29. Rook
Chapter twenty-nine
Rook
The door clicks shut behind us, and I swear you could cut the atmosphere with a knife. We’re all on edge, our nerves frayed from the night’s chaos. Nero lies motionless on the couch, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths—the only sign he’s still with us
“Okay, let’s get to it,” I say, my voice bouncing off the walls of Nero’s decadent suite. The pack shuffles into seats around the broad table that seems too grand for what’s left of us—now one man down
Gunnar’s jaw is set in that stubborn line, his eyes darting between us while he taps an impatient rhythm on the tabletop. Aisling sits next to him, her features drawn tight, like she’s holding back a storm. Her blonde hair is a halo of disarray, eyes shadowed by doubt. Oberon’s hand finds its way to her shoulder—a silent anchor in the rough sea.
“Vance,” Gunnar starts, and immediately, it’s like someone threw a live wire into the room. “Can we trust him?”
“He’s saved our asses more than once,” Luka counters, leaning back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the grain of the wood rather than any of us. “…but he also staged an assassination attempt on us.”
“Right—he’ll sell us out first chance he gets,” Aisling interjects, her voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of fatigue. She’s right to be wary; Vance is a wildcard, and his recent paranoia has made him all the more dangerous.
“Look, he was there when we needed him,” I point out, trying to steer this boat before it capsizes. “That has to count for something.”
“Or it’s part of his game. He’s been playing both sides for a while now,” Aisling snaps, her distrust for Vance as clear as the tension written across her face.
“Game or not, we need all the help we can get,” I argue, locking eyes with her. “We’re walking into the Mojave with less than a full deck. Can’t afford to toss aside an ace, even if it might be a trick card.”
“An ace that’s smitten with you, Stargazer,” Oberon murmurs, giving Aisling’s shoulder a light squeeze. The endearment hangs awkwardly in the air, reminding us all of the tangled web we’ve been caught in.
“Enough,” Gunnar growls, slamming a hand on the table. “We focus on the raid. Once that’s over…well, Vance won’t be a problem anymore.”
The words hang heavy in the room, a grim acceptance settling over us like dust after an explosion. We’re all thinking it—Vance’s days are numbered one way or another.
“Raid first, politics later,” Luka agrees, his voice low and even. “We stick to the plan.”
“Exactly,” I assert, ready to drill it into their heads if need be. This isn’t about internal squabbles or unresolved romantic tensions. It’s about survival.
Just as the silence starts to claw at my nerves, Nero stirs on the couch, a shadow amongst shadows, until his voice slices through the tension. “We hit them tomorrow,” he says, and it’s not a suggestion. His tone is a command despite the obvious pain lacing his every breath.
I glance over, seeing him struggle to sit up, his black hair a stark mess against his too-pale skin. Nero Rossi doesn’t do weak, but right now, he’s close to it.
“Tomorrow?” Gunnar echoes, skepticism in his stance more than his tone. “That’s…fast.”
“Every minute we wait is a minute they shore up defenses,” Nero continues, pushing himself upright with an effort that’s damn near heroic. “We have the advantage now. That window closes with every tick of the clock.”
“Vance’s resources could be useful,” I say, locking onto Nero’s gaze, letting him know I’m with him. If Nero trusts Vance for this op, then that’s the play.
“Keep him close,” Nero affirms, “for now.” His eyes, those deep brown pools that seem to see right through you, meet mine, and there’s a flicker of something unspoken. It’s clear he’s thought this through, playing the long game even from a couch that’s become his temporary command center.
“Use him, then lose him,” Luka murmurs, understanding dawning in his cold expression.
“Exactly,” Nero confirms, a ghost of a smile touching his lips before it disappears as quickly as it came. “We strike hard, fast, and without mercy. Tomorrow, we reshape the board to our favor.”
“Without you?” Gunnar’s voice cuts through the charged air, a blend of disbelief and anger. He stands rigid, his powerful frame tensed like a coiled spring. “Nero, we can’t afford to leave you vulnerable.”
I watch the two alphas, feeling the tension tighten like a noose. Gunnar’s loyalty is fierce, but it blinds him—makes him forget that sometimes, the king has to stay behind and guard the castle.
“Vulnerable? Here?” Nero scoffs, a hint of his usual arrogance seeping through the pain. But there’s a tremor in his voice, a rare crack in the fa?ade that tells me he’s not as sure as he sounds.
“Well…you did get shot here,” Luka says.
“Then I’ll stay,” Aisling speaks up, her voice steady despite the storm swirling around us all. She moves closer to Nero, her grey eyes meeting his with a determination that’s all too familiar. “I’m more help here.”
Gunnar turns to her, his jaw set hard enough to shatter bone. “Aisling—”
“No, Gunnar.” She holds up a hand, halting his protest before it gains momentum. “You need to lead out there. And Nero needs protection. You can’t do both, and you know it.”
Aisling’s right, damn her. The woman might be an omega, but she’s got the heart of a warrior, and the tactical mind to match. There’s a reason they call her Stargazer—she sees things others don’t, plots courses that lead us to victory.
“Fine,” Gunnar concedes with a growl, turning back to the table. “But we’re not done with this. We still need to finalize our strategy for the Mojave raid.”
“Right.” I refocus, tapping the holographic display of the desert complex on the laptop in Nero’s suite. “The plan’s simple: Vance dies in the explosion, or so it’ll seem.”
“Convincing enough to fool their surveillance,” Oberon adds.
“Let’s iron out the logistics.” I switch to a tactical overlay, showing entry points and guard rotations. “Gunnar, Luka—you’re spearheading the assault. Your combat skills are unmatched; you’ll take point on neutralizing threats.”
“Got it,” Gunnar says, cracking his knuckles as if he’s ready to start swinging right there.
“Rook, you handle the explosives,” Nero orders from the couch, his eyes sharp despite his condition. “Timing is everything. If Vance doesn’t ‘die’ at the right moment, this all goes to hell.”
“Understood. I’ll rig it so it looks like a tragic accident,” I confirm, already calculating blast yields and trigger mechanisms in my head.
“Oberon,” Nero continues, “you liaise with Inari. Once Rook sets off the fireworks, you secure Vance and get him to Pacific City.”
“Consider it done.” Oberon’s voice is smooth, untroubled. He’s the calm in our storm, always has been.
We delve deeper into contingencies, discussing fallbacks and escape routes. Every detail is crucial. The room’s thick with the kind of grim determination that comes when you’re staring down a beast and know there’s no turning back. We’ve each got our jobs, and we’re good at them—no, we’re the best.
But even the best can fall, and we all know it.
“Whatever happens,” Gunnar says, his eyes scanning each of us, “we stick to the plan. We cover each other’s backs.”
“Exactly,” Nero’s voice, though weakened, cuts through the room like a blade. “Stay sharp, stay alive. I just found this pack…and I don’t intend on saying goodbye to a single one of you.”
We nod silently, our agreement as binding as any sworn oath. The meeting breaks up, a quiet buzz of nervous energy hanging in the air. We each have our roles to play, and as we prepare for rest, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re all holding our breath, waiting for the storm to hit.
I step out onto the balcony, letting the cool night breeze wash over me. It’s a stark contrast to the heated discussions from moments ago. There’s a stillness here that feels almost otherworldly, a quiet before the inevitable chaos of the raid.
“Hey,” I hear the soft voice behind me and turn to see Aisling stepping out into the moonlight. Her grey eyes reflect the stars, but they’re turbulent, like a tempest held at bay.
“Rook,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, “do you think we’ll all make it?”
“Of course, we will,” I say, but my assurance sounds hollow even to my own ears. I can smell the faint scent of her distress, and it tugs at something primal within me. “Are you okay?”
“Absolutely not.” Her gaze doesn’t meet mine, and her hands grip the railing with white-knuckled intensity.
“Talk to me,” I urge her, leaning on the railing beside her. I’m no good with words, but right now, Aisling needs someone, and I’ll be damned if I leave her drowning in her own fear.
“Every part of me is screaming that this is wrong,” she admits, her voice cracking with the strain of unshed tears. “Gunnar, Luka, Oberon…we’re all on edge. And Nero—”
“He’s strong,” I interrupt. “And so are you. We’ve seen worse, haven’t we?”
“Have we?” she says, turning to face me now. Her eyes search mine, looking for the conviction that I’m not entirely sure I feel.
“We stick to the plan,” I echo Gunnar’s earlier words, trying to believe them myself. “We watch out for each other. Survive. That’s what we do.”
“Surviving isn’t living, Rook,” she whispers, and there’s a sorrow there that cuts deeper than any blade.
I reach out, resting my hand over hers on the railing. Her skin is cold, and she trembles slightly under my touch. “We’ll get through this,” I say. “Together.”
Aisling nods, but I can tell her thoughts are miles away, lost in the what-ifs and might-have-beens of our twisted world. We stand there in silence, two souls cast adrift in the eerie calm of Nero’s suite, bracing for the tempest that awaits us with the dawn.