Chapter 6 Maya
Maya
I listen as Logan’s footsteps fade down the hallway. It’s impossible not to notice that they match the pounding beat of my heart.
It had been more tempting than I want to admit to open the door and confront him directly. It’s only been a few days since I agreed to stay with them, but I’ve managed to avoid any direct contact with Logan in that time.
I press my forehead against the door, the cool wood grounding me as my heart hammers against my ribs. I need space to think, to breathe without the weight of Alpha pheromones clouding my judgment. Especially his.
So why am I feeling such a crazed urge to rip open the door and chase after him? I tell myself that it’s just because I want scream in his face and do my best to claw his eyes out.
But that isn’t the only urge I’m feeling.
This safehouse—a generous term for what’s essentially a cabin far enough from civilization that my screams wouldn’t reach anyone—smells of dust and disuse.
This is one of only two bedrooms and the decorations are spartan: a queen-sized bed with faded blue linens, a wooden dresser with a cracked mirror, and curtains that might have been white once.
The lock on the door is flimsy, a psychological barrier rather than a physical one.
If Logan wanted in, he could break it with minimal effort.
But he won’t. That’s the thing about Logan—he’ll stomp all over my boundaries using my coerced agreement as the flimsiest excuse, but he remains committed to his promises. My agreement to stay here was contingent on him not touching me and he hasn’t.
The only question is how long his commitment to that will last.
I move to the window, watching raindrops race each other down the glass.
My reflection stares back, purple hair tangled from our hasty escape, eyes wide with a fear I’m trying desperately to contain.
I barely recognize myself anymore. The girl from the Enclave who thought any Alpha might actually offer her freedom feels like another person.
The bed creaks under my weight as I sit, fingers tracing the faded pattern on the quilt.
My mind feels lost and scattered, a thousand pieces that I’m trying and failing to put back together.
The bond, even as fractured as it is, pulls at me, whispering promises of completion. Of safety in submission.
I hate it.
No, that’s not quite right. I hate that I don’t fully hate it. There’s a part of me—the Omega biology I’ve spent years fighting against—that yearns to give in. To let go of this exhausting resistance and fall into the role I was born for. To be cherished and protected.
A shudder runs through me
My hand balls into a fist, nails biting into my palm hard enough to ground me in pain rather than possibility. That’s not what I want. It can’t be.
What I want is choice. The freedom to decide my own fate without biology or politics or the expectations of others driving me toward an inevitable conclusion. I want to matter beyond my designation, beyond my womb, beyond the expectations and assumptions of what it means to be an Omega.
When Logan first came to the Enclave, I thought I’d found someone who saw me—really saw me.
Not just an Omega, but a person with thoughts and interests and value beyond breeding potential.
For a moment, I’d believed that maybe, just maybe, I could have both: my identity and the mating my biology craves.
How naive I was.
I sink onto the floor, back against the bed frame, knees pulled to my chest. I’m tired of running. Tired of fighting. Tired of the constant fear.
But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to just surrender to them.
A creak outside my door pulls me from my spiraling thoughts.
The subtle shift of weight on old floorboards—someone settling into position.
Ares, most likely. Logan wouldn’t have the patience to stand guard, Cillian is still mostly confined to a sickbed and Poe has made a habit of disappearing for long stretches of time since we arrived.
I strain my ears, catching the soft scrape of chair legs against wood.
So Ares is planning to stay a while. The thought should irritate me—being watched, monitored—but instead, a strange comfort seeps through the cracks in my defenses.
Of all Logan’s pack, Ares is the most straightforward. The most honest about what he is.
A monster who knows he’s a monster.
The silence outside of the door feels more pregnant the longer I listen. The rustle of clothing against weapons, the creak of a chair as he shifts his weight and the occasional intake of breath seem to grow louder with each passing moment.
I don’t realize I’ve moved closer to the closed door until my knees press against the wood.
“How are you doing in there?”
I freeze, when Ares’s voice comes from so close it feels like he is whispering in my ear. Mortification washes over me at the realization he knows I’m sitting on the opposite side of the door.
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. What can I possibly say? That I’m fine? That I’m not falling apart inside this dusty room? That I’m not terrified of what happens next?
Instead of answering, I turn to rest my back against the door. The wood is cool against my spine through the thin fabric of my borrowed shirt. I draw my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them like I can hold myself together through sheer physical effort.
“You don’t have to talk,” Ares continues after a moment, his voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “I’m happy to fill the quiet if you like, though.”
I rest my head back against the door, closing my eyes. The position mirrors his, I imagine—both of us sitting with only inches and a wooden barrier between us. It’s the closest I’ve physically been to any of them in days.
“Logan’s gone to meet a contact from the underground,” he says, filling the silence I leave.
“Some rebel who’ll only speak with him alone.
Could be a trap, but...” He sighs, and I can almost see him running a hand through those cinnamon curls.
“He’s always been lucky when it comes to finding his way out of trouble. ”
My body feels oddly disconnected, as if I’m floating above it, watching this scene play out.
I should care more about this information. It’s politically significant—a prince meeting with rebels could be treason or strategy or both. But my mind can only fixate on the lingering scent of him through the wood and the gentle thrum of his voice.
“It’s not a great plan,” Ares admits, as if reading my thoughts. “But it’s better than hiding out here until the king’s guard tracks us down.”
“You’re safe here, for now. I’ve made sure of that,” Ares says softly. “This place is unregistered and we’re remote enough that the nearest surveillance point is miles away.”
“I know you don’t trust us,” Ares continues. “You have every right not to. But I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
The floating sensation intensifies, a peculiar warmth spreading through my limbs. My skin feels too tight, hypersensitive where it touches the fabric of my clothes. A familiar ache pools low in my belly, and with it comes horrified recognition.
No. Not now. It’s too soon.
“Maya,” Ares’s voice cuts through my panic, lower now, almost a whisper. “You okay in there?”
I hadn’t been ignoring the signs, only misattributing them. The malaise and heightened anxiety could have just as easily been the result of situational stress. But the flare of warmth in the pit of my stomach has nothing to do with the military rations we’ve been eating.
Somehow, I’m going into an early heat.
I’ve been back on suppressants since escaping the doctor, but not soon enough, it seems. Not long enough to prevent this mild heat from coming. The doctor’s experiments must have thrown my cycle into chaos, triggering an early heat despite the medication.
“Don’t come in,” I manage to say, my first words to him since locking myself away. My voice sounds strange to my own ears, strained and breathless.
“I won’t,” he promises immediately. “But does that mean you are okay or you aren’t?”
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly, voice strangled.
“Do you want Cillian?” Ares asks after a long pause.
The question catches me off guard. Cillian. Pale hair and ice-chip eyes. The way he looked at me in that basement, desperate and conflicted as Logan forced the bond. That he nearly died trying to protect me.
That I killed for him.
Yes, I want Cillian. The realization settles in my chest like a stone. Of all of them, he’s been the easiest to forgive. But wanting and trusting are different things, and I’m not ready to give any of them a chance to hurt me again.
“No,” I say, the word coming out sharper than intended. “I don’t want anyone coming in.”
“I know,” Ares says, and I can hear the understanding in his voice. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
Can he sense it? Even through the door, the change in my scent is likely something he can sense.
“I don’t need help,” I insist, even as another wave of warmth makes me shiver. This heat is mild compared to what it could be—what it would be without the suppressants in my system—but it’s still uncomfortable. Still demanding.
“Everyone needs help sometimes,” Ares says, his voice dropping lower.
I press my thighs together, trying to ignore the growing ache between them. “I don’t want to open the door.”
“I hear you.” There’s a smile in his voice now, something almost fond. “No one’s coming in. But that doesn’t mean you have to suffer alone.”
“What are you suggesting?” I ask, suspicion edging my tone.
“Nothing you don’t want.” His voice takes on a different quality—smoother, more deliberate. “Just talk. Just my voice.”
My heart rate picks up, understanding dawning slowly through the haze of early heat. “You want to talk me through it.”
“If you want me to.” The offer hangs in the air, neither pressure nor dismissal. “I still think about the last time we were together, you know. How responsive you were. How beautiful.”