Chapter 1 #2
"You can bleed somewhere safer," he corrects, eyes never leaving the entrance.
The tent flap rips open. Cillian fires twice in rapid succession, and a body tumbles through the opening. He's already moving, pushing me toward the back of the tent, where a small exit leads to the communications bunker.
Three more rebels burst in, firing wildly. Cillian shoves me down behind an overturned cabinet, returning fire with practiced precision. Two rebels fall. The third ducks behind a support beam.
"Stay down," Cillian hisses, ejecting his spent magazine and slapping in a fresh one.
The pain in my side is a burning coal, but adrenaline keeps it manageable. I draw my pistol, waiting for the rebel to make his move.
He does, lunging from cover with a battle cry. Cillian and I fire simultaneously. The rebel jerks and collapses mid-stride.
"We need to reach the bunker," Cillian says, pulling me to my feet. "Radio for air support."
I stumble, the metal in my side shifting. Fresh blood pulses down my leg.
"Fuck," Cillian mutters, glancing at my wound. "Change of plans."
He ducks under my arm, taking my weight while somehow maintaining his grip on his rifle. We move toward the exit, each step sending fresh waves of pain through my body.
Outside, the compound has descended into chaos. Smoke billows from burning vehicles. Gunfire echoes from multiple directions. Rebels have breached the inner perimeter, engaging our forces in close-quarter combat.
Cillian pulls me into the shadow of a supply shed, his eyes scanning for a path forward. A rebel spots us and raises his weapon. Cillian fires first, dropping him with a headshot while barely breaking stride.
"The bunker's compromised," he says, nodding toward a cluster of rebels swarming the communications center. "Medical tent's our best option."
I squint through the smoke. "Too exposed. We'd never make it."
"Watch me." His voice holds absolute certainty.
We move along the edge of the compound, Cillian half-carrying me while somehow still firing at any threat that emerges. My vision blurs at the edges, the pain becoming harder to ignore.
"Stay with me, Logan," Cillian growls. "If you die, I'll have to explain it to your father, and we both know how that conversation will go."
"Can't... have that," I manage, forcing one foot in front of the other.
A rebel appears from behind a burning Humvee, raising his rifle. I raise my pistol, but my hand shakes too badly to aim. Cillian pivots, placing his body between me and the threat, firing three rapid shots. The rebel falls, but not before getting off a burst of his own.
Cillian grunts, stumbling slightly.
"You hit?" I demand.
"Flesh wound," he dismisses. "Keep moving."
Another figure darts from behind the rubble of a collapsed wall. Smaller than the others. Much smaller.
A child.
A boy no older than twelve, face streaked with dirt and eyes wild with fear or fervor, I can't tell which. My finger freezes on the trigger. The child's hands are empty, but then they move behind his back.
“Don’t—“ I start to say.
The world narrows to the child's hands as they reappear, gripping something metal. My muscles tense but won't respond. The part of me trained for combat screams to fire, but something deeper holds me back.
A shot rings out. I flinch, bracing for the pain that doesn't come.
Instead, a perfect red dot appears on the child's forehead. His eyes go wide with surprise before emptying entirely. He topples backward like a puppet with cut strings, the weapon, a crude pistol, clattering from lifeless fingers.
I turn to see Cillian beside me, his rifle still raised, expression unchanged. No hesitation. No remorse.
"That was a child," I say, my voice hollow.
Cillian lowers his weapon, eyes already scanning for the next threat. "It was an armed combatant aiming at you."
"He was a boy."
"He was about to put a bullet in your head." Cillian meets my gaze, ice-chip eyes utterly calm. "Could have been the freshly risen god of all creation, and I would have done the same thing."
The certainty in his voice chills me. Not because it's cruel, though it might be. But because I recognize an essential truth. Cillian would kill anyone, anything, that threatened me. No hesitation. No moral calculus. Just the cold, clean arithmetic of my survival above all else.
Most men would hesitate. The rebels count on that intrinsic hesitation to harm a child. They wouldn’t have put him here, guarding their escape route, otherwise.
Not Cillian.
And that makes him more valuable to me than a dozen other men combined.
FIVE YEARS AGO
I recline against the rough wooden bench, the tavern's din washing over me.
Two beta women perch on my lap, their bodies warm and pliant.
They've doused themselves in artificial Omega scent that is almost convincing.
Almost. The cloying sweetness is too overpowering and lacks the complex undertones of a true Omega.
But after weeks in the field, I'm not complaining.
"Another drink, Your Highness?" A third woman leans forward, pressing her generous bosom against my face as she offers a tankard. "Or perhaps you'd prefer something... upstairs?"
Her smile promises everything a victorious Alpha could want.
I glance around the tavern. My men have earned this celebration after the bloody work of liberating this village. Our campaign in the Outlands is finally coming to an end and we will all finally return to the capital, blooded and victorious.
My military service has lasted longer than is typical.
With so many princes vying for our father’s favor, I have no choice but to do something to distinguish myself.
And I’ve managed to form a powerful pack, specifically chosen from the most impressive soldiers in my regiment.
Ares arm-wrestles a local while two women cheer him on.
Poe broods in a corner, a woman on each knee, though his eyes remain alert.
But Cillian is nowhere to be seen.
Strange. He is usually at my side during these celebrations, especially when there are women to be shared. We've spent many nights passing the same beta between us, our unique rhythm perfected over years.
"Have you seen my guard commander?" I ask the woman practically in my face.
She pouts. "Why worry about him when you have us?"
The beta on my right kisses my neck. "We can make you forget all about duty, Your Highness."
I should stay. The warm bodies, the alcohol, the simple pleasure of victory. It's exactly what I need after the bloodshed of the past few months. I can’t remember the last time we had a bed to sleep in for the night. But Cillian's absence nags at me.
"Excuse me, ladies." I lift them gently from my lap. “But I need to check on something. Don’t go anywhere.”
I make my way upstairs, telling myself I'm just being cautious. Some rebels could have escaped our sweep. Cillian might be in danger. It's my duty as his commander to ensure his safety.
I know it's bullshit even as I think it. Cillian can handle himself better than anyone I've ever met.
Outside his door, I pause. "Cillian?"
Silence.
I knock. "Cillian, you in there?"
After a long moment, his voice comes through, strained and tight. "Go back downstairs, Logan."
Something's wrong. I've never heard that tone from him before.
"Are you alone?" I ask, hand moving to my sidearm. A rebel could be in there with him now, knife to his throat and coaching this strange response.
"Yes. Just... go enjoy yourself."
My instincts scream danger. "I'm coming in."
"Don't—"
I ram my shoulder against the door. The wood splinters on the second impact, and I burst through, weapon drawn.
The smell hits me first. Sweet, intoxicating, unmistakable. Omega in heat. My body responds instantly, a primal surge of desire that clouds my vision.
Cillian is huddled in the corner, knees drawn to his chest. His uniform is soaked with sweat, his pale hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes, those ice-chip blues, are wide with something I've never seen in them before: fear.
The scent of slick permeates the room, and with dawning horror, I realize it's coming from him.
"Cillian?" My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
"Close the fucking door," he hisses.
I slam the door shut behind me, my hands trembling with shock. Cillian. My guard commander. My closest confidant.
An Omega.
The revelation crashes through me like artillery fire.
"How long have you known?” I manage to ask, my voice barely recognizable.
Cillian won't meet my eyes. "Always."
The single word hangs between us, heavy with implication. Years of shared battles, shared women, shared secrets — and this fundamental truth hidden from me.
"You lied to me." My anger flares, competing with the instinctual pull of his scent. "All this time?"
"I had no choice." He presses himself further into the corner, trying to create distance between us. "You know what happens to male Omegas in the military."
The same thing that happens to male Omegas everywhere.
Knowledge of their existence is suppressed among the general population, but those higher in positions of government are aware of the possibility.
Male Omegas are considered abominations, unnatural. Too emotional for command, too weak for combat, yet not feminine enough for traditional Omega roles. They're drummed out of service, arrested on trumped up charges and sent to die in work camps.
Or worse.
Anything to prevent the possibility of a male Omega breeding a female of any designation and passing on their genetic abnormalities.
"The suppressants usually work," he continues, voice cracking. "I miscalculated the dose after the battle."
My body responds to his heat scent against my will, blood rushing south. I've never been this close to an unbonded Omega in heat. The pull is magnetic, almost painful in its intensity.
"You should go," Cillian says, reading my reaction. "Find one of those betas downstairs."
I take a step forward instead. "Who else knows?"
"No one.” The orphanage matron who first discovered my designation and helped me source suppressants died years ago. His breathing quickens as I approach. "Logan, don't—"
"You're my commander," I say, the realization of what this means washing over me. "The royal guard commander is an Omega."
"I've proven myself," he snarls, a flash of the Cillian I know breaking through his heat. "I've killed for you. Bled for you."
I kneel before him, close enough to see the sweat beading on his upper lip, to smell the desperate sweetness radiating from him.
"If anyone finds out..." I begin.
"I know." His eyes lock with mine, filled with vulnerability I've never witnessed before. "So either kill me now or get out."
This is my closest friend. The man who has saved my life more than once.
It really isn't much of a choice.