Page 13 of Bonds of Pain
Tears burn. but I refuse to let them fall.
A hollow victory is still better than no victory at all.
Chapter Four
MAYA
When I wake up again, my is body stiff and sore in places I’d rather not think about. The room is bathed in the soft glow of dawn, light filtering through the partially drawn curtains.
Logan lies beside me. He must have returned after his temper tantrum was over. His body presses against mine despite the massive size of the bed. He is turned on his side and facing away, but his back is flush against my side, body heat seeping into me.
Still sulking from what happened, but unable to stop himself from remaining close to me.
I’m suddenly wide awake and unable to stomach another minute of being in this bed.
Shifting carefully, I pull myself into a sitting position, expecting him to wake at even the slightest movement. But he barely stirs, just makes a soft sound in his throat before settling deeper into sleep.
Unable to resist the sudden urge, I study Logan’s face as he sleeps.
Without his typical expression of princely disdain, he looks different. Younger. Less intimidating. The hard lines of his face have softened. Without an arrogant smirk, the sensuous curve of his full lips slightly parting with each breath. Dark lashes rest against the high swell of his cheeks, casting shadows across the sharp plane of his jaw where the skin appears impossibly soft despite the fuzz of overnight beard growth.
He looks almost sweet, vulnerable in a way that shouldn’t be possible. It’s jarring to see the man who’s been nothing but domineering and cruel appear so peaceful, so human.
His chest rises and falls with each breath, steady and deep. There’s a small scar near his collarbone that I hadn’t noticed before, pale against his tanned skin. A reminder that even Alphas break and bleed.
This is the time when he is at his most vulnerable, when it would be easiest to hurt him. He had refused to allow a servant in to clean up the glass. One of the larger shards could easily get the job done. A single jab to that pulsing point in his neck where arterial blood is just below the surface.
But something stops me.
It isn’t that I care that Logan’s death would likely drag Cillian, then me, along with him.
It isn’t that I have any hope for the future.
How can I kill a man who looks so much like an innocent baby tucked away to sleep in its crib?
A lock of his hair has fallen across his forehead, and I’m struck by the absurd urge to brush it away. I clench my fist instead, digging my nails into my palm until the impulse passes.
This is the same man who claimed me against my will. Who took my body while I slept. Who believes he owns me simply because biology and circumstance have conspired against me.
And yet, he looks so innocent in sleep that I can’t help but wonder who Logan might have been in another life. One where he wasn’t born a prince, where the weight of the crown and kingdom didn’t rest on his shoulders. Where he hadn’t been taught from birth that Alphas take what they want, consequences be damned.
I surge out of the bed, desperate to escape Logan’s proximity before my thoughts travel any further down that dangerous path. My feet hit the cold floor with a soft thud, and I freeze, glancing back at the sleeping man. He doesn’t so much as stir.
Taking shallow breaths, I back away from the bed, putting as much distance as possible between us. Now that I’m fully awake and standing, I take in my surroundings properly for the first time.
Logan’s room is exactly what I’d expect of a royal bedchamber, and somehow not like I imagined it. The space is massive, with high ceilings adorned with intricate crown molding. A chandelier hangs from the center, crystals catching the early morning light. The furniture is all dark wood and gold accents, from the enormous four-poster bed to the matching nightstands and dresser.
But for all its opulence, the room feels entirely impersonal. There are no photographs, no trinkets or mementos. No books left open on side tables or clothes tossed over chairs. Nothing that speaks to who Logan is beyond his title. It’s like a museum display of royal living quarters rather than someone’s actual bedroom.
My gaze lands on a closed door on the far wall. It doesn’t lead to the bathroom or hallway, so it must lead somewhere else.
A compulsive force pulls me forward. I cross the plush carpet, wincing as my bruised body protests the movement. When I reach the door, I hesitate, hand hovering over the ornate handle. What if it’s locked? What if it triggers some alarm?
Taking a deep breath, I turn the handle. It gives way easily, swinging open without a sound.
I step through into a room about the size of a large closet. But it’s not storage, it’s another bedroom. A small one, only slightly larger than a walk-in closet and with none of the grandeur of Logan’s chambers. The space is warm, lit by a soft lamp in the corner that someone must have forgotten to turn off.
Unlike the prince’s sterile quarters, this room feels lived in. A small writing desk sits against one wall, littered with traditional paper rather than a tablet. Pens and pencils are scattered across its surface alongside what looks like sketches. A worn leather jacket hangs on a hook by the door. A pair of boots stands neatly beneath it.
