Page 125 of Bonds of Pain
When I reach for her, offering to help her sit up, Maya recoils from my touch. “Don’t,” she says, her voice flat and empty. “Just...don’t touch me right now.”
She struggles to sit up on her own, wincing as the movement pulls at her fresh wounds. Blood has stained the bodice of her bonding dress, the crimson a stark contrast to the pristine white silk. Through our bond, I feel her shame, her anger, and beneath it all, a deep, cold resolution.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, helplessly. “I tried to make the cuts as shallow as possible. They shouldn’t scar if we treat them properly.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Maya says, her voice hollow as she takes the med kit from my hands. “None of this matters when we’re both dying already.”
“Maya—“
“We deserve more than this,” she interrupts, her eyes finally meeting mine. There’s something in her gaze that sends a chill down my spine—not fear or hatred, but a terrible clarity. “Both of us. We deserve better than to be owned.”
I don’t know what to say to that. She’s right, of course. We do deserve better. But what options do we have? The bond can’t be broken. Logan’s claim is permanent. There’s no escape, not while he lives.
“The bond won’t allow it,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “Separating from Logan would kill us both. You know that.”
Maya snatches the med kit from me, her expression hardening. “It doesn’t matter when we’re both dying already,” she repeats, sliding off the table with a wince. Her blood-stained wedding dress drags behind her as she makes her way toward the stairs, leaving me standing alone with the bloodied knife still in my hand.
I watch her go, feeling a profound sense of shame and longing. I acknowledge to myself that I don’t have the strength to walk away, even if Maya deserves to be protected from all of this. Even if I’m willing to suffer for her.
The truth settles in my chest like a stone: I can think of only one way to save Maya without running away. One terrible, unthinkable solution that would free her from Logan’s claim while leaving our bond intact.
I look down at the knife in my hand, the blade still stained with Maya’s blood, and for the first time, I allow myself to consider the unthinkable.
Chapter Thirty-Three
MAYA
Istare numbly at the shallow cuts marring my chest, the blood seeping from the Corellian sigil that now marks me permanently as Logan’s property. The bathroom mirror reflects a stranger—hollow-eyed, pale, with purple hair hanging limp around a face I barely recognize.
I listen for sounds in the room beyond. Cillian had tried for nearly twenty minutes to coax me out, his voice growing increasingly desperate as I remained silent behind the locked door.
“Maya, please. Let me help you clean those cuts properly. They could get infected.”
I don’t respond.
Eventually, his footsteps retreated, and the apartment door closed with a soft click. I’m finally, blissfully alone.
The shallow cuts sting as I dab at them with a damp cloth, washing away blood that has dried in rivulets down my skin. The sigil is precise—each line carefully measured, the depthconsistent. Cillian’s handiwork shows his effort to minimize the damage while still satisfying Logan’s command.
I should hate him for this. I should hate them all.
Instead, I just feel empty.
My fingers trace the carved lines, feeling each ridge of torn flesh. The pain is almost welcome, a physical manifestation of everything they’ve done to me since I arrived at the palace. A permanent reminder is now etched into my skin.
What am I still fighting for? Every attempt at revenge has only made things worse. I drugged them, violated Logan, tried to expose him—and now I wear his mark carved into my chest. I’m further from freedom than ever.
I stare at my reflection, searching for some spark of the woman I used to be. The defiant Omega who refused to be broken. The survivor who planned to make them all pay.
All I see is exhaustion.
Maybe that’s what Logan wanted all along. Not just to own me, but to wear me down until resistance feels pointless. Until I’m too tired to fight.
The more I stare at the wound, the more distant the pain feels. The more distant everything feels. My body is here, but my mind drifts somewhere far away, detached from this broken shell.
I wonder what would happen if I just stopped fighting. If I gave in, played the perfect Omega, let them have what they want. Would it be easier? Would the pain finally stop?
No. I know it wouldn’t. Submission would be another kind of death—a slower, more insidious one. The death of everything that makes me who I am.
