Chapter 36
Ares
Steam billows around me as I push open the heavy wooden door of the royal sauna.
The heat hits like a physical force, wrapping around my skin and immediately drawing sweat to the surface.
I squint through the haze, making out Logan’s silhouette on one of the cedar benches. He’s alone—exactly as I’d hoped.
“Hiding from your adoring subjects?” I ask, letting the door swing shut behind me.
Logan doesn’t startle. Even with his eyes closed, he would have caught my scent before I entered. “If I wanted company, I wouldn’t be in a room hot enough to melt steel,” he replies, not bothering to open his eyes.
I cross to the stone basin in the corner, ladling water over the heated rocks. The resulting hiss of steam fills the silence between us as I settle on the bench opposite him, the wood creaking beneath my weight.
“And yet here I am,” I say, leaning back against the wall. The cedar is smooth against my bare shoulders, polished by generations of royal backsides seeking refuge from court politics in scalding heat.
Logan sighs, finally opening his golden eyes to fix me with a resigned stare. “Here you are. With that look on your face that says you’re about to bring up something I don’t want to discuss.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. He knows me too well, this man I’ve followed through war and rebellion and the bloody aftermath of both. “Am I that predictable?”
“Only to those of us who’ve survived you for more than a decade.” He reaches for a nearby pitcher, pouring water into a wooden cup. “What is it this time? Another border dispute? More nobles complaining about the reforms? Or has someone else tried to kill me that I don’t know about?”
The casual way he references assassination attempts should bother me more than it does.
But that’s our reality now—Logan sits on a throne still warm from his father’s body, implementing changes that threaten the power structure that’s existed for generations.
Of course they want him dead. It’s my job to make sure they fail.
“Nothing so dramatic,” I assure him, watching as he takes a long drink. “Just a matter that needs your attention before it becomes a problem.”
Logan lowers his cup, eyebrow raised. “You’re being unusually diplomatic. Now I’m worried.”
I consider how to broach the subject, then decide that directness has always served me best with Logan. “You need to consider getting Maya pregnant.”
The cup freezes halfway to his mouth. For a moment, I think he might drop it. Then he carefully sets it aside, his expression unreadable.
“That’s not what I was expecting,” he says finally.
“My apologies.”
Logan leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, studying me with those unsettling golden eyes. “And why, exactly, do I need to consider this? Has Maya expressed a desire for children that I’m unaware of?”
“No,” I admit. “But that’s not the point.”
“Then perhaps you could enlighten me as to what the point is?” His tone remains casual, but there’s an edge to it now—a warning I choose to ignore.
“You’re king,” I say simply. “Kings need heirs. Especially kings who’ve claimed the throne through challenge rather than succession.”
Logan’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “I’m aware of how succession works, thank you.”
“Are you?” I press, feeling the familiar rush that comes with pushing him. “Because it’s been months since you took the throne, and there’s been no announcement, no preparations. The court is starting to talk.”
“The court always talks,” Logan dismisses with a wave of his hand. “It’s what they do best, besides plotting and backstabbing.”
“This is different,” I insist. “Your position is still precarious. The old king’s supporters are watching for any sign of weakness, any reason to challenge your right to rule. An heir would cement your claim, show that the Corellian line continues through you.”
Logan leans back, his expression thoughtful. “You’ve been spending too much time with the Queen Mother. This sounds exactly like something she would say.”
I can’t deny it. Eleanora Corellian has been surprisingly supportive of her son’s killer, offering counsel that has proven invaluable in navigating the treacherous waters of court politics. But this particular concern is mine alone.
“The Queen Mother has mentioned it,” I tell him. “But his is coming from me, as your royal advisor and your friend.”
“My friend,” Logan repeats, a small smile playing at his lips. “Is that what we’re calling it these days?”
I ignore the deflection. “The nobles respect strength and continuity. An heir gives them both. It shows them you’re looking toward the future, building something that will outlast you.”
Logan studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable through the steam. Then he shrugs, reaching for his cup again. “It’s not up to me,” he says casually, as if we’re discussing the weather rather than the future of the kingdom.
I blink, caught off guard by the response. “What do you mean, it’s not up to you? You’re the king. And Maya’s primary bond is with—“
“Cillian,” Logan finishes for me, taking another sip of water. “Maya’s primary bond is with Cillian, not me.”
The statement lands like a physical blow, momentarily stealing my ability to respond. I stare at him, trying to process what he’s just said. “Since when?”
Logan sets his cup aside again, looking almost amused at my confusion. “Since always, I thought. Surely you’ve noticed.”
“I’ve noticed they’re close,” I concede, thinking of the way Maya and Cillian gravitate toward each other. “But you were the first Alpha to bond her.“
“That doesn’t appear to matter.” Logan drawls, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the sweating wall.
I shake my head, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. “But you’re an Alpha. She’s an Omega. The biological imperative—“
“Isn’t everything,” Logan interrupts. “I’ve made my peace with that. I suggest you do the same.”
I sit back, genuinely speechless. The Logan I knew would never have said those words, would never have accepted sharing what he considered his by right. The change in him is more profound than I realized.
“Besides,” he continues, a hint of his old arrogance returning, “I have plenty of nieces and nephews to choose an heir from if it comes to that. The Corellian bloodline is in no danger of dying out.”
“That’s surprisingly practical of you,” I manage, still trying to reconcile this new Logan with the man I’ve followed for years.
He laughs, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. “Don’t sound so shocked. I’m capable of growth, you know.”
“Evidently.” I study him through the steam, seeing him with new eyes. “So you’re really not concerned about Maya bearing your child? About continuing your direct line?”
“I’m concerned with Maya being happy,” Logan says simply.
“With her having the freedom to choose her own path. If that path includes children—mine or anyone else’s—I’ll support her decision.
But I won’t pressure her, and I won’t use her body as a political tool.
” His eyes harden slightly. “And neither will anyone else, if they value their continued existence.”
The threat is subtle but unmistakable. King or not, Logan remains the most dangerous Alpha I’ve ever known. And while his priorities may have shifted, his capacity for violence in defense of what he cares about has not diminished in the slightest.
“Fair enough,” I concede, raising my hands in mock surrender. “Consider the subject dropped.”
Logan nods, seemingly satisfied. “Good. Now, was there anything else, or did you just come in here for the pleasure of my company while boiling alive?”
I hesitate, debating whether to push further.
There are other matters that need his attention—border disputes that threaten to escalate, nobles still resistant to his reforms, the ongoing process of dismantling his father’s fertility clinics.
But those can wait. For now, I’m content to sit in companionable silence with this new version of Logan, this king who has learned that true strength sometimes lies in letting go.
“Just the pleasure of your company,” I say finally, settling back against the wall. “Though I might regret it when my skin melts off.”
Logan laughs again, the sound freer than I’ve heard in months. “Weak,” he teases. “I thought you were supposed to be tough.”
“Tough, yes. Suicidal, no.” I reach for the water pitcher, pouring myself a cup. “Some of us still have self-preservation instincts.”
“Overrated,” Logan dismisses, but there’s no heat in it. Just the easy banter of old friends who’ve seen each other at their worst and survived to tell the tale.
We lapse into comfortable silence, the hiss of steam and the occasional drip of water the only sounds in the small room.
I close my eyes, letting the heat work its way into muscles perpetually tense from the constant vigilance my position requires.
For this brief moment, there are no threats to assess, no dangers to anticipate.
Just peace, and the knowledge that the man I've followed through hell and back has finally found his way to something resembling wisdom.
It won't last, of course. Nothing does in the volatile world of court politics. But for now, it's enough.