27. Rook
The neon glow of The Bellanova’s sign flickers in a lazy rhythm, painting the night with its sleazy promise. Inside, it’s all clinking glasses and low murmurs, the scent of cheap perfume mingling with the lingering trace of spilled whiskey.
I’m hunched over my laptop at the far corner of the bar, where the shadows are thickest, nursing a glass of something strong enough to scorch away my worries for a minute or two.
Aisling’s heat—it’s like a damn siren call that sent half the crew scattering, chasing after that impossible high. Me? I’m stuck here trying not to think about her curled up in some spa, body lit up like a Christmas tree, while my mind races through all our screwed-up plans.
We were supposed to be talking to Inari, squaring things with Gunnar and Nero, hunting down that damned lab in the Mojave.
Instead, here I am, playing detective in this den of sin, trying to piece together where everything went to hell.
“Another?” The bartender raises an eyebrow as he points at my empty glass.
“Hit me,” I grunt, tapping keys in a futile attempt to track the Mojave lab we supposedly came here to shut down. I’m scrolling through pages of encrypted messages, burner phone records, anything that might give up the location.
So far, it’s a bust.
They’ve covered their tracks like pros.
“Here.” The bartender slides another drink toward me, the liquid dark and promising oblivion.
“Thanks.” I nod, taking a sip that burns all the way down. It’s going to be a long night.
“Trouble?” he asks, leaning in close enough for me to catch a whiff of cigarettes on his breath.
“Something like that,” I reply, eyes still glued to the screen.
“Good luck with that.” He smirks before moving down the bar to flirt with a couple of omegas who look young enough to be fresh out of high school.
“Damn right I’ll need it,” I mutter under my breath.
I can feel the weight of Aisling’s absence, heavy on my chest, even as I try to push away thoughts of her lost in the throes of heat. I won’t be one of those bastards who sees her as nothing more than flesh and pheromones.
She’s more, damn it. She’s always been more.
Closing the laptop with a sigh that seems to carry all my frustrations, I push away from the bar. The wood creaks under my hands, the noise lost in the din of the crowd.
If I’m not going down to the heat spa, I may as well find my only other ally here.
Vance Solace.
The Archangel himself.
The hallways of The Bellanova are all polished brass and dark carpets, the kind of place where secrets are currency and the walls have ears. I keep my steps light, my eyes sharp. You never know what you might walk into in these parts.
I come up on Vance’s door, the Presidential Suite, fancy brass title gleaming in the dim light. There’s a heaviness in my chest, a mix of anger and something else—curiosity maybe, or concern. Vance isn’t just an alpha; he’s a kingpin. His silence could mean anything.
“Alright, let’s do this,” I mutter to myself, raising my fist to knock on the door.
“Who is it?” Vance’s voice is muffled by the thick wood between us.
“Rook. We need to talk.”
“Give me a sec,” comes the reply, and I can hear the shuffling of feet, the low murmur of conversation.
“Sure, take your time. Not like we got a city to save or anything.” The sarcasm drips off my tongue as I wait, patience thinning.
The lock clicks, and the door swings open to reveal Vance. His bright blue eyes are hard to read, but there’s a tension in his jaw that wasn’t there before. Another man, an alpha, brushes past me and down the hall—whoever Vance was meeting with, I guess.
“Come in,” Vance says, stepping aside but not before I catch a better glimpse of the other guy. He’s just a silhouette passing through, but his posture, the cut of his suit—it rings a bell somewhere in the depths of my memory.
“Thanks.” I step inside, scanning the opulent suite with a mix of distaste and envy. The place reeks of money and power, two things that Vance has never been short of.
“Who was that?” I ask casually as Vance closes the door behind me, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Business,” he replies tersely, walking over to the bar set against the far wall. “You want something to drink?”
“Nah, I’m good.” My eyes still follow the direction the other man went. I can’t shake it—the nagging feeling that I should know who he is. It’s like trying to remember a dream upon waking, everything slipping away the moment you try to grab hold.
“Sure?” Vance pours himself a whiskey, neat, and takes a slow sip, watching me over the rim of his glass.
“Positive.”
“Alright then.” Vance sets down his glass and leans back against the counter, mirroring my stance. His gaze is sharp, observant, always looking for an angle. “How you holding up, Rook?”
“Okay, I guess.” I shrug one shoulder, my gaze drifting. “Just confused why we’re even here. Thought the plan was to figure out things with Gunnar and Nero, track down that lab in the Mojave. Feels like we’re spinning our wheels.”
Vance nods, understanding flashing in his bright blue eyes. “There’s still time,” he says confidently. “We’ve only been here for a couple days. Things move fast, but not that fast.”
“Right, ’cause nothing screams urgency like lounging around in luxury,” I mutter under my breath, but I know he hears it.
“Is this about Aisling?” Vance asks, tilting his head slightly. “You wishing you were down at the heat spa with the rest of them?”
I stiffen at the mention of her name, clenching and unclenching my fists. It’s not just about Aisling, it’s about everything—the chaos, the lack of direction, the way our group seems to be fraying at the edges. But I keep my face neutral as I meet Vance’s probing gaze.
“Invited, but I opted out,” I say, a rough edge to my voice. My jaw tightens as the image of Aisling—vulnerable and at the mercy of her biology—flits across my mind. “I don’t want to treat her like she’s just…”
“…a sex doll?” Vance finishes for me, his tone casual but his eyes keenly watching my reaction.
“Ever the romantic, aren’t you?” I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, a mix of anger and something else. Something protective.
“I didn’t know you two were a thing,” he mutters. “She’s collecting my men like trading cards. Starting to get on my nerves.”
“She’s not just collecting us,” I shoot back. “This thing with her—it’s intense, real—“
“Of course it is,” Vance agrees with a nonchalant nod, but there’s a shadow of something akin to longing flickering in his gaze before he schools it back to indifference. “But let’s be real here, Rook. She’s in heat. And that changes the game.”
I shake my head, unable to fully articulate the tumult of emotions inside me. Instead, I steer the conversation back to what’s bugging me. “What’s your deal with Aisling, anyway?” I ask, my voice low and probing. “You’ve got this whole kingpin thing going on. Why are you so hung up on her?”
Vance considers my question for a moment, tracing the rim of his glass with one finger. Then, with a half-shrug that doesn’t match the intensity in his eyes, he says, “Aisling will be mine eventually. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Is that so?” The words come out more bitterly than I intend, tasting like ash in my mouth.
“Rook…” His tone softens, almost sympathetic. “Some things are inevitable. Like gravity. You can fight it all you want, but in the end, what falls must land.”
“Maybe,” I reply, unconvinced. “But last I checked, we make our own fate. And Aisling…she’s no one’s to claim.”
Vance’s lips twitch into a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll see about that.”
“And how do you think Gunnar would feel?” I asked. “Don’t think he would be too thrilled about you laying claim to Aisling.”
Vance’s smirk fades as he leans back in his chair, a calculating look crossing his features. “Gunnar is taking himself out of the picture,” he says coolly, as if discussing the weather. “He’s making choices that’ll lead him down that path whether he likes it or not.”
I snort at that, unable to contain my disbelief. “You sure about that? ‘Cause last time I checked, Gunnar was down in the heat spa with her right now. Seems to me like he’s pretty damn involved.” My words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication.
For a moment, Vance’s mask slips, revealing a glint of something dangerous in those bright blue eyes before he regains control. He doesn’t respond immediately, and I wonder if I’ve struck a nerve.
Vance’s jaw clenches, and he straightens up, the calm demeanor slipping for a split second. “Even after Gunnar and Nero pulled that stunt on the skyway? After everything—“
“Wasn’t them,” I cut in, leaning against the doorjamb with my arms crossed. “That’s what everyone thought, but they got set up.”
Vance’s face hardens, the lines around his mouth deepening. “Set up?” he echoes, skepticism lacing his tone.
“Yep.” I watch as Vance processes this, his mind obviously racing behind those cool blue eyes. “Looks like we’ve all been played.”
“Damn it.” He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the lush carpet. “We need to figure out who’s behind this then.”
“Thought that was your department,” I say, pushing off from the door. “You’re the one with connections.”
“Connections are no good if they’re feeding you lies.” Vance walks over to a side table, pouring himself another drink. “This complicates things more than I like.”
“Welcome to the club.”
He takes a sip, his gaze locked on mine. “I have things to do, Rook. Business that can’t wait.” The edge in his voice is sharper now, a clear dismissal.
“Sure, sure,” I reply, turning toward the door. “Just one last thing—what’s your endgame with Aisling?”
“Endgame?” The word comes out almost like a snarl. He sets his glass down with a click. “Just get to the heat spa before you miss your chance,” he says, ignoring my question. “Wouldn’t want you regretting your noble stance later.”
“Regrets aren’t really my style,” I shoot back, but as I step into the hall, something tells me that Vance has a lot more at stake than I originally thought.
I push the suite door shut behind me, the click of the latch a full stop to the weirdness brewing inside. Vance’s parting words hang like smoke in my mind, thick and cloying. The air in the hallway feels cooler, a contrast to the heat that seems to cling to his words. I shake it off, sliding my hands into my pockets as I walk.
“Damn Archangel and his cryptic crap,” I mutter under my breath. But something gnaws at me, something about the way Vance looked when he told me to scram.
And that face—the guy who’d just left—why can’t I place him?
The elevator dings, its doors sliding open with a hush. I step in, jab the button for my floor harder than necessary. As the numbers count down, it hits me—like a sucker punch to the gut.
That face.
Not some random from a bar fight or a deal gone sideways.
“Son of a bitch,” I say out loud, though there’s no one to hear me but the polished metal walls reflecting a distorted version of myself back at me.
My boots thud against the carpet as I stride down the hallway to my room. I don’t bother with lights when I barge in, heading straight for the laptop on the desk. It flickers to life at my touch, the drone footage queued up like it’s been waiting just for this moment.
There, the Mojave Skyway looms on the screen, static-filled and ghostly. I scrub through the timeline, heart hammering. That’s when I see it, clear as the lies that’ve been fed to us—there he is, the guy from Vance’s suite, right there on the footage.
Same build.
Same gait.
“Gotcha,” I whisper, a vindictive satisfaction seeping through the shock. With a few clicks, I zoom in, freeze-frame the bastard mid-step, his face twisted in a snarl that’s meant for killing.
“Vance, you playing puppet master now?” My voice echoes in the dark room as I stare at the face on my screen. The assassin’s eyes, cold and dead on the footage, are the same ones that glanced over Vance’s shoulder just an hour ago. “You’ve been dealing with this trash behind our backs?”
The image taunts me, a silent mockery of every truth I thought I knew.
The game has changed…and I need to talk to the others right fucking now.
Before Vance does them all in for good.