Page 58 of Rook

“…what do we do with her?”

Gunnar’s voice is the last one I hear. “Call Oberon to get her booked at the heat spa,” he growls. “We’re gonna fuck her until we’ve figured this out.”

Chapter twenty-five

Oberon

I don’t even like whiskey, but tonight feels like a whiskey kind of night.

The bar’s low hum of conversations and clinking glasses does nothing to soothe the irritation scratching up my insides. Luka’s screw-up keeps replaying in my head, his words to Gunnar about New Eden lighting a fuse I can’t snuff out. And Gunnar, that stubborn son of a bitch, just takes off.

But Aisling—Aisling’s lies are what really get me. I’ve stood by her this whole time, I understand why she does it…but it’s even starting to get to me.

Something’s gotta give.

We’re her pack, not her pawns.

“Another?” The bartender, a beta with more scars than skin showing, nods at my empty glass.

“Keep ’em coming until I stop frowning,” I say, pushing the glass toward him. It’s not his fault everything’s gone to hell, so I try to keep the edge out of my voice.

I fish my phone out of my pocket. Still no word from Aisling. She’s been with Inari for too long, and the silence is gnawing at me. I hate it, this feeling like I’m teetering on the edge of something dark and hollow. The screen stays stubbornly silent, and I resist the urge to hurl it across the room.

“Something’s not right,” I whisper to myself. Oasis is a snake pit at the best of times, but tonight there’s a different kind of venom in the air. I run a hand through my hair, the uneasy sensation creeping up my neck. Aisling should’ve checked in by now, especially after meeting with Inari. That omega might be crimelord of the Palms, but she’s as unpredictable as desert rain.

“Oberon, you look like you’re trying to pick a fight with your drink,” a voice says over my shoulder. “And I’ve got bad news—the drink’s gonna win.”

I look up as Rook slides into the barstool next to me, Irish accent over a gravelly voice. I give a half-hearted shrug.

“Drink?” I ask, not waiting for his nod before I signal for two more of whatever hell I’ve been pouring down my throat.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the glass the bartender slides over. He raises it in a silent salute before taking a sip, eyes scanning the dimly lit room like he’s reading a story in every shadow.

We sit there, the silence stretching between us like a challenge. It’s not comfortable, but it’s necessary. We’re both wound tight, ready to snap, and the quiet is the only thing keeping us from breaking.

“Where’d you run off to?” I finally break the silence, turning to face him.

“Needed some air,” Rook says, his gaze still fixed on something in the distance, something I can’t see. “Place was getting too close, too loud.”

“Find what you were looking for?” I’m not sure why I ask; maybe I’m looking for confirmation that we’re both still searching for something solid to hold onto in this shifting sandstorm of alliances and betrayals.

Rook turns to look at me then, his eyes a mirror of the night sky outside—dark, deep, and full of secrets. “Not yet,” he admits, and there’s a weight in his words that tells me he’s searching for more than just fresh air or a quiet corner.

I flick my gaze over to Rook, noticing the way his fingers trace the rim of his glass in an absent-minded gesture. “So, what’s the story?” I nudge, leaning back into the faux leather of the barstool.

“Hit up an old contact.” He takes a slow sip, eyes hooded. “Wanted to get the lay of the land, pick up anything that might give us an edge.”

“Any luck?”

“Nothing but nerves and dead ends.” Rook’s voice is gravel mixed with frustration. “She’s just as in the dark, biting her nails down to the quick.”

“Damn.” I drain the last of my drink, ice clinking emptily against glass. “Been one hell of a day.”

Rook nods, shifting in his seat, clearly restless. “Where’s everyone scattered off to now?”

“Vance disappeared into his hole, Nero slinked off to his lair,” I murmur, the words tasting bitter. “Gunnar and Luka needed some space to hash things out.”

“Alone?” Rook raises an eyebrow, skeptical.

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