Page 16 of Sacrifice

Aisling’s gaze is fixed on me, her lips parted slightly as if she’s about to speak but can’t quite find the words. It’s a big play, and the gravity of it isn’t lost on any of us.

“Are you serious, Gunnar?” Her voice is a thread, barely carrying across the expanse of wood between us

“Dead serious.” I meet her eyes, trying to convey every ounce of conviction I feel.

She hesitates, looking from me to Oberon, then Luka, and back again. “Do we need to talk about this alone?” Her question hangs between us, an invitation to secrecy, to revert to old habits where decisions were made behind closed doors.

But those days are over. We’re a pack; fractured, maybe, but still bound by something fiercer than the chaos outside these walls.

“No.” The word is out before I can second-guess it. “Whatever happens, whatever we decide…it’s not just about us anymore. Oberon, Luka—they’re in this with us. We stand together.”

Oberon clears his throat, and I turn to look at him. He’s the steady one, the voice of reason when the rest of us are ready to leap without looking. “We have to be strategic about this,” he says, his voice low but carrying a weight that demands attention. “An alliance with Nero could be our ace, but it will set Vance off. And he’s teetering on the edge as it is.”

Oberon’s right. Vance is a powder keg, and news of Aisling’s potential mating with another alpha—especially Nero Rossi—would be the spark.

“Then we need to meet with Nero first,” I say, my mind already racing through the logistics of such a meeting. “Face-to-face, no intermediaries. We lay it all out for him.”

I stand up, pushing the chair back with a scrape that seems too loud in the charged silence. My gut clenches because I know what I’m suggesting risks more than just our safety—it risks the fragile trust Aisling and I have started to rebuild. But there’s something else too, an undercurrent of excitement at the thought of playing this dangerous game.

“Oberon, Luka, we need you two to hold down the fort here. Cover for us.” I glance between them, silently pleading for their cooperation without having to spell it out.

Luka nods, his expression unreadable as always since the eros-fueled incident that brought him unwillingly into our fold. There’s tension there, unspoken apologies and resentments that coil around us like barbed wire. But now isn’t the time to address it.

“Got it,” Oberon says, rising from his seat. His eyes lock onto mine, a silent vow that he’ll protect this place, our people, with everything he’s got. I don’t doubt it for a second. Oberon might be the heart of us, but he’s also the shield.

“Let’s go,” I tell Aisling, extending my hand to help her up. She hesitates, then places her smaller, paler hand in mine. Her skin is cool to the touch, her grip tentative but firm.

“Alright,” she whispers, and there’s a new determination in her eyes. “But Gunnar…if you have any hesitations, you need to tell me right away.”

“I will,” I nod. “Promise.”

Chapter eight

Aisling

I tug at the hem of my dress as we navigate the throngs on the Oasis Strip, my gaze twitching to every shadow that stretches across the neon-lit pavement. Gunnar’s hand finds the small of my back, a silent signal to keep close as we both glance over our shoulders. I can’t help but grumble under my breath.

“Of all places, he chooses the most popular restaurant in town?” My voice barely carries over the din of nightlife around us.

“Apparently, subtlety isn’t one of Nero’s strengths.” Gunnar’s scoff is dry, his eyes scanning the crowd with practiced paranoia.

“Or it’s a trap,” I mutter, the taste of betrayal already bitter on my tongue.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Gunnar’s phone buzzes and he pulls it from his pocket, reads the message, and an eyebrow arches in disbelief. “He says we have a reservation with ‘The Fiddler.’ That’s our ticket in.”

“Sounds shady,” I reply, eyeing the entrance to the restaurant where a line of eager patrons snakes around the block. “You sure Nero’s not playing games?”

Gunnar slips the phone back into his pocket. “We’ll find out soon enough. Let’s go meet The Fiddler.”

Rolling my eyes, I follow his lead, bracing for whatever this night holds.

Weaving through the crowd, we approach the restaurant’s front desk, a beacon of light amidst the Oasis Strip’s chaotic ballet of colors and sounds. Gunnar steps up with that assertive confidence that always makes people take notice—even when he doesn’t mean to.

“Reservation for The Fiddler,” he states, his voice a calm force that cuts through the ambient chatter.

The host, adorned in a strange pair of glasses that shimmer against the backdrop of dim lighting, pauses and then nods. With a flick of his wrist, he beckons us to follow. A murmur of discontent ripples through the queue as we pass, but their complaints are like static, irrelevant compared to my pounding heart.

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