Chapter 19
Maya
Metal rattles against metal as the delivery truck hits another pothole. My teeth clack together painfully, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. The taste of copper fills my mouth—blood. Perfect. Just what I need to calm my already frayed nerves.
Beside me, Cillian shifts, his shoulder pressing against mine as he braces himself against the truck’s violent lurching.
In the darkness of the cargo hold, I can barely make out his silhouette, but I feel the tension radiating from his body.
He’s on high alert, has been since we left the safehouse three hours ago.
“You okay?” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
I nod, then realize he probably can’t see the gesture in the near-total darkness. “Fine,” I murmur back. “Just wishing our smuggler friend knew how to avoid potholes.”
A soft huff of laughter escapes him, the sound so unexpected it momentarily distracts me from the fear churning in my gut.
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard Cillian laugh since we met.
The rarity of it makes me want to hoard the sound, tuck it away somewhere safe where I can revisit it when things inevitably go to hell again.
The truck lurches again, sending us sliding across the metal floor. Cillian’s arm shoots out, steadying me before I can crash into the wall. His touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, and I find myself leaning into it, seeking comfort in the solid warmth of him.
This wasn’t the plan. Not originally. Poe had insisted I go on my own, but no number of orgasms were going to get me to agree with that. He’d agreed to find another solution, but I hadn’t expected that solution to involve a still recovering Cillian accompanying me while the others followed later.
“It’s a compromise,” Poe had explained, his expression unreadable as always. “You won’t be alone, but we won’t be traveling in a conspicuous group either.”
I’d wanted to argue, to insist we all stay together, but the logic was sound.
As much as I hated to admit it, five people traveling together—especially with Logan’s distinctive golden eyes and Ares’s impossible-to-disguise bulk—would attract attention we couldn’t afford.
And with the king’s guards combing the city for us and the doctor’s associates potentially still hunting me, attention was the last thing we needed.
So here we are, bouncing around in the back of a delivery truck driven by some smuggler contact of Nikolai’s, headed for the summer palace where the Queen Mother supposedly waits to offer sanctuary.
Just Cillian and me, while the others plan to follow in two days’ time, taking separate routes to avoid detection.
It feels wrong, being separated from the pack.
The bond—unwanted as it is—pulls at me, a constant awareness of distance growing between us and the others.
It’s not painful, exactly, but uncomfortable, like an itch I can’t quite reach.
I wonder if Cillian feels it too, this strange emptiness where the pack connection should be strongest.
The truck suddenly slows, the change in momentum sending me sliding forward. Cillian catches me again, his hand firm on my upper arm.
“We’re stopping,” he whispers, his voice tight with tension.
Fear spikes through me, sharp and immediate. We’re not supposed to stop. Not until we reach the rendezvous point where another resistant contact will meet us with a more discreet vehicle. Any deviation from the plan means danger.
“Maybe he’s just—“ I start, but Cillian’s hand covers my mouth, cutting off my words.
His body goes completely still beside me, head tilted slightly as he listens. I strain my ears too, catching the muffled sound of voices from outside the truck. Male voices, authoritative and sharp.
Guardians.
My heart pounds so violently I’m sure Cillian can hear it, even without his enhanced Alpha senses. His hand remains over my mouth, gentle but firm, a silent command to stay quiet. I nod against his palm, and he slowly withdraws, his fingers trailing across my cheek in what might be reassurance.
The voices grow louder as they approach the back of the truck. I can make out words now, fragments of conversation that confirm my worst fears.
“Identification and transit card.“
A sound of agreement from the driver. “All my papers are in order—“
“Then hand them over.”
Checkpoint. Of course. The king has tightened security throughout the city since our escape, establishing checkpoints on all major roads leading out of the capital.
We’d known this, had planned our route specifically to avoid them.
Either our information was wrong, or the smuggler took a different path than agreed upon.
Either way, we’re fucked.
Cillian shifts beside me, his movements silent and precise as he reaches for something in his boot.
The gleam of metal catches what little light filters through the cracks in the truck’s paneling—a knife.
Small but lethal-looking, the kind of weapon that’s meant for close combat. For killing quickly, quietly.
The realization of what he’s preparing to do hits me with sickening clarity.
If those guards open the back of this truck and find us, Cillian intends to fight.
To kill if necessary. The thought should horrify me, but all I feel is a cold, practical acceptance.
Better them than us. Better their blood than ours.
When did I become this person? The question flits through my mind, distant and abstract, as if asked by someone else entirely.
The Maya from the Enclave—the one who recited political theory and dreamed of changing the world through diplomacy—would be appalled at what I’ve become. At what I’m willing to accept.
But that Maya died on a medical table, strapped to a table while a sadistic doctor carved her open in the name of science. This new Maya, forged in pain and desperation, understands that survival sometimes requires blood.
The truck door creaks open—not the back where we hide, but the driver’s side. I hear the smuggler’s voice, pitched low and casual, talking to the guards. He sounds relaxed, confident. Either he’s an excellent actor, or he has no idea what kind of cargo he’s really carrying.
Cillian’s hand finds mine in the darkness, his fingers intertwining with mine. The gesture surprises me—it’s too intimate, too vulnerable for the cold-eyed Beta who keeps everyone at arm’s length. But I don’t pull away. Instead, I squeeze back, drawing strength from the contact.
“If they open the back,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear, “stay behind me. No matter what happens, no matter what you see or hear, stay behind me.”
I want to protest, to insist that I can fight too—haven’t I proven that already? But I know he’s right. In close quarters, against trained guards, I’d be more liability than asset. My fighting skills are born of desperation and survival instinct, not the years of training Cillian has undergone.
So I nod, swallowing my pride. “Okay.”
Footsteps crunch on gravel, circling the truck. My breath catches in my throat as they pause at the back doors. Cillian tenses beside me, his body coiling like a spring ready to release. I can practically feel the shift in him—from man to weapon, from companion to killer.
“What are you carrying?” a voice demands, muffled by the metal between us but clear enough to understand.
“Medical supplies,” our driver answers promptly. “For the new clinic in Westhollow.”
My blood runs cold at the mention of a clinic. One of the fertility clinics Logan told us about? The ones implementing the doctor’s research? The coincidence seems too great, but before I can process the implications, the guard speaks again.
“Let’s see your manifest.”
Papers rustle. Silence stretches, taut with tension. I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable order to open the back and inspect the cargo. For the violence that will follow.
But it doesn’t come.
“Everything looks in order,” the guard says finally. “You can proceed.”
Relief floods through me so intensely I nearly gasp aloud. Cillian’s hand tightens around mine in warning—we’re not clear yet. The truck’s engine rumbles back to life, and slowly, agonizingly, we begin to move again.
Neither of us relaxes until the sounds of the checkpoint fade into the distance. Only then does Cillian release my hand, the knife disappearing back into his boot with the same silent efficiency with which it appeared.
“That was too close,” I whisper, my voice shaky despite my best efforts to control it.
Cillian doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice carries an edge I’ve rarely heard from him. “The driver is taking a different route than he’s supposed to.”
The words confirm my earlier suspicion, and a chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold metal floor beneath us. “You think he’s betraying us?”
“I think,” Cillian says carefully, “that we need to be prepared for that possibility.”
The implication hangs between us, heavy with potential violence. If the smuggler has betrayed us—if he’s leading us not to the Queen Mother’s sanctuary but into a trap—then we’re already as good as captured. Or worse.
“What do we do?” I ask, hating the tremor in my voice but unable to suppress it entirely.
Cillian shifts closer, his arm pressing against mine in what I choose to interpret as reassurance. “We wait. We watch. And if necessary, we fight.”
Simple words. Practical words. The kind of straightforward assessment I’ve come to expect from him.
But they don’t answer the question burning in my mind: why?
Why would the smuggler betray us? For money?
Out of loyalty to the king? Or is there something else at play, something we haven’t considered?
The truck continues its journey, each bump and turn increasing my anxiety rather than alleviating it. Are we heading toward safety, or straight into the hands of our enemies? Is the driver a reluctant ally or a willing betrayer? The uncertainty gnaws at me, worse than any concrete danger.
Time stretches, elastic and unreliable in the darkness of the cargo hold. It could be minutes or hours later when the truck finally begins to slow again. This time, the deceleration is gradual, controlled—not the sudden stop of a checkpoint, but the careful approach to a destination.
Cillian’s fingers clench on his knife. I tense beside him, preparing for whatever comes next. If it’s a trap, we won’t go down without a fight. I may not have Cillian’s training or strength, but I have rage and desperation—powerful weapons in their own right.
The truck stops completely. The engine cuts off, leaving us in silence broken only by our careful breathing. Footsteps approach the back of the truck, and I brace myself for the doors to swing open, for light to flood our hiding place, for the violence that will inevitably follow.
The lock clicks. The doors creak open. Daylight, harsh and blinding after hours in darkness, pours into the cargo hold.
I squint against the sudden brightness, trying to make out the figure silhouetted against the light. Tall, lean, dressed in nondescript clothing that could belong to anyone from a laborer to a merchant. Not the uniform of the king’s guard, at least. Small mercies.
“You can come out,” the figure says, his voice low and neutral. “We’ve arrived.”
Cillian doesn’t move, his body still positioned protectively in front of mine, the knife hidden but ready in his hand. “Arrived where, exactly?” he asks, his tone carrying a warning even as the question seems innocent enough.
The man steps back, giving us a clearer view of our surroundings.
We’re in some kind of courtyard, surrounded by high stone walls covered in climbing vines.
Not the summer palace—at least, not what I imagined a palace would look like.
This place is smaller, more modest. A manor house, perhaps, or a country estate.
“A safe way station,” the man replies, sounding slightly confused. “Where else?”
Cillian remains tense, unconvinced. “This isn’t the rendezvous point we agreed upon.”
The man’s expression shifts, understanding dawning. “Ah. The plans changed. Too risky to take go through the city center right now. You need to wait until dark to move again. A new driver will be here in a few hours.”
It sounds reasonable enough, but I can feel Cillian’s continued suspicion radiating from him in waves. The change in plans, the unexpected checkpoint, the deviation from our route—too many variables, too many opportunities for betrayal.
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” I ask, finding my voice at last.
The man sighs, looking slightly annoyed. “You don’t, I suppose. So either come out and see for yourselves, or stay out here until you starve. Your choice.”
The blunt response startles a laugh out of me, the sound surprising even myself. There’s something refreshingly direct about his irritation, something that feels more genuine than smooth reassurances would have.
Cillian glances at me, a silent question in his pale eyes. I nod slightly—a leap of faith, perhaps, but we can’t stay in this truck forever.
And if this is a trap, we have no choice but to step right into it.