Chapter 28 #2
“I’m here,” I murmur, reaching out to stroke his cheek. “Let me take care of you, Logan.”
His golden eyes fix on me, a flash of clarity cutting through the drug-induced haze. “Take care of me?” he repeats, voice suspicious despite the slurring.
I nod, holding up one of his belts I grabbed from the dresser. “I want to try something,” I say, letting my voice drop to a husky whisper. “Something different.”
Logan’s eyes narrow, focusing on the belt with visible effort. “What are you planning?”
“Nothing bad,” I promise, trailing my fingers down his chest. “Just... let me be in control for once.”
His laugh is bitter even through the blush. “You want me to surrender control? To you?”
“Just for tonight,” I coax, leaning closer. “The blush feels so good, doesn’t it? Imagine how much better it could feel if you just... let go completely.”
I can see the war behind his eyes—the Alpha instinct to dominate fighting against the drug’s effects and whatever curiosity I’ve managed to spark. The blush is making this easier than I expected. In his normal state, Logan would never consider relinquishing control to anyone, let alone me.
“It might be fun,” I whisper, trailing the belt across his chest. “Different. Exciting.”
After what feels like an eternity, Logan gives a slow nod. “Show me what you have in mind.”
I don’t waste time before he changes his mind. With practiced efficiency, I guide his arms above his head, looping the belt around his wrists and securing them to the bedframe. He watches me work with dilated pupils, his breathing quickening.
I find another belt and secure his ankles to the footboard, effectively immobilizing him spread-eagle on the bed.
To my surprise, he doesn’t protest. The blush has lowered his defenses completely, making him pliant and suggestible in a way I never thought possible.
When I’m finished, I step back to survey my work. Logan tugs experimentally at his restraints, finding them secure. A fleeting look of alarm crosses his face, quickly replaced by drug-induced curiosity.
“Now what?” he asks, voice husky.
I find myself admiring his body in spite of myself.
Logan’s form is magnificent even while restrained—all hard planes and sculpted muscle, tanned skin gleaming in the dim light.
His chest rises and falls with deep, drugged breaths, the vulnerability of his position making him somehow more beautiful than when he stands tall and imposing.
I hate that I still find him attractive. I hate even more that I can feel the distant tug of the bond, that invisible tether that will forever connect us whether I want it or not. The physical response is involuntary, my body remembering the feel of his despite my mind’s rejection.
“Maya,” he murmurs, eyes struggling to focus on me. “Come here.”
His words slur together, the blush dragging him toward unconsciousness faster than I expected. Good. The sooner he passes out, the sooner I can search the apartment for anything I can use against him.
I watch as his eyelids grow heavier, fighting a losing battle to stay open. With each slow blink, they remain closed a little longer until finally, they don’t open again. His breathing deepens, body going slack against the restraints.
“Logan?” I whisper, testing his state of consciousness.
No response. Just the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by disappointment. Part of me had hoped to extract more information from him before he succumbed to the drug. But this works too—I have him securely restrained, unconscious, and completely at my mercy.
With renewed urgency, I move to his closet, pulling out a pair of scissors from the sewing kit I’d spotted there earlier. The weight of them in my hand feels significant, purposeful. I return to the bed, studying Logan’s unconscious form.
I start with his shirt, carefully sliding the scissors along the seams. The expensive fabric parts easily under the sharp blades, revealing more of his golden skin inch by inch. I work methodically, cutting away his clothing until he’s completely naked and still securely bound.
As I pull away the last scraps of fabric, I become acutely aware of his body’s reaction to my proximity. Despite his unconscious state, he’s hardened, his cock lying heavy against his abdomen. The sight sends an unwanted surge of heat through me, my traitorous body responding to his even now.
I need to finish securing him before he wakes. I climb onto the bed, straddling his chest as I reach for another belt to gag him in case he regains consciousness prematurely. The position brings me dangerously close to his face, his breath warm against my skin.
That’s when I realize how intimate this posture is—me straddling his naked body, the evidence of his arousal just inches away. The weight of him beneath me is familiar, stirring memories I’ve tried desperately to suppress. Heat pools low in my belly, an insistent throb that demands attention.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting against the surge of unwanted desire. This isn’t about pleasure. It’s about power—taking back the control he’s stolen from me since the moment I arrived at the palace.
Yet I can’t ignore the way my body responds to his proximity, how my core clenches with need when I shift my weight and feel the hard length of him brush against me. The bond pulses between us, a constant reminder of our unwanted connection.
I work quickly to secure the gag, forcing myself to focus on the task rather than the way his lips part slightly in sleep, or how the muscles in his arms flex against the restraints.
When I’m finished, I climb off him, putting distance between us as if that might sever the invisible thread that pulls me toward him.
My Alpha, whether I want him or not.
I stand there, chest heaving, staring down at Logan’s bound, naked form. The gag is tight around his mouth, his breathing slow and even in his drugged slumber.
My hands tremble as I grip the edge of the bed, the rush of power from having him at my mercy crashing against the unwanted heat still simmering in my veins. I’m in control. For once, I’m the one calling the shots. So why does my body ache with this twisted need?
I turn away, trying to focus on my next move—search the apartment, dig through his things for any scrap of leverage. But my gaze keeps snapping back to him, to the hard lines of his body, the undeniable proof of his arousal even in unconsciousness.
The bond hums, a cruel tether pulling me toward him, urging me to close the distance I’ve fought so hard to maintain. I hate it. I hate him. And worst of all, I hate myself for the way my core clenches just thinking about touching him.
My fingers move to the hem of my dress before I can stop them, lifting the fabric over my head in one jerky motion.
The cool air hits my skin, but it does nothing to douse the fire raging inside me.
I’m on autopilot, my mind screaming at me to stop as I climb back onto the bed, straddling his hips.
The weight of my decision presses down on me, heavy as his unconscious body beneath mine, but I can’t pull back. Not now.
“You don’t get to win this,” I whisper, my voice raw, though he can’t hear me.
My hands shake as I position myself, feeling the hard length of him press against me.
I’m slick already, my body betraying me with every second I linger.
The disgust coils tight in my gut, mixing with the sharp edge of desire I can’t shake.
I lower myself slowly, a hiss escaping my lips as he fills me, stretching me in a way that’s both familiar and repulsive.
I move, my hips rocking with a deliberate, punishing rhythm.
Each thrust is a battle, a war between the pleasure my body craves and the rage searing through my mind.
I loathe him for what he’s done—for stealing my choice, for binding me to him, for making my body want this even now.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away, refusing to let them fall.
I won’t give him that, even if he’s not awake to see it.
“You forced this on me,” I mutter through gritted teeth, my hands braced on his chest for leverage.
His skin is warm under my palms, the steady beat of his heart a cruel reminder of the life I’m tied to.
My movements grow harder, faster, as if I can fuck the anger out of myself, as if I can reclaim something by taking this from him.
But every wave of pleasure that builds only deepens my self-loathing.
I’m using him, yes, but I’m also losing myself in the process.
The bond pulses stronger now, a sickening thread of connection that amplifies every sensation.
I can feel echoes of his dormant presence, even in sleep, and it makes my stomach churn.
My climax creeps closer, unwanted but inevitable, and I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, determined not to give voice to the pleasure ripping through me.
I won’t let myself moan for him, won’t let myself break that way.
When it hits, it’s sharp and shattering, a release that feels more like a wound than relief.
I collapse forward, hands digging into his shoulders as my breath comes in ragged gasps.
The aftershocks tremble through me, and for a moment, I’m just a hollow shell, drained of fight and fury.
I hate that it felt good. I hate that my body still craves more even as my mind recoils.
I slide off him quickly, the sudden emptiness just as jarring as the fullness had been.
My legs shake as I stand, snatching my dress from the floor and pulling it back on with clumsy fingers.
I can’t look at him now, can’t face the evidence of what I’ve done.
The gag, the restraints—they’re still in place, a small victory, but it feels tainted now.
I wanted control, but all I’ve done is sink deeper into this mire of hate and desire.
I stumble back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as if I can erase the memory of my own weakness.
My plan hasn’t changed. I’ll search the apartment, find something—anything—to use against him and the others.
But as I turn toward the door, the weight of what just happened clings to me, a stain I can’t wash off.
I’ve taken something from him, sure, but at what cost to myself?
I sneak down the hallway toward Ares’s room, each step deliberate and silent. With all four men deep in blush-induced sleep, I finally have the freedom to move through the apartment unnoticed. The security console is my destination—I need that video of me tying Logan up and what happened after.
My heart pounds so loudly I fear it might wake them, but the apartment remains silent except for distant snoring from one of the rooms. When I reach Ares’s door, I pause, listening for any movement inside. Nothing. I ease the door open and slip inside.
His room is exactly as I remember it—the nest of blankets still in the corner, weapons carefully arranged on the wall, clothing strewn about with careless abandon. The security console sits on a desk against the far wall, its screens dark but the small power indicator glowing green.
I move quickly to the desk, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I punch in the passcode I memorized from watching Ares—2-4-7-5-9-3—and the system springs to life, multiple camera feeds appearing on the screen.
The console is surprisingly user-friendly. I navigate through the menus until I find the recording archive, organized by date and location. I scan through the options until I find what I’m looking for: “Master Bedroom - Today.”
My hands shake slightly as I click on the file. The video loads, showing Logan’s bedroom in startlingly sharp definition. I watch myself leading a stumbling Logan to the bed, cutting away his clothes, binding him to the bedposts.
When I see myself climbing onto him, riding his unconscious body, my stomach turns. The woman on the screen looks like me but feels like a stranger—her face twisted with a combination of pleasure and rage, tears streaming down her cheeks even as she chases her release.
Is this what I’ve become? Someone who would violate another person’s body while they’re unconscious? Even if that person is Logan, even if he’s done worse to me—this isn’t who I want to be.
My finger hovers over the “download” button. With this footage, I could destroy Logan completely. I could send it to the Inquisitor, to the king, to the press. It would be the end of his claim to the throne. The pack would crumble. My revenge would be complete.
But at what cost to me?
I glance back at the nest in the corner of Ares’s room, remembering how he kept it from my pre-heat, how carefully he preserved something that meant so much to me even though I had been barely more than a stranger to him then.
I think about Poe, vulnerable in ways I never expected, yet still gentle with me. About Cillian, trapped in his own way, trying to navigate an impossible situation with what little agency he has.
Even Logan, beneath his cruelty and arrogance, fights to protect something—though I still don’t understand exactly what.
If I release this video, I become the monster I’ve accused them of being. I make their point for them—that I’m just a hysterical Omega unable to control myself, driven by emotion rather than reason.
My finger moves to the mouse, cursor shifting to the “delete” button instead.
Then my eyes fall on the nest again, and I wonder—how different might things have been if my heat had progressed naturally? If I’d been with men who respected me, who asked for consent instead of taking what they wanted?
Men who wanted me to choose them rather than forcing me to submit.
The thought crystallizes something inside me. This isn’t about becoming like them. It’s about showing them exactly what they’ve done to me. Making them understand, once and for all, that their actions have consequences.
With newfound resolve, I click “download” and attach the file to a message. In the recipient field, I type Belinda Farrow’s contact information—easily found in the palace directory on Ares’s desktop.
No subject line. No accompanying text. Just the video, speaking for itself.
My finger hovers over “send,” doubt creeping in at the last moment.
Am I doing the right thing? Or am I just perpetuating the cycle of violation and revenge?
But then I remember the moment Logan claimed me against my will. The moment he stole my choice, my future, my body.
I click “send” before I can second-guess myself again.
The confirmation appears: “Message sent successfully.”
I sit back in Ares’s chair, a strange emptiness hollowing me out from the inside. There’s no triumph, no satisfaction—just a quiet certainty that things will never be the same again.
For better or worse, I’ve made my choice.