Page 47 of Bonds of Pain
I watch them all carefully once we’re inside the apartment, my eyes tracking their movements like a predator studying potential prey. Ares immediately pours himself a drink, knocking it back in one swift motion before pouring another. His usual grace is replaced with rigid movements, shoulders tight with tension. Poe prowls the perimeter of the room, checking windows and doors as if expecting an attack at any moment.
Logan and Cillian drift to a corner of the living area, their heads bent close together. Their voices are too low to hear, but their body language screams urgency. Logan’s hand grips Cillian’s forearm with white-knuckled intensity. Cillian’s already pale face is drained of color.
They both have their ends of the bond so locked down that I could almost believe it has ceased to exist.
My suspicion crystallizes into certainty. The furtive glances, the collective anxiety and this inexplicable silence. They all know something that they think I don’t. All of them are involved in this.
For a brief, wild moment, I consider going straight to the king. I could tell him what I know, or more frustratingly accurate, what I suspect. Even among princes, fratricide is technically a capital crime, even if it’s rarely enforced. The accusation might be enough to see Logan and his pack locked away in a dungeon or sent away to die like men in the trenches of the Outlands. Maybe I would be sent to one of the care homes reserved for Omegas driven mad by the broken bond created through the death of their mates. Maybe I wouldn’t survive it at all.
Maybe I don’t care either way.
But the thought dissipates as quickly as it formed. What evidence do I actually have? Feelings through a bond. Suspicions. Observations of guilty behavior.
No proof.
The Inquisitor—Dr. Sionis Thane—is obviously still looking for some tangible evidence, even if he has suspicions. Throwing out accusations with nothing to back them up will only ensure that I never get another chance. Or worse, I might just find myself back in the doctor’s care for questioning.
No. Whatever move I make has to be decisive. Final.
There won’t be any coming back from it.
My fingers absently trace the Corellian pendant at my throat as I watch Logan and Cillian continue their hushed conversations. I may be trapped in this apartment with murderers, but I’m not powerless. Not anymore.
I will find that proof. I’ll uncover whatever they’re hiding—the weapon, witness statements, security footage, whatever it takes. And when I do, I won’t just have leverage over Logan.
I’ll have the power to destroy them all.
After what feels like hours of being practically ignored, Cillian finally disappears down the hall toward the bedroom we now share, and I quietly follow him. Ares and Poe are bent over a terminal and Logan was called away for a meeting, so it’s easy to slip away.
It’s obvious that they’re all still on edge from the interview, but I have more immediate concerns.
The stress of Logan’s constant attention and the anxiety I felt seeing the doctor again were enough to distract me, but now thesigns are becoming impossible to ignore. Like all recently mated Omegas, my heats will become more frequent and more erratic until I get pregnant.
Cillian jumps, spinning around with his hands defensively raised, when I slam the bedroom door shut behind me.
“Did you ever find a new supplier of heat suppressants?” I ask without preamble.
He blinks several times before answering. “The black market is more unstable that it’s ever been.”
“That isn’t an answer. Do you have any?”
Cillian’s ice-chip eyes flicker with surprise before his expression shutters. “I do.”
“Great. Give me half of whatever you’ve got.” I hold out my hand expectantly.
He shifts uncomfortably. “I only have enough for myself.”
“What?” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” His gaze darts to the door behind me. “I can’t give them to you.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
He scrubs the side of his face with one hand, looking suddenly exhausted. “You know why.”
“Logan ordered you not to give them to me,” I state flatly.
Cillian grimaces, as if saying the words is akin to actually pulling teeth. “He doesn’t have to tell me. I already know he won’t want you to have them.”
