Chapter 7 Poe
Poe
I keep ten paces behind Logan, my eyes fixed on the back of his head.
The oversized coat and hood he wears does little to disguise the arrogant set of his shoulders.
Even in this threadbare disguise, in this forgotten corner of the city where the streetlights flicker and die, he moves like he owns the ground beneath his feet.
Like a prince.
The thought tastes bitter. I adjust the collar of my jacket, pulling it higher against the night chill. My earpiece crackles with static, then silence. Logan hasn’t spoken since we left the safehouse. Neither have I.
The streets grow narrower as we delve deeper into the district locals call the Sump.
Buildings lean against each other like drunks, windows boarded or broken.
Graffiti marks territory—gang signs and warnings that mean nothing to outsiders but everything to those who live here.
I note each one, cataloging potential threats. Old habits.
A woman leans against a doorway, eyes following Logan with predatory interest. She doesn’t look at me. No one ever does. That’s the point of me. The shadow that follows. The knife that waits.
Logan turns down an alley so narrow his shoulders nearly brush both walls.
I hang back, counting to thirty before following.
We’re playing the game of strangers—two men with no connection, heading coincidentally to the same destination.
It’s a thin pretense. Anyone watching closely enough would see the truth.
But then, seeing truth has never been my problem.
I’ve always seen too much. Known too much. Understood the ugly realities beneath polished surfaces. It’s what makes me valuable to the pack. To Logan. My ability to look at a room full of smiling faces and identify which ones would slide a blade between your ribs given half a chance.
The rain starts again, a fine mist that clings to my skin. I pull the fabric wrapped around my neck higher, covering my mouth and nose, and leaving only my eyes exposed.
Logan pauses at a corner, pretending to check the street name. The dim blue light of a lamp illuminates his face from below, casting strange shadows across features I’ve known since childhood. For a moment, he looks like a stranger. Perhaps he is.
When did I stop recognizing the man I’ve followed for fifteen years? Was it when he forced the bond on Maya? Or earlier, when he began treating pack members as pawns rather than family? Or has he always been this way, and I’ve only recently allowed myself to see it?
The thoughts circle like vultures, picking at the carcass of my loyalty.
Logan continues walking, not bothering to look back. He knows I’ll follow. That’s the problem with spending years devoted beyond reason. Loyalty becomes obligation. Love becomes duty. Until you can’t tell where your own desires end and the pack’s needs begin.
But he’s right about one thing. Now isn’t the time for internal conflict. We have no idea who is waiting for us or what they might want in return for their help. Assuming our new connection even wants to help and hasn’t already sold us out.
Logan stops at the door of a nondescript bar. He approaches without hesitation, pushing through the door like he belongs there. I count to sixty this time before following.
Inside, the bar is dimly lit and thick with smoke.
The clientele—mostly men, mostly wearing hooded jackets or masks of some kind—barely glance up as I enter.
Their studied indifference speaks volumes.
This isn’t a place for casual drinking. This is where people come when they don’t want to be found.
I resist the urge to adjust my face covering, feeling the fabric stick to my lips as I breathe. The disguise feels like a lie against my skin. I’ve spent my life working in the shadows, but I’ve never felt any need to hide my face before now.
Logan stands at the bar, shoulders hunched in a posture so unlike his usual imperial stance that for a moment I almost believe the disguise myself.
The bartender—a bear of a man with a scar bisecting one eyebrow—leans close, muttering something I can’t hear.
Logan nods once, sliding a folded note across the scarred wood.
The bartender jerks his head toward a discreet set of stairs next to the bar.
I linger, ordering a whiskey I won’t drink, watching in my peripheral vision as Logan descends the stairs. The glass is sticky when it arrives, smudged with fingerprints from previous patrons. I lift it to my lips without drinking, maintaining the charade for the benefit of no one in particular.
Three minutes pass before I follow, leaving the untouched drink and another folded bill on the counter.
The stairs creak beneath my weight, but that’s the only sound. No shouting or gunfire, so if someone managed to take Logan down, they were able to do it quietly.
I push open the door at the bottom of the stairs, prepared for the worst.
Nikolai looks up as I enter, a tired smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He’s thinner than when I last saw him, the bones of his face more prominent, but his eyes hold the same intelligent light.
The room is small, windowless, lit by a single hanging bulb and lined with boxes. Clearly a storage room, thought the small folding table placed in the center with three stools around it is likely for our benefit.
I unwrap the face covering, air cool against my damp skin.“Prince Nikolai.”
“Poe,” he nods in greeting. “Still keeping my brother from getting himself killed, I see.”
“Trying to,” I reply, taking the seat beside Logan. “He doesn’t make it easy.”
“I thought my cloak and dagger days were behind me,” Nikolai says, turning back to Logan. “But if anyone was going to drag me back into palace intrigue, it would be you, little brother.
Logan’s expression hasn’t changed, but I can sense him relax. “Thank you for coming, Nik.”
Nikolai’s eyebrows lift slightly, a note of amusement in his gaze. “Well, you know I’d do anything for you. Even commit treason, apparently.”
Logan drums his fingers on the table. “Let’s get down to it.”
“I suppose there isn’t time for socializing,” Nikolai says, eyes shifting between us. “Not with half the king’s guard hunting you down.”
“Not hunting all of us,” I point out, before Logan respond.
Logan sighs, but he doesn’t contradict me. We all know it’s true. The king’s proclamation named Maya, Ares, Cillian, and me as fugitives to be captured or killed. Logan’s name was conspicuously absent from the list.
“The king has made his position clear,” Nikolai confirms, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “He’s willing to welcome the prodigal son back to the fold—but only if Logan returns sufficiently humbled.”
“It’s a trick,” Logan replies coldly. “The king hopes to lure me back and catch me unawares. He’ll make my execution a spectacle.”
Nikolai considers that. “You can’t be absolutely sure of his plans.”
Logan raises a mocking eyebrow. “You think I should rely on the king’s mercy, instead?”
His brother’s silence is answer enough. The king’s mercy has always been a lie. Our only choices are to die quick or die slow.
“What will it take to smuggle us out of the city?” Logan asks, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from him. “All of us. Together.”
“I know a smuggler,” Nikolai says carefully. “Reliable. Discreet. He can get you beyond the city walls, maybe even as far as the southern border.” He pauses, eyes fixed on Logan’s face. “But that’s not your only option.”
Logan stills, understanding blooming across his features. I glance between the brothers, confusion mounting. What am I missing?
“We’ll be ready to leave in a week,” Logan says abruptly, moving to stand.
Nikolai’s hand shoots out, gripping Logan’s wrist with surprising strength. “Wait.” His voice drops lower, urgent now. “You should know—if you chose a different path, you wouldn’t walk it alone.”
“Nikolai—”
“Why else would our father create this pretense of forgiveness? He fears you,” Nikolai insists, releasing Logan’s wrist but holding his gaze.
“I would follow you. And I’m not the only one.
We would only need to get you close enough to challenge the king before witnesses. Best him and you would be king.”
Logan scoffs. “Murder him, you mean.”
Open rebellion was never the plan, because if it failed then we would all be dead. Quietly supporting a resistance, perhaps providing intelligence to help it grow and gain strength, but Logan has never once said he would challenge the king directly.
And steady, diplomatic Nikolai, who has always been the voice of reason among Logan’s brothers. If he is suggesting that Logan challenge his father, how bad have things become at court?
“The king is dangerous,” Nikolai continues, confirming my suspicions. “And becoming more so every day. His plans for Omegas might be the most horrific thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Thane is dead,” Logan counters.
“Thane’s research will live longer than he ever could,” Nikolai replies gravely.
Pure curiosity drives the next question I ask. “How long have you been part of the resistance, Nikolai?”
Nikolai smiles, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. “I prefer to think of myself as a concerned citizen with useful connections.”
“Treason by any other name,” Logan mutters, but there’s no heat in his voice. Just weariness. “You realize what you’re suggesting? Civil war. Bloodshed. Brother against brother.”
“I realize what will happen if we do nothing,” Nikolai counters. “And more will follow you than you think. The king only consolidated power by making false promises, that he now feels driven to fulfill. New leadership has been desperately needed for a long time.”