Chapter 14 Logan
Logan
I take a long sip of whiskey, letting the burn coat my throat. The amber liquid catches what little light filters through the curtains, glinting like trapped fire in the glass. Maya’s footsteps fade down the hallway, but her scent lingers.
I have to force myself not to chase after her.
“You can come out now, Poe,” I say as I sink back into my chair.
A shadow detaches itself from the corner of the room, Poe’s lean form slowly revealed as he steps fully into the light. His dark eyes reveal nothing as he moves to stand beside my chair
“How long were you there?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Long enough,” Poe replies, his voice carefully neutral. “Did you mean any of that?”
I swirl the remaining whiskey in my glass, watching the light play across its surface. The question is loaded, heavy with implications and judgment. Did I mean what I said to Maya? About following where she leads, even if it means throwing myself to the wolves?
About ceding control over her to this arrangement with Cillian?
The darkness inside me—the part I’ve spent a lifetime controlling, containing, denying—stirs at the question.
It’s never felt more dangerous than it does now, when I’m outwardly at my most calm.
The contrast is jarring, measured words coming from my mouth while something primal and possessive rages beneath my skin, demanding I claim what’s mine.
“Does it matter?” I ask instead of answering directly.
Poe’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel the shift in his posture—the subtle tensing that signals his growing impatience with my evasions.
“It matters to her,” he says finally. “It should matter to you.”
I drain the last of my whiskey, setting the empty glass on the side table with deliberate care.
“If you or Ares are still planning to challenge me for pack leadership,” I say, my voice deceptively soft, “I’d suggest waiting until Maya makes her decision. No sense in complicating things further. And I’d hate to kill men I might need.”
We both know what’s been building—the growing discontent and questioning of my leadership. The traditional way to resolve such conflicts is through combat, through the assertion of dominance that has governed pack dynamics since the beginning of our kind.
But we’re beyond tradition now, outside of the boundaries of society. There are no more rules now.
Poe scoffs. “You assume you’d win?”
I raise a mocking eyebrow. “I could have sworn you were the one insisting I challenge my father. If you thought you could enter best the king yourself, you’d have said so. It only follows that you know who would walk away from a direct challenge between us.”
The question isn’t whether I could kill Poe, but whether I would.
Poe studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “If Maya chooses to flee the city,” he says finally, “you won’t be going with us.”
I don’t let the effect of his words show on my face. “Is that so?”
“The king would never stop searching if he thought you were out there, potentially gathering support for a rebellion.” Poe’s voice is matter-of-fact, stripped of emotion. “You’re too valuable, too dangerous to leave unchecked. He’d hunt you to the ends of the earth—and all of us along with you.”
I lean back in my chair, feigning a casualness I don’t feel. “I’m well aware of that.”
“Is Maya?”
The question pierces deeper than I expected.
Does Maya understand what her choice really means?
That choosing to run would effectively separate us, perhaps permanently?
That the bond we share—forced and unwanted as it may be—would stretch across whatever distance lies between us, a constant reminder of what was taken and what was lost?
“She does if she’s as smart as I think she is,” I reply, keeping my voice steady.
But inwardly, I’m less certain. Not of Maya’s intelligence—she’s proven herself more than capable of strategic thinking—but of my own reaction should she choose to leave.
I meant what I said when I offered her the choice.
I want her to decide our next move, to have agency in a situation where I’ve denied her any.
But the Alpha in me, the possessive, primal part that recognized her as mine from the first moment I caught her scent, recoils at the thought of letting her walk away. I’m not absolutely sure that my inner Alpha will allow Maya to leave, even if I genuinely want to give her that choice.
It’s a contradiction I haven’t resolved, a battle between my better nature and the beast that lives beneath my skin.
“It’s interesting,” Poe says, breaking into my thoughts, “that the king hasn’t declared you a fugitive enemy of the state.
” He moves to stand by the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peer at the pre-dawn sky.
“You could still go back, tail sufficiently tucked between your legs, and return to your old life. The king would probably even let you choose a new Omega, if he thinks the old one is dead and buried. Or both Omegas, in this case.”
The suggestion sends a surge of rage through me, so powerful I have to grip the arms of my chair to keep from lashing out.
The thought of returning to court without Maya, of pretending she never existed, of taking another Omega in her place—it’s abhorrent on a level so visceral I can taste bile rising in my throat.
“A third Omega would be indulgent, even for me,” I reply, my voice dry despite the fury coursing through my veins.
Poe turns from the window, and I don’t miss the flash of hurt that crosses his features before his customary mask of indifference slides back into place. “Why didn’t you ever tell us about your bond with Cillian?”
It’s a question I’ve been expecting. I consider deflecting, changing the subject, maintaining the fiction that has served us all for so long. But I’m tired. Tired of secrets, tired of pretending, tired of the weight of unspoken truths that has bent our pack into something unrecognizable.
“Because Cillian begged me not to and I agreed,” I tell him.
It’s not a satisfying answer, not for Poe and certainly not for myself.
But it’s the truth. I’ve never fully understood my own reluctance to acknowledge what exists between Cillian and me—the bond that formed years ago, in circumstances neither of us chose.
Poe’s expression hardens, the hurt now unmistakable in his eyes. “If you were incapable of trusting your own pack mates,” he says, his voice tight with controlled emotion, “you should have made that clear from the beginning.”
“It wasn’t about trust.”
“What was it about, then?” Poe demands, taking a step closer. “What other possible reason could you have for hiding something so fundamental from the people who have followed you, protected you, bled for you?”
I stand, unable to remain seated under the weight of his accusation. “Acknowledging the situation would have made it something that needed to be dealt with,” I say, the words coming out harsher than intended. “And Cillian obviously didn’t want to be my Omega.”
Poe laughs, the sound sharp and condescending. “It would be more accurate to say that Cillian didn’t want to be a dirty secret.”
“He rejected me,” I say, hearing the defensiveness in my own voice and hating it.
“I always knew you were more brawn than brain,” Poe says, almost to himself, “but I didn’t know you were this stupid.
” He shakes his head, genuine disbelief in his expression.
“It’s been obvious to anyone with a functioning brainstem that Cillian has been in love with you for years.
Not wanting to warm your bed while you fuck harem betas or search for the Omega you can be seen in public with doesn’t change that. ”
I want to deny the words, to dismiss Poe’s assessment as projection or misunderstanding. But I can’t. Because beneath the anger and defensiveness, I know he’s right.
I’ve always known how Cillian feels. I’ve seen it in his eyes, felt it through our bond, recognized it in a thousand small gestures and unspoken moments.
I’ve known, and I’ve chosen to ignore it—to pretend it wasn’t there, to act as if our relationship was simpler, cleaner, less complicated than the messy reality.
Why?
The question echoes in my mind, demanding an answer I’m not sure I have.
Was it fear? Cowardice? The knowledge that acknowledging Cillian’s feelings would require confronting my own?
Or something deeper, more insidious—the recognition that as a royal Alpha, my path was predetermined, my choices limited by duty and expectation?
“It wouldn’t have worked,” I say finally, the words hollow even to my own ears. “An Alpha prince can’t take a male Omega as his mate. Not officially. Not publicly.”
“And once again an Omega pays for the price for your impulsive decision,” Poe says flatly.
The barb lands, but not quite the way he intends it to. “You’re right. I’m sure the both of them would be much better off without my influence. I should have left Cillian to Ander and Maya to whatever Alpha would have gotten to her next. I’m certainly a fate worse than death.”
We stare at each other, the air between us sparking with challenge.
“You made Maya a promise,” Poe bites out eventually. “I’m going to hold you to it.”
I raise my empty glass. “I’d expect nothing less.”
With a scoffing sound, he stalks away.
The sun is nearly fully risen, pale light seeping around the edges of the curtains.
Soon the safehouse will stir to life, and decisions will need to be made.
Maya will give her answer about our next move.
We’ll either prepare to flee or to fight.
And beneath those practical considerations, the more complex dynamics of our pack will continue to evolve, to shift, to find new equilibrium.
Or to break entirely.