His face is drawn, shoulders rigid. He hasn’t met anyone’s gaze once since we left the apartment.
A knot of guilt tightens in my stomach. I’m the one who sent him to meet Vivienne and Elara. I deliberately set him up to face his abusers, all for my petty revenge scheme.
It was necessary, I tell myself. I needed him to understand how it feels to be powerless.
But as I study his profile—the tight set of his jaw, the barely perceptible tremor in his hand—my conviction wavers. This victory feels hollow and more shameful than I anticipated.
Showing him what it feels like to be a victim feels like justice.
But it was also cruel.
Poe shifts beside me, his arm brushing mine. I nearly flinch at the contact, expecting coldness or anger. Instead, he adjusts himself to give me more space, a gesture so considerate it makes my chest ache.
Even now, after what I’ve done, he’s still protecting me in these small ways.
I could almost see myself falling for this man if we’d met another way.
Not the dangerous assassin who follows Logan’s orders without question, but the gentle soul who carries me to bed without expectations.
The man who sees me as more than my designation.
Who wants me to choose him rather than forcing my compliance.
That’s what makes this situation feel so much harder to bear.
“Almost there,” Logan announces from the front seat, his voice tight. “Remember, we need to present a unified front today. All eyes will be on us.
Through the window, I catch my first glimpse of the coliseum—a massive structure of pale stone and gleaming metal that dominates the skyline. Banners snap in the wind, and crowds surge toward the entrances like water rushing through a broken dam.
“There will be challengers,” Cillian says quietly. “Some may be just looking to make a name for themselves, but others will be deadly serious in their intent to take you down.”
Logan nods grimly. “Let them try.”
As Ares navigates the car through a private entrance, I steal another glance at Poe. His dark eyes are focused on something distant, his expression carefully blank. But when he catches me looking, something flickers across his face—not anger or betrayal, but a deep sadness that cuts me to the core.
I want to reach for his hand. To whisper an apology. To explain that I didn’t really understand what I was doing to him.
But the words stick in my throat.
Because the terrible truth is that I did know. I understood exactly what I was doing when I tricked him into facing his abusers alone. I wanted him to suffer as I had suffered. To feel the same helplessness, the same violation.
And now, looking at what I’ve done to him, I’m not sure I recognize myself anymore.
The car stops, and palace guards immediately surround us. As we exit, Logan’s hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward a private entrance. The touch is possessive, a reminder to everyone watching that I belong to him.
Poe falls into step behind us, his footsteps barely audible. I can feel his presence like a physical weight, a reminder of my own capacity for cruelty.
I thought revenge would be sweet. Instead, it tastes like hot ashes in my mouth.
At the entry doors, an official in elaborate regalia steps forward to block our path before we enter.
“Prince Logan,” he bows deeply. “His Majesty has requested I inform you that today’s challenges will be faced without seconds.”
The tension in the car, already thick enough to cut with a knife, suddenly becomes suffocating. Logan’s jaw tightens, the muscle there twitching visibly. Cillian sucks in a sharp breath beside me. Even Poe, who has maintained careful visage of calm since we left the palace, stiffens.
Ares is the one who finally speaks. “You’re fucking kidding.”
The official keeps his eyes downcast. “Attendants are waiting in the pit to ensure that all combatants surrender their weapons.”
“I understand,” Logan grunts. “You’re dismissed.”
As the man retreats, I look between the men’s grim faces. “What does that mean? Without seconds?”
Cillian’s voice is hollow when he answers. “It means any formal challenges to Logan will be fought to the death. No substitutes, no yielding, no intervention.”
My stomach drops. “To the death? But that’s?—“
“Ancient tradition,” Logan interrupts, adjusting his formal uniform with practiced precision. His golden eyes are cold, calculating. “My father is making a point.”
A chill runs through me as the full implications sink in. Logan could die today. The thought should bring me satisfaction—isn’t that what I’ve wanted? His downfall, his suffering? But instead, panic claws at my throat.
“Poe. Ares,” Logan’s voice is commanding, leaving no room for argument. “Take Maya to our viewing box. Cillian will help me prepare.”
“Logan—“ Cillian starts, but Logan silences him with a look.
Before I can process what’s happening, Logan and Cillian are striding away toward the amphitheater’s inner chambers, leaving me with Poe and Ares. My mind whirls with conflicting emotions and terrifying possibilities.
What happens if Logan dies? The bond between us may be secondary, artificial even, but it’s still there.
Would his death sever it completely? Would it tear through Cillian first, then me?
I’ve heard stories of Omegas who don’t survive the death of their bonded mate—their bodies simply shutting down from the trauma, their minds unable to bear the sudden emptiness.
And what of Cillian? He’s been bonded to Logan for over a year. Their connection runs deeper than mine. If Logan falls today, would Cillian survive? Would I?
“Let’s go,” Ares says gruffly, his hand at my elbow guiding me toward an ornate staircase. “The prince’s designated box has the best view.”
The best view. As if we’re about to watch entertainment rather than a potential execution.
Poe follows silently behind us, his presence a weighted shadow. I want to ask him more questions, to understand the gravity of what’s happening, but the words stick in my throat. My anger toward him feels suddenly petty in the face of what’s about to unfold.
As we climb the stairs to the viewing box, the roar of the crowd grows louder. Thousands have gathered to watch their princes battle for supremacy. Do they know they might witness death today? Do they care?
“Maya,” Ares’s voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. “Breathe.”
I realize I’ve been holding my breath, my hand clutching the railing so tightly my knuckles have gone white. I force air into my lungs and meet his concerned gaze.
“What if he loses?” I whisper, voicing my fear aloud for the first time.
Ares’s expression darkens. “He won’t.”
But the uncertainty in his eyes betrays his confidence. For the first time since I arrived at the palace, I see genuine fear in the face of Logan’s enforcer. And somehow, that terrifies me more than anything else.
Through the glass of the royal viewing box, I watch as Prince Logan enters the arena below.
The crowd’s roar is deafening, even muffled by the thick glass separating us from the masses.
Logan stands tall in his ceremonial armor, gleaming gold and white under the midday sun.
Despite the distance, I can see the confidence in his posture, the arrogance in the tilt of his chin.
From the opposite entrance comes another man—taller, broader, his armor a deep crimson trimmed with silver. Even from here, I can see he outweighs Logan by at least fifty pounds of pure muscle.
“Prince Viktor,” Ares mutters beside me. “Logan’s cousin from the Western Province.”
My fingers tighten on the armrest of my chair. “He’s huge.”
“Size isn’t everything in combat,” Poe says, his voice carefully neutral. “Logan is faster.”
I turn away from the glass, unable to watch for a moment. The viewing box is luxurious—plush seats arranged in tiered rows facing the massive window, a full bar along the back wall stocked with expensive liquors, and platters of food that no one has touched.
My eyes scan the room until they land on something that makes my heart skip. There, on a small table near the bar, sits a glass bowl filled with a distinctive pink powder.
Blush.
The same drug that stripped away my inhibitions at the card game. The same substance that led to my night with Cillian and Logan. That memory makes heat rise to my cheeks.
Ares follows my gaze and raises an eyebrow. “Want some? Might take the edge off.”
Before I can answer, a roar from the crowd pulls my attention back to the arena. Logan and Viktor are circling each other, stripped of their ceremonial armor now. Both wear only loose trousers, their torsos bare. Attendants gather the discarded armor and weapons, carrying them from the sand.
“Hand-to-hand,” Poe comments, his voice tight. “It’s going to get bloody fast.”
I stare at the two men below, my stomach churning. Viktor’s muscles ripple with each movement, his sheer mass intimidating. Logan seems almost delicate in comparison, though I know from experience how deceptive that impression can be.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it? For Logan to suffer? For his world to crumble around him? So why does panic grip my chest at the thought of him falling?
I turn away again, my eyes drifting back to the pink powder. The promise of numbness, of escaping these conflicting emotions, is suddenly tempting.