Chapter 11 Maya
Maya
I feel the weight of four pairs of eyes on me as I step into the main room of the safehouse. The air is thick with tension, a pressure that settles on my skin like static electricity before a storm. I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene before committing to enter this battlefield of wills.
Logan stands at the head of a scarred wooden table, hands planted firmly on its surface, golden eyes bright with barely contained energy.
Poe leans against the far wall, arms crossed, watching Logan with an expression I can’t quite decipher—not quite hostility, but certainly not the blind loyalty I’ve come to expect from him.
Ares has positioned himself between them, as if anticipating the need to physically separate the two.
And then there’s Cillian, who enters the room behind me, his presence a warm shadow at my back. I can hear the slight hitch in his breathing that betrays the pain he’s hiding.
No one speaks as I enter. The conversation that had been raging moments before dies instantly, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. I hate how they look at me—like I’m a bomb that might detonate, like I’m something fragile and volatile all at once.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I say, moving toward the empty chair farthest from Logan. “I’m just here for the show.”
Cillian follows, taking the seat beside mine. The movement costs him; I can see it in the tightness around his eyes, the careful way he lowers himself into the chair. I resist the urge to help him, to steady him with a hand on his arm. That’s not who we are to each other. That’s not what this is.
But I can’t stop glancing over as he settles into the chair, watchful for every wince of pain.
Logan clears his throat, drawing all attention back to him. “As I was saying,” he continues, “we need to leave Melilla. The smuggler Nikolai mentioned can get us across the southern border in a week. From there, we can disappear.”
“Run, you mean,” Poe says, voice flat. “Like cowards.”
The challenge in his tone makes Logan’s jaw tighten. I watch the muscle jump beneath his tanned skin, fascinated despite myself by the evidence of his restraint. The Logan I remember would have already put Poe in his place.
What is happening here?
“Like survivors,” Logan corrects, his tone carefully measured. “The doctor might be dead, but the king’s guards are hunting us. We’re outmatched and outnumbered.”
I flinch at the mention of the doctor, a reflexive response I can’t control.
The memory of his hands on me, of cold metal tables and clinical cruelty, flashes through my mind like lightning.
I push it down, lock it away in that dark corner of my mind where I keep all the things I can’t bear to examine too closely.
“And whose fault is that?” Poe’s voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp as a blade. “You forced a bond on an unwilling Omega. You broke pack law, royal law, and basic decency all at once. And now we’re all paying the price.”
Logan’s eyes flash dangerously. “I did what was necessary to protect all of us.”
“You did what you wanted,” Poe counters. “Don’t pretend it was selfless.”
I watch this exchange with a strange detachment, as if I’m observing strangers argue about someone else’s life.
It should matter more, I think. I should feel something stronger than this hollow fascination.
But I’ve exhausted my capacity for rage where Logan is concerned.
I’ve burned through fear and hatred and landed somewhere beyond both, in a strange emotional wasteland where nothing quite touches me.
“What I want,” Logan says, enunciating each word with careful precision, “is to keep everyone in this room alive. And the only way to do that is to leave the capital as soon as possible.”
“That’s not the only option,” Poe says, pushing away from the wall. “Nikolai offered us another path.”
“A suicidal one,” Logan snaps.
“A chance to fight back,” Poe counters. “A chance to stop running.”
“What other option?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
All eyes turn to me, and I immediately regret speaking. I don’t want to be part of this conversation. Don’t want to be involved in whatever power struggle is playing out between Logan and his once-loyal shadow.
But it’s too late now.
“The rebellion,” Poe says, meeting my gaze directly. “Nikolai has connections. They’re looking for a figurehead, someone to rally behind. Someone with royal blood who isn’t the king or his puppet heir.”
“They want Logan,” I translate, understanding dawning. “They want him to challenge the throne directly.”
“They want to use him,” Logan corrects, speaking of himself in the third person with an ease that would be comical in any other circumstance. “They want an attack dog that they think is big and strong enough to win a challenge. They’re wrong.”
“Maybe,” Poe concedes. “Or maybe they genuinely want change. Maybe they’re tired of living under a king who executes people for imagined slights. Maybe they’re desperate enough to risk everything for a chance at something better.”
The passion in his voice surprises me. This isn’t the cold, watchful Poe I’ve come to know. This is someone else entirely—someone who believes in something beyond mere survival.
“And you think Logan is that ‘something better’?” I can’t keep the skepticism from my voice.
Logan’s eyes meet mine across the table, and for a moment, I glimpse something raw and vulnerable beneath his usual arrogance. It disappears so quickly I might have imagined it.
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Poe says. “What matters is that we have a choice. And Logan won’t even consider it.”
“Because it’s a death sentence,” Ares interjects, speaking for the first time since I entered. “The king might be old, but he’s still the most dangerous Alpha I’ve ever seen. In his prime, he used to tear challengers apart with his bare hands, and he still has the loyalty of the outer provinces.”
“If the king so much as suspects we’re plotting against him, we won’t survive long enough to gather support,” Logan adds, sounding weary. “He’ll hunt us down and execute us all as traitors.”
“We’re already being hunted,” Poe argues. “At least this way, we’d be fighting for something instead of just running away.”
“Fighting for what?” Logan demands. “What exactly would we be risking our lives for, Poe?”
“For a chance to change things,” Poe says, his voice dropping lower. “For a chance to build something better than what your father created.”
The words hang in the air, weighted with meaning I can only partially grasp. There’s history here, layers of context I’m not privy to. I glance at Cillian, hoping for some clue, but his face is carefully blank, revealing nothing.
“And what about what the rest of us want?” I ask, surprising myself again with my willingness to engage. “Or does only Logan’s opinion matter?”
Ares shifts uncomfortably. “Logan is our pack leader.”
“For now,” Poe says quietly.
The words land like a stone in still water, ripples of tension spreading outward. Logan goes very still, his golden eyes fixed on Poe with an intensity that would make most people flinch. Poe doesn’t. He meets Logan’s gaze steadily, a silent challenge in his posture.
I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the explosion. Waiting for Logan to assert his dominance, to use his Alpha voice, to put Poe in his place with the casual cruelty I’ve seen him employ before.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, Logan’s shoulders drop slightly, the rigid line of his spine softening. “You’re right,” he says, the words so unexpected I’m not sure I heard them correctly.
“What?” Poe looks as surprised as I feel.
“You’re right,” Logan repeats, louder this time. “This affects all of you. You should have a say in what happens next.”
I stare at him, trying to detect the trap, the manipulation beneath this sudden reasonableness. Logan doesn’t concede points. He doesn’t share power. This has to be some kind of strategy, some new approach to get what he wants.
Doesn’t it?
Beside me, Cillian shifts in his chair, a small sound of pain escaping him despite his obvious effort to contain it. The sound draws Logan’s attention, his gaze softening as it lands on his injured pack member.
“You shouldn’t be up,” Logan says, concern evident in his voice. “You need rest.”
“I’m fine,” Cillian replies, the lie obvious to everyone.
“You’re not,” I say before I can stop myself. “Your new stitches barely held through the night. You need to be careful.”
All eyes turn to me again, and I realize my mistake too late. I’ve revealed my knowledge of Cillian’s condition, my care for him, my presence in his room last night.
Logan’s expression shifts, something complicated passing across his features. Jealousy? Concern? Calculation? I can’t read him, can never quite tell what’s genuine and what’s performance.
“I’m well enough to be part of this discussion,” Cillian insists, drawing attention away from me. Whether it’s intentional or not, I’m grateful.
“Fine,” Logan concedes. “But I want everyone’s honest opinion. No holding back out of loyalty or fear or anything else. This decision affects all of us. We should make it together.”
I watch him carefully, trying to reconcile this reasonable, collaborative Logan with the man who forced a bond on me against my will. The man who justified his actions as necessary for my protection while ignoring my explicit refusal.
People don’t change that fundamentally, that quickly. There has to be an angle I’m missing.
“I think we should run,” Ares says, breaking the silence. “Fight another day, when we have better odds.”
“I think we should stay and join the resistance,” Poe counters immediately. “They need a leader and Logan is the only one who might gain the loyalty of the royal guard.”
“And start a civil war in the process,” Ares argues. “How many innocent people die in that scenario, Poe? How much blood on our hands?”