Page 43 of Rook

“Welcome to the lioness’ den,” I say under my breath, my gaze lingering on the skyline, the jagged teeth of a world both beautiful and cruel. The room is bathed in the soft glow of evening light, casting long shadows across the expensive furniture and priceless art that adorn Inari Toure’s office. It feels like walking into a still life painting—one wrong move and the whole scene might shatter.

“Rook,” Inari greets, her voice smooth as silk but with an edge that could cut glass. She sits poised at her desk, a picture of omega grace and power. Vance Solace leans against it, his bright eyes flicking over to us, a smirk teasing his lips. But it’s not him that sends my heart into a tailspin—it’s the figure standing quietly behind Inari.

Isla Connolly.

A ghost from my past that I never expected to haunt these halls. Her presence is a punch to the gut, a reminder of dirty secrets and blood-stained alleys.

The last time I saw her was the night I was arrested…when the European Authority busted the Bluestockings in Dublin. She blamed me for it all.

And now, she’s here.

Glaring at me.

“Been a while, Rook,” Isla says, her voice low and measured, her Irish accent achingly nostalgic. She narrows her eyes at me, and I feel the weight of years between us, heavy with things left unsaid.

“Didn’t think I’d see you on this side of purgatory,” I manage to say, keeping my tone neutral. We take our seats, the leather creaking under our collective weight. I angle myself so I can keep an eye on both her and Inari.

“Care for a drink?” Inari’s offer slices through the tension, her eyes glittering with unspoken challenges.

“Sure,” Aisling chimes in, eager to ease the atmosphere.

“Vance, darling, would you do the honors?” Inari’s command rolls off her tongue, sweetened with honey but laced with steel.

We all go quiet. Vance is the Archangel, not Inari’s lackey. This is the boldest damn power move I’ve seen in months.

And yet…

Vance chuckles—a sound that doesn’t quite reach his eyes—and pushes away from the desk. He moves to the bar with a grace that belies his size, pouring scotch with a steady hand. His movements are a carefully choreographed dance, a show of obedience to Inari’s will, but his stance screams defiance.

“Scotch, Rook?” he asks, holding up a glass filled with amber liquid.

“Hit me.” I nod, watching as he fills another glass and sets it before me, the liquid catching the light as if it contains the fire of the city below.

The air is thick with the scent of power plays and old vendettas as glasses clink and whiskey burns down our throats. Oberon watches the exchange, his expression unreadable, while Aisling remains quiet, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. I wonder what game we’ve stepped into and how many moves ahead Inari has already planned.

I lean back in the plush leather chair, a silent player in this high-stakes game, my gaze lingering on Isla’s hardened features. The air is thick with the scent of old books and ambition, and the clinking of glasses underscores the undercurrents of power swirling around us.

“Welcome to Oasis,” Inari purrs from behind her desk. Her eyes are sharp, cunning—a predator disguised in silk and smiles. “I hope you’ll find our amenities to your liking.”

Amenities like the Archangel playing bartender? I don’t say the words, even though I wonder how Vance would react. Aisling’s voice cuts through the pleasantries like a blade. “And why exactly are we here, Inari? What’s your angle?”

A smirk plays at the corners of Inari’s lips. She leans forward slightly, elbows on the mahogany desk, relishing in the directness. “Aisling, darling, I admire your forthrightness. I assure you, my intentions are quite simple—I aim to empower omegas, to lift us from beneath the heels of alphas and betas alike.”

Her fingers drum a soft rhythm on the polished wood, a telltale sign that she’s about to drop the other shoe. “In fact, I’d like to discuss some…opportunities with you. Alone.”

The room shifts, an unspoken tension coiling tight. Oberon’s jaw sets hard, the muscles flexing visibly as he glances between Aisling and Inari. Luka’s hand twitches, a subtle but clear sign of his unease. And me? I’m a silent observer, the quiet before the storm, my instincts screaming that this is a pivotal moment.

“Everyone else,” Inari continues, her voice velvet over steel, “please feel free to enjoy the comforts of my establishment. Oberon, Luka, Rook—this won’t take long.”

There’s a beat of silence, a collective breath held before the inevitable exhale. Oberon stands, the picture of reluctant compliance, while Luka shuffles his feet, casting a wary glance toward Aisling. I rise slowly, my mind racing, every sense heightened.

“Take your time,” I say, my voice steady despite the chaos brewing within. “We’ll be around.”

As we’re ushered out, I can’t help but wonder what cards Inari holds close to her chest—and what game she’s really playing.

I push back my chair and stand, the legs scraping against the lush carpet with a sound that echoes too loudly in the suddenly tense room. Oberon’s up next to me, his movements stiff as if every muscle in his body’s protesting. Luka follows suit, his eyes darting around, looking for something or someone to punch.

“Sure thing,” I mutter, but my mind’s spinning, trying to piece together Inari’s endgame.

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