Page 1 of Rook

Prologue

Rook

The pipette hits the last petri dish with a drop that sounds like a verdict.

It’s the end of another day and I’m cleaning up my workbench, the thrill of discovery still buzzing in my veins. We’re onto something big here, something that could change the game for omegas. And I get to be a part of it.

Me—a kid off the Dublin streets who couldn’t even afford to eat at university.

On the cutting edge of the European Authority’s research department.

“Rook, you coming for a pint?”

My colleague Sean’s voice cuts through the hum of machines and soft clinks of glassware being stored away. I cap the vial in my hand and place it back on the shelf, turning to see a cluster of white coats by the door, eager faces peeking out.

“Nah, got family business tonight,” I lie smoothly, peeling off my gloves.

“Your loss, mate.” A chorus of goodbyes follows as I make my way to the lockers, the weight of anticipation making each step heavier than the last.

“See ya tomorrow,” I call back without turning, swinging open my locker to grab my jacket. Stuffing my hands into the pockets, I feel the shape of a pill bottle against my thigh, its presence both a promise and a peril.

I can get a lot of money for this prototype.

I just need to be smart about it.

The lab’s fluorescent lights flicker their goodbye as I step out into the chilly Dublin evening, the sky painted in shades of spring—grays and darker grays. My boots kiss the pavement with purpose.

I’m headed back to my old neighborhood, to someone I know is ready to pay high dollar for what I have to offer.

I can’t believe my own pulse isn’t giving me away as I weave through the thrumming underbelly of Dublin’s red light district. Every shady glance slides off me, every hushed deal happening in darkened doorways is white noise. But it’s not the night that’s got my heart on a leash; it’s the prototype suppressant, heavy in my pocket. I head to a certain brothel the militant Bluestockings use as a base, around the back to the basement door.

“Got business here?” The voice cuts through the murk, deep and unimpressed. A bouncer, her head shaved to the skin, eyes rimmed with thick eyeliner that screams don’t mess, blocks the basement entrance of a building that’s seen better days.

“Yeah, I’ve got an appointment,” I say, casual as you please.

“Got a name?”

“Isla Connolly,” I murmur. “Er—that’s not my name, it’s—“

“Got it,” she says with a rough laugh. “Go on in, Mr. Doyle.”

She steps aside, the door groaning like it’s sharing secrets as I descend into the belly of the brothel. The air’s thick with desperation and defiance, clinging to my lungs. The stairs let out into a small, grubby room with four omegas inside, all with shaved heads and coiled tight. One of them—with dark peach fuzz and blazing blue eyes—stands up and walks toward me, looming large in her military fatigues.

“You him?” she says. “Better not have brought trouble.”

“Here for a trade. Nothing more, nothing less.” My hand pats the prototype through my jacket, the only thing keeping their suspicion at bay.

“Isla Connolly,” she says, stepping forward from the lineup like she owns every inch of this dank basement. The bare bulb overhead does nothing for ambiance, but it sure as hell outlines her like she’s the main act.

“Rook,” I offer in return, and there’s a flicker of recognition in her gaze. “Bluestockings, right?”

She nods, arms crossed, a no-nonsense aura about her despite the place we’re standing in. “What’s your price on the prototype?”

“Depends,” I say, trying to look anywhere but at the sway of her hips. “Are we talking straight cash or some kind of trade?”

“Bit of both, maybe.” Isla’s lips quirk up at the corner, challenge dancing in her eyes. “You drive a hard bargain?”

“Only when I’m not driving off a cliff,” I shoot back. The tension eases a fraction, like she appreciates someone who can keep pace.

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