Page 54 of Rook

Gunnar.

He’s changed since last time—he’s changed a hell of a lot since I came into his life at all. He’s got dark circles under his eyes, his beard scruffy, hair mussed. It takes everything in me not to throw myself at him and beg for his forgiveness.

Then I get a look at the room.

The sight that greets me has my stomach dropping to my knees. Luka’s slumped in an armchair, an icepack over a badly bruised face, and Gunnar…he looks like he’s gone ten rounds with a storm. My eyes snap wide at the image of them—two alphas, both wrecked.

By me.

I did this, and I hate myself for it.

“What the hell happened?” The words spill out of me before I can think better of it.

Gunnar lets out a sharp laugh, hollow as a grave, and turns away with a shake of his head. He doesn’t answer, just leaves the door swinging wide for me to come in. I step inside, the heavy scent of alpha pheromones and blood filling my nose. It’s disorienting, this mix of power and pain.

I make a beeline for Luka, ignoring the churning in my gut. He tries to bat me away as I kneel next to him, but I catch his hand—icy cold and trembling slightly.

“Stop it, let me see,” I insist, my voice stronger than the quiver I feel inside.

Luka’s eyes flicker to Gunnar before he lets out a defeated sigh, giving in. His usual bravado is nowhere to be found, and that scares me more than the bruises marring his face.

I glance back at Gunnar, looking for some explanation. My heart hammers against my ribcage waiting for his answer. “Gunnar, talk to me. What did this?”

He takes his time, a predator playing with his prey, his back still turned to me. When he finally faces us, his expression is unreadable. “I kicked his ass down at the bar.” His voice is flat, detached.

My breath catches. “Why?” It’s a whisper, barely loud enough to carry across the tension-filled space.

“Because,” Gunnar starts, and there’s something dangerous flashing in his steel-gray eyes, “he said he raped you while you were on eros in New Eden.”

The words hit like a physical blow, sending a shockwave through me. I can’t help but look at Luka again, searching for some sign of regret, some hint of the man I thought I knew.

But all I find is shame and a second-hand sort of pain that I know is for me, not him.

Silence stretches between us, so thick I could choke on it. Gunnar’s back at the minibar, pouring himself another drink as if we’re discussing something as banal as the weather. The ice clinks against the glass like a warning bell.

I turn to Luka, my voice a whip-crack in the stillness. “I asked you not to tell him.”

Gunnar’s laugh is a short, harsh bark that makes me flinch. Without turning, he tosses the question over his shoulder like a grenade. “Why? Because you like lying to me?”

That gets me on my feet, anger kindling hot and fast inside my chest. “No,” I snap, stalking toward him, “because I knew you’d do something stupid like this. You’d beat the hell out of him.” I gesture back at Luka, who’s watching us with a wary expression, as if we’re a couple of alphas about to lock horns.

“Really?” Gunnar turns fully now, fixing me with a glare that could strip paint from the walls. “You think that little of me?”

“Yes!” The word bursts from me before I can stop it. “I don’t know what to think of you anymore, especially after you sent people to kill me!”

The accusation hangs heavy in the air, and for a moment, Gunnar looks as though I’ve slapped him. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing into slits, and I know I’ve hit a nerve, maybe drawn blood.

“Is that what you think?” His voice is low, dangerous, and I wonder if I’ve pushed him too far this time. But I’m past caring. Fear and fury make a volatile mix, and right now, I’m full of both.

“Wasn’t me,” Gunnar growls, his voice a low rumble in the tension-soaked room. He shakes his head with a scoff that sounds as rough as gravel under tires. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Those assassins seemed pretty damn sure of themselves,” I shoot back, my voice rising despite my attempt to keep it steady. “They said it loud and clear—that you and Nero want us gone!”

He laughs then, but it’s not a sound that reaches his eyes. It’s cold, dismissive—a sound that says he’s heard too many lies to count them anymore. “Aisling, if I wanted you gone, you’d be gone. No need for theatrics.”

My heart hammers against my ribs like it wants out, and I feel something break inside me—a dam giving way to let all the pent-up hurt come flooding through. “Did I…did Oberon and I ever mean anything to you?” My voice cracks on his name, the name of our packmate who’s been more loyal than shadows—always there, even when I don’t see him. “Or was all that talk about being ‘pack’ just another one of your lies?”

Gunnar goes still, the glass in his hand forgotten. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice, as if he’s chewing on his answer before spitting it out.

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