Page 109 of Bonds of Pain
Chapter Twenty-Seven
LOGAN
Acamera flashes in my face, momentarily blinding me as I struggle to keep the annoyance off my face.
The blood of one of my brothers has barely been washed clean and I’m taking fucking pictures.
I watch Maya’s profile while she perches on my lap like the perfect royal consort she’s meant to be. The camera flashes again as Belinda circles us, asking questions as the photographer continues to capture what are supposedly candid shots of us—done up in finery and in a palace we don’t actually live in
“So tell me, Your Highness, how does it feel to be named heir after years of speculation?” Belinda’s voice drips with false sweetness, her eyes sharp as she looks for any crack in my composure.
“It’s an honor to serve Melilla in whatever capacity my father deems most beneficial to our people,” I reply smoothly, the practiced response rolling off my tongue.
Maya sits perfectly poised on my knee, her back straight, smile fixed in place. To anyone watching, she appears the pictureof Omega contentment. But I can feel the tension humming through her body where my hand rests at her waist.
Through our bond, her emotions are a turbulent storm—too distant for me to grasp any specific feeling, but unsettled enough that I know she’s far from the serene consort she’s pretending to be.
“And Maya,” Belinda turns her attention to my Omega “The transition from commoner to royal consort must be quite the adjustment. How are you finding palace life?”
Maya’s smile doesn’t falter. “Everyone has been incredibly welcoming. The royal family has centuries of tradition that I’m eager to learn and honor.”
Her voice is steady. Her expression is perfectly controlled. Not a hint of the wild, defiant woman who fought me tooth and nail just days ago. She’s playing her part flawlessly, giving away nothing.
Pride swells in my chest unexpectedly. She may hate me, may resist me at every turn in private, but in public, she’s exactly what I need—poised, intelligent, and utterly captivating. The perfect royal consort.
I tighten my grip on her waist possessively, and Maya shifts slightly, keeping her body from making full contact with mine without breaking her smile for the camera.
“Your mating bond was rather delayed, compared to the other matches made after the king’s pronouncement,” Belinda probes, her tone deliberately casual. “Did our crown prince have to put some work into getting you to accept him?”
Maya’s laugh is musical and practiced. “The best things can’t be rushed. They only fall perfectly into place when you least expect it. When it’s right, you just know. The timing doesn’t matter.”
I feel a surge of gratitude for her poise. The non-answers will make for good magazine copy but also have no substance,critical details entirely omitted. Maya navigates the invasive questions from a reporter looking for dirt as if she’s been trained for them her entire life.
In a way, I suppose she has been. The Enclave didn’t just teach Omegas submission—it taught them to be perfect public companions for powerful Alphas. How to speak, how to behave, and apparently how to deflect unwanted questions with grace.
“And children?” Belinda asks, her gaze flicking to Maya’s flat stomach. “The kingdom is always eager for more potential royal heirs.”
I feel Maya stiffen almost imperceptibly. Through our bond, a flash of something dark and complicated surges within her before she suppresses it.
“We’re enjoying our time together as mates,” I interject smoothly. “The future will unfold as it should.”
Belinda seems disappointed by my diplomatic answer but doesn’t press further. The photographer snaps a few more photos, as Belinda directs us through several poses—Maya standing beside me, her hand on my arm; both of us seated on the garden bench; a carefully choreographed shot of me kissing Maya’s hand while she gazes adoringly at me.
Throughout it all, Maya performs perfectly, her body language conveying affection and respect despite the maelstrom I can sense beneath her calm exterior.
When Belinda’s photographer finally packs up her equipment, promising to send the approved photos before publication, I feel Maya ramrod posture sags, the performance obviously taking its toll.
“You did well,” I murmur.
“As if I had a choice?” she replies sarcastically, her voice low enough that only I can hear.
The question hangs between us, weighted as if she expects some sort of response. Of course she had no choice. Neither of usdid. We’re trapped in circumstances largely beyond our control—me by duty, her by biology and bond.
“We’re both playing the roles we were born to fill,” I say finally. “I’m doing my best to keep you from the worst of it.”
Maya says nothing, but her silence speaks volumes. I can’t blame her for her resentment. If our positions were reversed, I’d likely feel a similar resentment at the inherent unfairness of it all.
In an ideal world, I never would have forged a bond with my closest confidante and oldest friend while caught up in a rage-fueled rut after killing my own brother. In a perfect one, that bond wouldn’t get both of us executed and our pack would be stronger, not weaker, because of it.
