Epilogue
Vance
I’ve been kept in the dark for too fucking long.
My breaths echo off walls unseen, swallowed by the oppressive blanket of shadows that has become my world. It’s a stench that clings to everything—the air is thick with it, and worse, it emanates from me, a cloying reminder of captivity.
I try to remember how many days—or has it been weeks?—since they blackbagged me outside the Mojave eros lab. There was the brief burn of a needle in my neck, the world tilting sideways, and then…nothingness. Now here I am, wherever ‘here’ is, and the betrayal sits heavier on my chest than the weight of this unknown space.
Gunnar.
That bastard did this.
Played me for a fool, right under my nose. And Aisling…
Shit, Aisling. The thought of her stirs a mix of anger and something else—longing, desire, betrayal—but I clamp down on it hard. Can’t afford those kinds of distractions, not now.
The concrete floor is cold against my skin as I shift, muscles protesting the constant inactivity. My allies, my so-called friends, they all bought into Gunnar’s lies. Every last one of them turned their backs on me. The sting of that cuts deeper than any physical wound they could inflict.
I rake a hand through my greying hair, feeling the grime shift under my fingers. Bright blue eyes scan the darkness for the hundredth time, searching for a detail missed, a way out. But there’s nothing—just the same void that’s become my cellmate.
“Damn you, Gunnar,” I whisper, the words venomous even as they’re barely audible. “And damn me for not seeing it sooner.”
A noise interrupts my silent brooding, a metallic clink that echoes off the damp walls. My first thought is food—if you can call the slop they shove through the slot ‘food.’ But this sound…it’s different. A key turning in the lock, perhaps? My heart pumps faster, not with hope, but with the anticipation of confrontation.
“Who’s there?” I growl, pushing myself into a sitting position. The light from the opening door stabs at my eyes, and I squint against its harsh intrusion. It’s been so long since I’ve seen anything brighter than the dim bulb overhead.
“Mr. Solace,” comes the familiar, ever-stoic voice.
Huxley.
My vision clears, and there he stands, my goddamn butler, framed by two strangely slender guards. The betrayal slices anew; even Huxley is in on this?
And my prison…fuck. It’s my own home.
“What the hell is going on?” I snarl, getting to my feet unsteadily. Instinctively, I lunge toward him, fueled by the raw fury and hurt that have become my constant companions.
But I’m not fast enough, not anymore. The guards catch me easily, their firm grips holding me back.
“Settle down, Mr. Solace,” Huxley commands, as if we’re discussing an unruly stain on the carpet instead of my imprisonment. “As always, I am here to ensure your wellbeing.”
“Like hell you are,” I spit out, struggling against the iron hold of the guards. “You’re just another fucking traitor!”
“Name-calling won’t change our circumstances,” Huxley says, his tone level, infuriatingly calm. “You were teetering on the brink of ruin. We had to intervene before you destroyed yourself completely.”
I cease my thrashing, staring at Huxley. His impassive face gives nothing away, but his words strike a chord within me. On the brink of ruin… Is that how they saw it? How she saw it?
What does Aisling think of me?
And even more than that, why do I care?
“Is this what she wants?” I demand, though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer. “Is Aisling behind this?”
“Questions will be answered in due time,” Huxley replies, avoiding my gaze. “For now, I suggest you cooperate.”
“Cooperate?” The word tastes like ash in my mouth. “With my own damn butler turned jailer?”
“Your cooperation would make this transition easier for all parties involved,” he insists, a hint of something—pity?—flashing briefly in his eyes.
“Transition to what?” I ask, the fight draining from me as quickly as it surged. There’s no escaping these guards, not here, not now. Whatever game they’re playing, I need to be smart about this. Play along, gather information, wait for the right moment.
“Patience, Mr. Solace,” Huxley advises, and I hate how his composed demeanor grates against my frayed nerves. “All will be revealed in time.”
“Fine,” I say, letting the guards cuff me without further resistance. “Lead the way, then, Huxley.”
As I shuffle forward, the cuffs dig into my wrists, a stark reminder of my helplessness. The guards flank me, their presence oddly non-threatening despite the situation. That’s when I notice it—their scent. It’s not the harsh, metallic tang of alphas or the neutrality of betas, but something softer, sweeter.
“Omegas?” I mutter under my breath, my eyes narrowing as I study them more closely. “You’re using omegas as guards?”
“Bluestockings,” Huxley corrects without missing a beat, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “They’ve proven to be quite effective.”
“Never thought I’d see the day,” I scoff, the irony of it all not lost on me. Gunnar and Aisling, using omegas to keep an alpha like me in check. My own home turned into a prison, where even the jailers are a slap in the face. It’s clever, I’ll give them that. Disarming in its absurdity.
“Times change, Mr. Solace,” Huxley says, leading us down the corridor. “And we must adapt with them.”
“Adapt or die, huh?” I reply, half to myself. It’s a cruel game, but one I recognize all too well. If they’re playing it this way, then there’s more at stake here than just my pride. They want something from me. Something only I can give.
As I step out of the confines of the cell, my nostrils flare, picking up a scent that’s as familiar as it is unwelcome. Oberon stands among the guards, his eyes locked onto me like a hawk. He’s always been Aisling’s shadow, her loyal pet. I knew I should never have trusted him—loyal only to the Eclipse…then to Aisling.
Was he the one who suggested all this? Who turned closest allies against me?
“Enjoying the view?” I snap, the words laced with venom.
“Easy, Vance,” Oberon warns, his voice a low growl. “We can do this the hard way or the easy way. Your choice.”
I let out a huff, the fight draining out of me as much as my pride will allow. “Lead the way.”
I shuffle forward, the click of cuffs echoing against the sterile walls. We move through the labyrinthine corridors, the air growing colder, more oppressive. It’s no mistake that we’re heading for the elevator, the same one I’ve ridden countless times before—only now, I’m not the one holding the keys. The elevator dings, and we ascend, leaving behind the bowels of my once impenetrable fortress. Each floor brings a wave of memories, each more suffocating than the last. This was where I kept Gunnar and Aisling when they were my captives, where I’d thought I held all the power. And now, here I am, the captive in my own gilded cage.
“Is this supposed to be some kind of sick revenge?” I mutter to myself, though I know they can all hear me. “Locking me up in the same place I held Aisling?”
No one answers, but I can feel their eyes on me, weighing me down further. By the time the doors open, I’m practically dragging my feet.
“This isn’t meant to be a punishment, Vance.” Huxley rarely uses my first name, even though he’s known me since I was a child—and it’s that sole detail that makes me feel even worse. He really thinks he’s helping me.
“Well, it feels an awful lot like one,” I say.
They don’t respond; instead, they bring me to a familiar door. Again, it’s the room where I kept Gunnar and Aisling…where I watched them fuck. I scowl at my captors as Huxley gestures toward the door.
“You can go and get cleaned up,” Huxley says. “This will be your accommodation for the time being. There’s a change of clothes for you laid out on the bed.”
“Wow,” I snap. “Thank you so much for your generosity.”
The room’s solitude slams into me as the door clicks shut, leaving me alone with the hum of silence and the red glare of a camera lens. The omnipresent eye doesn’t waver. No privacy. No trust. I yank at my filthy clothes, peeling them off with a disgust that clings like the grime on my skin.
Is she watching right now?
Does she like seeing me like this?
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, stepping into the shower. Hot water cascades over me, scalding and soothing in equal measure. It strips away the layers of filth, but it can’t cleanse the betrayal that festers deep within. My fingers run through my hair, unkempt and matted—another stark reminder of how far I’ve fallen. How long did they leave me to rot?
The steam wraps around me, a fleeting comfort as I scrub away a week’s worth of captivity. But even here, I’m not free. The camera’s unblinking eye is etched into the back of my mind, Aisling’s mark on my every move.
I step out, the chill of the air biting at my wet skin. Huxley’s left clothes for me: sweats and a t-shirt. They’re clean, simple, devoid of any personal touch. This is no olive branch; this is control, a silent echo of Aisling’s own imprisonment. I pull them on, and the fabric feels foreign against my skin.
No shoes.
That feels like a barb.
“Game on, Stargazer,” I whisper to myself, a wry smile touching my lips despite the gravity of my situation. She’s playing at something here—and I’ll be damned if I don’t figure out what.
With a heavy heart, I open the door. The guards stand as before, stoic sentinels in the dim light, but now Luka’s there too. His presence feels like a taunt, yet another pawn in whatever game we’re caught in.
“Really, guys? You need two to take me down?” I scoff, trying to inject some bravado into the moment. Oberon and Luka don’t flinch as they move to either side of me, their hands gripping my arms with a firmness that leaves no room for argument.
“Let’s not make this harder than it has to be,” Oberon murmurs, his voice low. There’s an apology somewhere in those words, but it’s buried far too deeply for my liking.
Huxley leads the way, his steps measured, unruffled by the tension that hangs between us. We weave through the corridors, the sound of our footsteps a monotonous rhythm against the opulence of my former domain.
“Where are we going?” I ask, though part of me already knows. It’s not just about confinement or revenge. It’s about power, about showing me who’s really in charge. And as much as it burns, I can’t deny that right now, it’s not me.
The doors to the dining room swing open, and a wave of nostalgia hits me like a punch in the gut. The mahogany table stretches before us, its surface gleaming under the chandelier’s glow—a stark reminder of better days.
Days when I was in control.
At the head of the table sits Gunnar, his posture regal, his eyes sharp as they lock onto mine—eyes that are more like mine than I’ve ever cared to admit. To his right, Aisling, her blonde hair a stark contrast against the dark wood, her grey eyes reflecting a storm that’s yet to break. Nero, with his inscrutable gaze, occupies the left, while Rook hovers beside Aisling, a silent shadow.
“Vance, please take a seat,” Gunnar’s voice cuts through the silence, devoid of warmth. Luka and Oberon guide me forward, their grips unyielding, and nudge me into the chair at the opposite end.
An unfamiliar fury boils up inside me as I survey the faces around the table—faces I once trusted. My voice comes out as a growl, “What the hell is this about? What do you think you’re doing?”
Their silence is deafening, a psychological cage more confining than any cell. They trade glances, a silent conversation I’m not privy to, and it grates on my nerves.
“Look at you all, sitting pretty like you’ve got it all figured out,” I spit out, unable to contain the venom. “You’re liars, every last one of you. And if you think this little act is going to work out for you, you’re even dumber than I thought—”
“Vance,” Aisling interrupts me, voice sharp and certain as a knife’s edge. “We know about you and Lianna Rossi.”
A chill settles over me, despite the warmth of the room. My heart doesn’t pound, it steadies, like the calm before a storm. At her signal, all my sins laid bare to those who once followed me without question. I feel the eyes on me, but I don’t flinch. Instead, I meet her gaze, those pools of grey that seem to see right through me.
“Is that so?” My voice is steady, betraying none of the chaos brewing inside.
“Mmhm.” She snaps her fingers, a crisp sound echoing off the walls. “We know that together, you staged the assassination attempt on the Mojave skyway…and that she tried to kill Nero.”
“I wasn’t part of that—”
“We’re aware,” Rook says, voice rough. He’s a statue, his usual smirk gone, eyes downcast. Traitor.
“I guess I should have known you had a hand in this, Rook,” I say, though it comes out more resigned than bitter. “Guess it was too much to expect loyalty from a rat.”
He winces, just slightly, and I know I’ve hit a nerve.
“Taking down Caius…” I continue, forcing myself to look away from him, addressing the room now, “was necessary. You all know what he’s capable of. Siding with Lianna was a means to an end.”
“Look, Vance,” Gunnar starts, his tone lacking the usual bite, “we know you had your reasons. That’s why we’re sitting here, not to play judge and jury.” He gestures around the table, silverware clinking softly against the fine china.
I hum, crossing my arms despite the tight grip Luka and Oberon have on them. Trust isn’t something I hand out easily, especially not here, not now. But I’m not in much of a position to argue.
“Lianna Rossi,” I say, testing the name on my tongue like it’s a new flavor—bitter, with a hint of necessity. “Yeah, I had an in. She wanted Caius gone as much as we did.”
“Details,” Aisling demands, her voice slicing through the tense air. Sharp, no-nonsense.
“Fine.” I lean back a little, trying to ignore the ache in my shoulders from the guards’ hold. “We planned to undermine him from the inside. Shipping routes, supply info, names of loyalists.” I rattle off the list, each word a nail in the coffin I’d been building for Caius. “Had to get close to her, gain her trust. You know how this game is played.”
“Right,” Gunnar acknowledges with a nod. “And that’s exactly what we intend to do.”
“What?” I start, but then it clicks. They want to keep the plan alive, see it through. The realization hits me hard, unexpected yet obvious.
“We’re working with Lianna now,” Aisling states, her voice firm, brooking no argument. “To take down Caius. And after that, the Eclipse falls.”
“Wait, with me?” I ask, skepticism lacing my words. This feels like a trap, but their expressions are earnest, determined.
“Unless you’ve lost your nerve,” Rook chimes in, finally lifting his gaze. There’s a challenge there, something that stirs the fight still left in me.
“Lost my nerve?” I scoff, shaking my head. “Never. I just didn’t peg you lot for suicide runners.”
“Sometimes, you gotta pick the lesser evil,” Nero adds from Gunnar’s side, his voice as calm as ever.
“Then consider me on board,” I say, the words tasting of iron and resolve. Bringing down Caius and the Eclipse—it’s personal, and they know it. Working with Lianna won’t be easy, but if it ends with Caius’s fall, I’ll dance with the devil herself.
“Good.” Aisling’s lips twitch into a semblance of a smile. It’s not warm, but it’s not cold either. It’s… promising.
“Let’s eat then,” Gunnar declares, breaking the last of the tension. “We have a war to plan.”