Page 124 of Bonds of Pain
And whether I choose to do this of my ownfreewill or let Logan force me to do it. If I have to own the consequences either way, then it really isn’t a decision at all.
My fingers tighten around the knife handle as I meet Logan’s gaze.
“Fine,” I say, the word bitter on my tongue. “I’ll do it.”
Logan steps back, satisfaction gleaming in his golden eyes. “Good.”
I move closer to the table, standing over Maya’s prone form. Our eyes meet, and I try to project what little reassurance I can through our bond—that I won’t hurt her more than necessary, that somehow we’ll survive this like we’ve survived everything else.
Her lips part slightly, and I think she might be about to speak, but she closes them again, silent resignation settling over her features. She waits for the pain, steeling herself against it.
Instead, I turn to Logan and ask softly, “Where exactly do you want the sigil?”
Logan’s hand hovers over Maya’s sternum. “Here. Where she can’t hide it.”
I nod, positioning the knife above Maya’s skin, letting the tip rest lightly against her. Her pulse jumps beneath the blade, but she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t beg. Through our bond, I feel her steeling herself, her mind retreating to some distant place where the pain can’t reach.
What I’m about to do makes me no better than the guards who used to beat me for sport before Logan claimed me. No better than the nobles who turned a blind eye to my suffering. No better than any Alpha who sees Omegas as property rather than people.
But if I don’t do this, Logan will use his command to force me into something worse. I know it as surely as I know my own name. The look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know—he’s determined to make an example of Maya, for her own sake as well as ours, and if I refuse to be his instrument, he’ll find another way, a crueler way.
At least this way, I might be able to control the damage. Make the cuts shallow. Ensure they heal cleanly. It’s a pitiful justification, but it’s all I have.
I look into Maya’s eyes one last time, silently begging for forgiveness I know I don’t deserve.
Then I lower the knife to her skin.
I draw in a sharp, pained breath as the blade cuts into Maya’s skin. Though her lips press together in a tight line, not making a sound, I feel the searing pain through our bond as if it’s happening to my own chest. The feeling is so intense, I have to grit my teeth to keep from crying out myself.
The knife feels impossibly heavy in my hand as I carefully trace the curved lines of the Corellian crest. I keep the cuts as shallow as possible while still drawing blood—just enough to satisfy Logan without causing permanent damage. My hands remain steady through years of weapons training, but inside I’m screaming.
With each stroke of the blade, I feel the echo of pain through our bond. It burns across my own chest in sympathetic agony, as if someone were carving the same pattern into my flesh. Perhaps this is Logan’s true punishment—forcing me to feel Maya’s pain while making me the instrument of it.
I wonder distantly if this is meant to be a punishment for me as well. Logan has to know that Maya and I have been growing closer, even as her resentment of him only grows. Maybe this is his way of ensuring I understand the consequences of divided loyalty, of showing me exactly what happens when someone in our pack steps out of line.
As I finish the final curve of the sigil, blood wells from the shallow cuts, forming crimson rivulets that trace paths across Maya’s pale skin. The sight makes me sick, but I force myself to complete the task with precision. Better a clean wound from me than whatever Logan might do if I refuse.
When I’m finished, Ares immediately moves to help Maya, grabbing a cloth from nearby to stem the bleeding.
“Stop,” Logan commands, his voice sharp as a whip crack. Ares freezes mid-motion, his hand hovering above Maya. “You have work to do. Go to your terminal and update yourcredentials. Change all your passwords, and alter the security settings so that any video footage from within the apartment is automatically encrypted. No one accesses those feeds without my express permission. Is that clear?”
Ares’s jaw tightens, but he nods stiffly as he turns away. “Crystal.”
Logan’s comm unit beeps, and he glances down at it with a curse. “Fuck. My father wants to see me.” He reaches into his pocket and tosses a small med kit to me. “Help Maya upstairs and put her in bed. Clean those cuts so they don’t get infected.”
I catch the kit one-handed, still holding the bloodied knife in the other. “Which bed?” I ask mockingly, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
Logan freezes for a second, his golden eyes narrowing dangerously. “It doesn’t matter,” he replies, his voice cutting like ice. “She belongs to me regardless of where she sleeps, just like you do.”
The words are a reminder of my place in this twisted hierarchy. No matter how much Logan might need me, no matter what moments of gentleness we might share, he will never be able to separate his position from his ability to love. He doesn’t care if we hate him as long as the structure of this pack remains intact.
He will hurt us—any of us—if that is what it takes to protect us.
If the responsibility of that is a burden, he’ll carry it to the very end.
I turn my attention back to Maya after Logan leaves. Her face is pale but composed, her breathing shallow as she stares up at the ceiling. I release the restraints one by one, careful not to touch the cuts on her chest.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words feeling woefully inadequate.
