Chapter 12 Maya
Maya
After dinner, I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling of my bedroom, counting the water stains that bloom like strange flowers across the plaster.
A soft knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts. I sit up, smoothing my borrowed t-shirt over my knees.
“Who is it?” I call, genuinely curious which one of them worked up the nerve to come to me first.
I’ve been waiting for this—for them to come, one by one, to try to sway my decision. The only question was which of them would be first.
“It’s Poe,” comes the reply, his voice muffled through the wood.
Interesting.
“Where’s Ares?” I ask, moving toward the door. “I thought he was on guard duty.”
“Checking the perimeter,” Poe replies, a hint of smugness in his tone. “He’s so focused on keeping Logan away from you that he forgot how easy it is for me to slip around unnoticed.”
I pause with my hand on the doorknob, weighing my options. I could refuse to let him in, maintain the solitude I’ve used as both shield and weapon these past days. But curiosity wins out, as it so often does with me.
I open the door to find Poe leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looks both exhausted and determined.
But it’s the note of sadness on his face that has me silently back up far enough to let him in.
He moves into the room with that liquid grace that always makes me think of predators—silent, efficient, dangerous. I close the door behind him, more from habit than any real desire for privacy. The walls and doors of the house are thin enough to provide only the illusion of privacy.
I sit on the edge of the bed, crossing my arms over my chest in a mirror of his earlier posture. A defensive stance, I realize too late. I force my shoulders to relax, my hands to unclench.
“Make your case,” I say, lifting my chin slightly. “I’m listening.”
Poe’s expression flickers with something that might be annoyance before settling into a brief smile. “I like this version of you,” he says, surprising me. “The one who’s not afraid to speak her mind.”
I meet his searching gaze. “I don’t think she’s going anywhere at this point.”
“Good.” He studies me for a long moment, his head tilted slightly as if seeing me clearly for the first time.
“That’s why I know the worst thing you can do is run from this.
The king will never let you quietly disappear.
Even if it takes months or years, you’ll always have to live with one eye looking back over your shoulder. ”
“So it’s better to let the king kill us all now?” I ask dryly.
“There’s a huge difference in dying slowly versus quickly,” Poe replies, his expression deadly serious.
“Why are you trying so hard to convince me?” I ask, genuine curiosity in my voice. “You can’t really think Logan is going to leave the decision to me.”
Poe’s mouth twists in a grimace. “After everything that’s happened, we all deserve to have a voice. Logan damn well better appreciate that.”
I watch him carefully, weighing his words against his tone, his expression, the subtle tells in his body language.
He’s not lying—at least, not entirely. But he’s not telling me everything either.
There’s something deeper here, something personal that’s driving this unexpected rebellion against Logan’s authority.
“Where is this coming from, Poe?” I ask, leaning forward slightly. “This animus against Logan. What’s really going on?”
His eyes narrow. “You think what he let happen to you isn’t enough of a reason?”
“That would be flattering if it were true,” I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “But we both know it isn’t. This isn’t just about me.”
Poe holds my gaze for a long moment, then sighs, a sound so human it startles me.
“I’ve realized that I don’t believe Logan is capable of putting his allegiance to our pack over a lifetime of following his father’s every will.
Allowing you to come to serious harm is proof of that. I just don’t trust him anymore.”
I tilt my head, studying him more intently. “And what if I decide we should run? Will you follow us?”
The question seems to catch him off guard. “Does that mean you’re asking me to? You’ve decided?”
“Not yet,” I reply carefully, the words feeling significant as they leave my lips. “But I’d like to have some idea what would happen if it came to that.”
Silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken possibilities. Poe’s gaze never leaves mine, searching for something—sincerity, perhaps, or manipulation. I keep my expression open, honest. This isn’t a game I’m playing; it’s survival I’m planning.
“I have never felt fear in the way I did when I realized you had been taken,” he says finally, each word deliberate and weighted.
“Logan has never turned away from the king, no matter how much blood it has left on Logan’s hands.
I don’t truly believe he would allow his own Omega to become a sacrifice, but I can’t be sure.
Especially not after what happened to the queen. ”
“The queen?” I repeat, confusion evident in my voice. “What are you talking about?”
Poe’s expression closes slightly, the habitual mask of indifference sliding back into place. Even now, even in this moment of apparent honesty, his loyalty to Logan runs deep. The conflict plays out across his features—the desire to sway me battling with years of ingrained secrecy.
“Poe,” I press, sensing this is important. “What happened to Queen Midale?”
He sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. “The Omega women of court would always gossip around me,” he says finally, voice low. “As if I were a piece of furniture, not a person who could hear and understand. One of their more popular theories is that the king had Queen Midale killed.”
I stare at him, shock rippling through me. “Killed? But why? The love story between the king and queen is practically a legend.”
Everyone knows the tale—how King Leopold, the fierce conqueror who united the warring city-states, fell so deeply in love with the Omega daughter of a minor noble that he forsook all others, breaking with tradition by taking only one mate instead of the customary harem.
Their devotion to each other was the stuff of ballads and epic poems.
“Queen Midale had begun to disagree with aspects of the king’s rule,” Poe continues, each word careful, measured. “She gathered her own independent base of supporters, mostly among the Omega nobility. She was becoming... a threat. One the king could not allow, even for love.”
The implications sink in slowly, each one more disturbing than the last. If the king could murder his beloved queen, his true mate, for political expedience... what else might he be capable of? What other atrocities has he committed in the name of maintaining power?
And more immediately concerning—what might Logan be capable of, following in his father’s footsteps?
“Do you believe it?” I ask, searching Poe’s face for any hint of deception. “That the king murdered his own mate?”
Poe’s expression remains carefully neutral, but something flickers in his eyes—knowledge, perhaps. Or memory. “I believe power corrupts,” he says finally. “And that love, no matter how genuine, is rarely enough to overcome that kind of ambition.”
I think of Logan, of the bond he forced upon me, of his insistence that it was for my protection. Was it? Or was it about possession, about control, about having what he wanted regardless of the cost?
“And you think staying to fight is the answer?” I ask, trying to understand his position fully. “You think challenging the king directly will somehow protect us from becoming like him?”
“I think running only delays the inevitable,” Poe replies, his voice steady. “The king’s reach is long, and his memory longer. He won’t forget this perceived betrayal, and neither will those who serve him.”
“Like the doctor,” I murmur, a chill running down my spine at the mere thought of him.
“Like the doctor,” Poe agrees, his expression darkening. “And anyone else committed to keeping this world the way it is.”
I stand, suddenly needing to move, to think, to process all that Poe has revealed.
The room feels too small, the walls closing in with each new revelation.
I pace to the window, staring out at the overgrown garden behind the safehouse.
Weeds choke what might once have been flower beds, nature reclaiming what humans abandoned.
Much like my life now—wild and uncontrolled where once there had been structure, however confining.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” I say finally, not turning to face him. “But I still need time.”
“Of course,” Poe says, and I hear him move toward the door. “Just remember, Maya—time is the one thing we may not have much of.”
I turn then, catching his gaze one last time. “One more question,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can reconsider. “If I choose to stay and fight—if I support Logan’s claim to the throne—what happens to me? What role do I play in this revolution of yours?”
Poe pauses, his hand on the doorknob. “That would depend on you,” he says after a moment. “On what role you want to play.”
“And if I want no role at all?” I challenge. “If I want to be left alone, to live my life as I choose?”
A sad smile touches his lips, there and gone in an instant. “Then you chose the wrong prince to be bound to,” he says softly. “Logan was born for the throne, whether he admits it or not. And those connected to him will always be drawn into its orbit.”
With that, he slips out the door, leaving me alone with thoughts that swirl like storm clouds, dark and threatening. I return to the bed, sinking down onto its edge as I try to make sense of everything I’ve learned.
The queen, possibly murdered by her own mate. The king, willing to sacrifice love for power. Logan, following in his father’s footsteps whether he intends to or not. And me, caught in the middle of a political struggle I never asked to be part of.