Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
CILLIAN
I freeze as Logan suddenly thrusts the knife into my hands. The weight of it feels wrong, unbalanced, like my body can’t reconcile holding a weapon while standing beside a bound Omega—our Omega.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask, my voice coming out steadier than I expected given the thundering of my heart.
Logan’s eyes glitter with a cold fury I haven’t seen since the night he killed Ander.
“Obviously the bond and the title aren’t enough.
Maya needs a more intense reminder of exactly who she belongs to.
” He gestures toward her pale form strapped to the table.
“You’re going to carve the Corellian sigil into her chest.”
My grip on the knife falters. “You can’t be serious.”
Behind me, I hear Ares’s sharp intake of breath. Even Poe shifts uncomfortably, the leather of his jacket creaking as he moves.
“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” Logan says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that signals he’s beyond reason. “Our clever little Omega thought she could destroy…destroy us …by sending that video to the press.”
“This isn’t the answer,” Ares says, stepping forward. His massive frame seems to fill the small basement room as he moves closer to the table where Maya lies immobilized. “Logan, think about what you’re doing.”
Logan whirls on him, teeth bared in a snarl. “Oh? And what would you have done if I believed you were responsible for that video? If I thought you were the one who betrayed me?”
Ares goes very still, the color draining from his face. “You would have killed me.”
“Without hesitation,” Logan confirms. “Because none of us is allowed to put this pack at risk, not even me. Consider that the next time you decide to defend her for doing something this stupid. This is the only way she’ll learn.
” He turns back to me, gesturing impatiently at the knife in my hand. “Get on with it.”
I look down at Maya, who glares back with eyes devoid of the fear I’d expect. The bond between us pulses with emotions too complex to untangle—fear, yes, but also determination, rage, and something that feels almost like... relief?
Then I realize. She doesn’t expect to come back from this moment. This will be the thing that severs her from us completely.
But how do I explain that without giving away the truth of our bond?
“I need to know,” Poe says suddenly, his quiet voice cutting through the tension. He steps closer to the table, his dark eyes fixed on Maya’s face. “I need to know if what happened to me was intentional.”
Maya’s eyes flick to him briefly before returning to mine.
“Just do whatever you need to do,” she says, her voice hollow. “I don’t care anymore.”
Poe’s face hardens at her non-answer. Without another word, he turns and stalks out of the basement, the door slamming behind him with enough force to send dust motes dancing in the dim light.
I turn the knife over in my hands, feeling the weight of it, the potential for violence it represents. “Why does it have to be me?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
Logan steps closer, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers, “Because I told you to.”
The implication is clear. If I refuse, he’ll use an Alpha command—something he’s done rarely since claiming me, but always with devastating effect. And what would he command me to do then? Something worse, something that would hurt Maya even more deeply than a physical wound?
Through our bond, I feel Maya’s quiet acceptance. She expects pain; she’s braced for it. But beneath that surface calm roils a tempest of emotion—not just fear, but a bone-deep exhaustion. She’s tired of fighting, tired of the constant struggle against forces larger than herself.
I understand that feeling all too well.
I could try to reason with him, appeal to whatever humanity remains beneath his rage. Or I could comply, marking Maya permanently as his property—our property—in the most barbaric way possible.
And whether I choose to do this of my own free will or let Logan force me to do it. If I have to own the consequences either way, then it really isn’t a decision at all.
My fingers tighten around the knife handle as I meet Logan’s gaze.
“Fine,” I say, the word bitter on my tongue. “I’ll do it.”
Logan steps back, satisfaction gleaming in his golden eyes. “Good.”
I move closer to the table, standing over Maya’s prone form. Our eyes meet, and I try to project what little reassurance I can through our bond—that I won’t hurt her more than necessary, that somehow we’ll survive this like we’ve survived everything else.
Her lips part slightly, and I think she might be about to speak, but she closes them again, silent resignation settling over her features. She waits for the pain, steeling herself against it.
Instead, I turn to Logan and ask softly, “Where exactly do you want the sigil?”
Logan’s hand hovers over Maya’s sternum. “Here. Where she can’t hide it.”
I nod, positioning the knife above Maya’s skin, letting the tip rest lightly against her. Her pulse jumps beneath the blade, but she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t beg. Through our bond, I feel her steeling herself, her mind retreating to some distant place where the pain can’t reach.
What I’m about to do makes me no better than the guards who used to beat me for sport before Logan claimed me. No better than the nobles who turned a blind eye to my suffering. No better than any Alpha who sees Omegas as property rather than people.
But if I don’t do this, Logan will use his command to force me into something worse.
I know it as surely as I know my own name.
The look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know—he’s determined to make an example of Maya, for her own sake as well as ours, and if I refuse to be his instrument, he’ll find another way, a crueler way.
At least this way, I might be able to control the damage. Make the cuts shallow. Ensure they heal cleanly. It’s a pitiful justification, but it’s all I have.
I look into Maya’s eyes one last time, silently begging for forgiveness I know I don’t deserve.
Then I lower the knife to her skin.
I draw in a sharp, pained breath as the blade cuts into Maya’s skin. Though her lips press together in a tight line, not making a sound, I feel the searing pain through our bond as if it’s happening to my own chest. The feeling is so intense, I have to grit my teeth to keep from crying out myself.
The knife feels impossibly heavy in my hand as I carefully trace the curved lines of the Corellian crest. I keep the cuts as shallow as possible while still drawing blood—just enough to satisfy Logan without causing permanent damage.
My hands remain steady through years of weapons training, but inside I’m screaming.
With each stroke of the blade, I feel the echo of pain through our bond. It burns across my own chest in sympathetic agony, as if someone were carving the same pattern into my flesh. Perhaps this is Logan’s true punishment—forcing me to feel Maya’s pain while making me the instrument of it.
I wonder distantly if this is meant to be a punishment for me as well.
Logan has to know that Maya and I have been growing closer, even as her resentment of him only grows.
Maybe this is his way of ensuring I understand the consequences of divided loyalty, of showing me exactly what happens when someone in our pack steps out of line.
As I finish the final curve of the sigil, blood wells from the shallow cuts, forming crimson rivulets that trace paths across Maya’s pale skin. The sight makes me sick, but I force myself to complete the task with precision. Better a clean wound from me than whatever Logan might do if I refuse.
When I’m finished, Ares immediately moves to help Maya, grabbing a cloth from nearby to stem the bleeding.
“Stop,” Logan commands, his voice sharp as a whip crack.
Ares freezes mid-motion, his hand hovering above Maya.
“You have work to do. Go to your terminal and update your credentials. Change all your passwords, and alter the security settings so that any video footage from within the apartment is automatically encrypted. No one accesses those feeds without my express permission. Is that clear?”
Ares’s jaw tightens, but he nods stiffly as he turns away. “Crystal.”
Logan’s comm unit beeps, and he glances down at it with a curse. “Fuck. My father wants to see me.” He reaches into his pocket and tosses a small med kit to me. “Help Maya upstairs and put her in bed. Clean those cuts so they don’t get infected.”
I catch the kit one-handed, still holding the bloodied knife in the other. “Which bed?” I ask mockingly, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
Logan freezes for a second, his golden eyes narrowing dangerously. “It doesn’t matter,” he replies, his voice cutting like ice. “She belongs to me regardless of where she sleeps, just like you do.”
The words are a reminder of my place in this twisted hierarchy.
No matter how much Logan might need me, no matter what moments of gentleness we might share, he will never be able to separate his position from his ability to love.
He doesn’t care if we hate him as long as the structure of this pack remains intact.
He will hurt us—any of us—if that is what it takes to protect us.
If the responsibility of that is a burden, he’ll carry it to the very end.
I turn my attention back to Maya after Logan leaves. Her face is pale but composed, her breathing shallow as she stares up at the ceiling. I release the restraints one by one, careful not to touch the cuts on her chest.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words feeling woefully inadequate.
When I reach for her, offering to help her sit up, Maya recoils from my touch. “Don’t,” she says, her voice flat and empty. “Just...don’t touch me right now.”
She struggles to sit up on her own, wincing as the movement pulls at her fresh wounds. Blood has stained the bodice of her bonding dress, the crimson a stark contrast to the pristine white silk. Through our bond, I feel her shame, her anger, and beneath it all, a deep, cold resolution.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, helplessly. “I tried to make the cuts as shallow as possible. They shouldn’t scar if we treat them properly.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Maya says, her voice hollow as she takes the med kit from my hands. “None of this matters when we’re both dying already.”
“Maya—“
“We deserve more than this,” she interrupts, her eyes finally meeting mine. There’s something in her gaze that sends a chill down my spine—not fear or hatred, but a terrible clarity. “Both of us. We deserve better than to be owned.”
I don’t know what to say to that. She’s right, of course. We do deserve better. But what options do we have? The bond can’t be broken. Logan’s claim is permanent. There’s no escape, not while he lives.
“The bond won’t allow it,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “Separating from Logan would kill us both. You know that.”
Maya snatches the med kit from me, her expression hardening.
“It doesn’t matter when we’re both dying already,” she repeats, sliding off the table with a wince.
Her blood-stained wedding dress drags behind her as she makes her way toward the stairs, leaving me standing alone with the bloodied knife still in my hand.
I watch her go, feeling a profound sense of shame and longing. I acknowledge to myself that I don’t have the strength to walk away, even if Maya deserves to be protected from all of this. Even if I’m willing to suffer for her.
The truth settles in my chest like a stone: I can think of only one way to save Maya without running away. One terrible, unthinkable solution that would free her from Logan’s claim while leaving our bond intact.
I look down at the knife in my hand, the blade still stained with Maya’s blood, and for the first time, I allow myself to consider the unthinkable.