Epilogue
Rhett
The cameras will go blind for exactly four minutes. Long enough.
Zeb doesn’t say a word as he escorts me down the concrete corridor. But my palms sweat and my chest feels like it’s in a vise. I’m back at a government facility, this time without Larissa. Being away from her hurts, but this… this I need to do.
We stop at the reinforced door. One swipe of Zeb’s clearance card, and the lock releases with a metallic sigh.
Inside, Hammond Cohen sits slumped on a cot. Shackled, bruised, stripped of arrogance, or so it would seem until his eyes lift to meet mine and I see the hatred that still burns there.
“You,” he croaks. His gaze swings past me, but Zeb has already blended into the shadows, doing what he does best.
The bond with Larissa showed me how to proceed from here. I watched her pluck memories and project them in the tunnels. Now it’s my turn.
I seek out the festering roots of his demise, his demons, the endless hunger, the thwarted ambition, and the gnawing terror that he is and always will be less.
Then I slam it back into him. Images bombard his mind: ten years of failures, every sneer, every dismissal from the Uncorrupted, and all the betrayals.
Finally, the omega, my omega, that he lost.
His screams echo against the walls as I flood him with his own reckoning until he collapses, babbling gibberish.
I blink. My chest is heaving.
He’s rocking on the cot, drooling, eyes vacant.
“Messy,” Zeb mutters behind me, a distinct air of satisfaction coupled with amusement. “Effective, though.”
I steady my breathing, wipe the sweat from my brow. My chest still feels too tight, the walls too close. Leaving Larissa and the safety of my home was a monumental challenge.
It was worth it.
Zeb’s eyes meet mine. He smirks and lifts his chin in indication.
I step out. The door sighs shut, cutting off the ranting madman.
We walk together back along the corridor and into the underground parking garage where a blacked-out van is waiting for me.
It takes me home to my mate.
Zeb
Down time. It doesn’t come along often, so I’m making the most of it: beach bar, sunset on the horizon, and a cold beer in my hand.
I’m back in my regular form, that is, I pass for a large beta.
It’s the best form for blending. No one pays attention to betas.
They’re the least fucked-up dynamic caste and are quintessentially nice.
My folks own a beach house here… Well, technically, it’s a hotel chain in Chimera’s most prestigious holiday resort, but, whatever. They don’t exactly approve of my career choice and have always hoped I’ll get into politics instead.
Not a chance. Being a zeta and all that entails is enough to fuck with anyone’s mind. A political career would screw me up completely.
Besides, I’m good at what I do. Black operations are a rush like no other, and that shit is addictive.
And I need that.
Because the rest of my life is a flat line.
Rich kid? Check.
Given everything by wealthy parents who doted on me? Check.
Needed something to break the monotony of my endless party life? Check.
A dynamic anomaly that can change forms? Also check.
Yeah, that last one is the clincher.
I take a sip of my beer and return the smile of the pretty brunette who has been trying to catch my eye.
It is my vacation… And why not? Cohen is in custody. Broken. I just hope the information that scraped from his sick mind can help in the war.
Not holding my breath, though.
Does that make me cynical? Jaded?
Probably. That’s what happens when you spend too long playing on the dark side of military operations. You get to see how they bend the rules.
They, as in the ruling elite.
They, as in the heavy hitters like Woodrow Brock, who still runs the black ops.
My parents are wealthy, but the ruling elite, the alphas who make the policies and decisions that affect the entire Empire and all the planets and people within, that’s on a whole other level.
Maybe I could get into politics for that.
My communicator beeps. I think about ignoring it. But I make the mistake of glancing down.
Woodrow. Really? Right now? Can I not catch a break?
I put my beer down and lift it to my ear. “I’m on vacation, asshole.”
“There was a time when you called me sir,” he says dryly.
“That time was last week, when I was on an operation,” I deadpan.
He chuckles. Bastard.
“You have a meeting with Governor Brach in two days. I’ll send the details through.”
“Great,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my tone.
“You don’t fool me, Thorne. You hate vacations. Something tells me you will find your next excursion to your liking.”
Suddenly, I’m all fucking ears. “Is this one going to be off the books?”
“Yes.”
“You going to tell me anymore?”
“Fracturous,” he says. “I’ve heard the weather is fabulous at this time of year.”
He hangs up. Of course he does.
Only, my interest is piqued, and he knows it.
Fracturous is a planet on the edges of the Empire’s jurisdiction.
The kind of place where people go to disappear…
or to make other people disappear. Sprawling cities, all rust and concrete.
Hardy miners, thugs, deadbeats, and transient schemers who prefer to operate off the government’s radar. People there don’t ask questions.
It’s a hellhole.
I would know, I’ve been there before.
Now, Governor Brach wants me to go there for an ‘off-the-books’ operation.
Hell-fucking-yeah.
Thank you for reading Forbidden Bonds!