Page 128 of Bonds of Pain
And I don’t have the strength left to keep playing this game.
I pick up the pair of scissors that Logan left on the counter after cutting the bandages into strips. The metal feels cool and heavy in my palm, grounding me in a moment where everything else seems to be spiraling away.
Logan Corellian can’t change. I see that now with startling clarity. This damaged man who molded by violence and cruelty might occasionally show flashes of humanity, but he’ll never truly break free of the mold his father forced him into. Becoming someone softer, someone more empathetic, would cost him his life in this vicious court. It’s not just who he is.
It’s who he has to be to survive.
My fingers tighten around the scissors as I contemplate Cillian, the bond between us a constant hum of awareness at the back of my mind. That unwanted connection has somehow drawn us closer, forcing an intimacy neither of us chose. He tries so hard to be a player in this game, to strategize and manipulate like the Alphas around him. But in the end, his biology traps him just as surely as mine does me. He’s just another piece on the board, moved by forces beyond his control.
I think about Ares, the way he kept that nest I made, how he treated it like something precious. Under different circumstances, in a different world, he could have been agood man. Poe too, with his quiet strength and unexpected gentleness. But Logan and the brutality of royal politics have twisted them, corrupted whatever decency they might have possessed.
We’re all caught in the same terrible machine, its gears grinding us down into shapes that serve its purpose.
But we’re all doomed, especially me.
I stare at my reflection, at the bandages covering the carved sigil on my chest. The pain has dulled to a persistent throb, a physical reminder of how little control I have over my own body. Over my own life.
With sudden fury, I smash the scissors against the hard edge of the counter. The metal strains, then snaps, the plastic handle splitting to leave me holding one blade like a razor. The sharp edge gleams in the bathroom light, promising a kind of control that’s been denied to me since I arrived at the palace.
I test the edge with my thumb, watching a thin line of blood well up from the small cut. Sharp enough.
The only choice a pawn has is deciding whether or not to play.
Chapter Thirty-Four
POE
Isee Logan leaving the apartment with Cillian trailing behind him, both men rigid with tension as they disappear down the hallway. Despite my lingering anger at Maya’s manipulation, something twists in my gut. Logan’s rage has been building all day, his golden eyes hardening each time they landed on her. And now she’s alone.
I wait until their footsteps fade before making my decision.
The apartment is eerily quiet as I approach the master bedroom. The door stands slightly ajar, a slice of light spilling into the darkened hallway. I pause, listening for any movement inside. Nothing.
“Maya?” I call softly, pushing the door open wider.
No answer.
A faint splashing sound from the bathroom draws my attention. I cross the bedroom, noting the elaborate wedding dress crumpled on the floor like discarded tissue paper, crystalline beads scattered across the carpet.
The bathroom door is closed but unlocked. I knock once, then push it open when no response comes.
“Maya, it’s Poe. I just want to check?—“
The words die in my throat.
Maya lies slumped against the bathtub, her body half-submerged in water turned pink with blood. More blood pools on the tile floor beneath her outstretched arm, flowing from deep gashes across both wrists. A broken pair of scissors lies beside her limp hand.
“Fuck!” I lunge forward, dropping to my knees beside her. “Maya!”
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy. The bandage on her chest is soaked through, both with bathwater and fresh blood. Whatever Logan had done to her, she’d clearly tried to cut it out before turning the blade on her wrists.
“No, no, no,” I mutter, grabbing towels and wrapping them tightly around her slashed wrists. “Stay with me, Maya.”
She tries to push me away, her movements weak and uncoordinated. “Don’t,” she whispers, voice barely audible. “Let me go.”
“Not a chance.” I lift her from the bloodied water, cradling her against my chest. Her skin is cold, too cold, and unnaturally pale. I need to warm her, stop the bleeding, get help…do something.
Her hand weakly catches my wrist as I reach for my comm unit. “No medics,” she pleads, her purple eyes finding mine with sudden clarity. “Logan will know.”
