Page 22 of Sacrifice

“Can I get you anything?” the bartender asks Luka.

“Water,” Luka replies. The bartender pauses for just a beat—water isn’t a usual request here—but then he nods and turns to fill a glass.

Drinks arrive, and we take them, mine throwing off a rich amber glow, Luka’s reflecting the dim lights like a mirror. We leave the bar behind, moving to a corner booth that’s become too familiar for comfort. It’s the same spot where I lied through my teeth to Vance not twenty-four hours ago. That lie sits between us now, an invisible third occupant of the worn leather seat.

I slide in, the whiskey heavy in my hand, while Luka keeps his distance on the other side, nursing the water as if it’s a lifeline. There’s a tension that wasn’t there before Aisling came into our lives, a tautness that neither of us knows how to navigate.

Her presence—even when she’s miles away—has changed everything, reshaped the dynamics of our gang, our relationships, our very selves. Luka’s got this pinched look around his eyes, and I don’t need to be a mind reader to tell he’s sitting on a bombshell ready to blow.

“Something’s eating you,” I venture, breaking the silence that’s too thick, too charged with all the words we aren’t saying. I can see the war behind his eyes, the push and pull of what he wants to say and what he thinks he should keep buried.

“Rook,” he starts, then stops, a frown creasing his brow. He takes another sip of water, buying time. I lean back, waiting him out, knowing that whatever he’s got to say is going to stir up the murky waters we’re both trying to wade through.

“We’ve come a long way from getting high in a church attic, huh?” I say, attempting to lighten the mood. “Look at us now. You sober, me…well, still an alcoholic.”

Luka chuckles softly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which keep flicking to the screen of his phone like moths to a flame.

“Those were simpler times,” Luka murmurs, his voice tinged with something like regret—or maybe it’s longing. “No labs, no omegas…just the unknown ahead.”

“Exactly.” I nod, taking a sip of my whiskey. The burn is familiar, comforting even, but it does nothing to ease the tension. “We could use a bit of that simplicity now, huh?”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” he admits, but his attention is snagged again by the damn phone vibrating on the tabletop.

“Spit it out, Luka,” I finally say, unable to contain my frustration any longer. I set down my glass harder than necessary. “You’ve been twitchy since you walked in. Something’s got you on edge—and it ain’t just the usual crap we deal with.”

He pauses, and there’s a moment where I think he might actually confide in me. But instead, he locks the phone and shoves it into the pocket of his jacket. His jaw clenches, a visible sign of the inner turmoil he’s wrestling with.

“It’s nothing,” he lies, and I can tell from the tightness in his voice that it’s anything but.

“Come on, man.” I lean in, pressing. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on. And you look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”

Luka’s gaze finally meets mine, raw and searching. It’s clear he’s torn between loyalty and the need to unburden himself. Whatever it is, it’s big enough to shake him—and that alone is enough to set off alarm bells in my head.

Luka exhales slowly, his breath a fog against the dim light of the Moonshine Lounge. He glances around, ensuring no one’s close enough to eavesdrop. Then he leans closer, and I do the same, feeling the buzz of anticipation and dread mingling in my gut.

“Aisling and Gunnar,” he starts, and already the mention of her name sends a ripple through me. “They’re out with Nero tonight.”

Nero. The mere name carries weight, a reminder of the chaos that follows him like a shadow. That Aisling, our Aisling, would be anywhere near that unpredictable Alpha sets my teeth on edge.

“And that’s not all,” Luka continues, and there’s a heaviness to his words that makes my chest tighten. “Inari—she thinks Aisling should…she suggested Aisling mate with Nero. Bring him into the pack. And Gunnar seems to like the idea.”

The shock of it hits me like a gut punch, leaving me reeling. My hand tightens around my glass, knuckles going white with the effort to keep from shattering it. I can feel the burn of whiskey in my throat, forgotten in the wake of Luka’s revelation.

“Damn,” I mutter, struggling to keep my voice level. “Inari’s playing a dangerous game.”

Luka nods solemnly, his eyes locked onto mine. “Rook,” he says quietly, a whisper meant for only me, “whatever happens here—this stays between us.”

“Of course.” The response is automatic, loyalty woven deep into my being. But beneath the surface, the news festers, a wound that won’t easily heal. Aisling and Nero. The thought alone is enough to stir a bitter taste in my mouth.

It’s not jealousy; it’s fear. Fear for what this means for us—for her—and the precarious balance we’ve fought so hard to maintain. It’s a mess, one that seems to tangle further with every passing day.

And, well…maybe it’s a little bit of jealousy.

I take a long swig of whiskey, feeling the liquid courage course through my veins. “You know, I’ve been taking my time with Aisling,” I confess, setting the glass down with more force than necessary. “But now…now I’m scared I’m getting left behind.”

“Rook,” Luka says, his brow creasing with concern. “She’s got Gunnar, Oberon, me—thanks to that damn drug—and now possibly Nero. But you’re different. You’re not just another alpha vying for control.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “That’s just it, isn’t it? As a beta, I know where I stand. She’s got her pick of alphas, enough to keep her satisfied.” The words taste like ash as they fall from my lips. My role in this twisted hierarchy has always been clear, but never has it felt so much like a curse.

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