Page 74 of Sacrifice

A ripple of nods and low affirmations travels through the crowd. Grief is a heavy cloak on our shoulders, yet beneath it stirs the flicker of something else—resolve, maybe even hope. Watching Gunnar now, I can almost believe in that future he paints with his words.

Then Oberon is moving, his large frame cutting through the sea of bodies with an air of quiet authority that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. When he reaches Gunnar, he places a hand on his shoulder—a silent pillar of support. “We’re with you, Gunnar. All the way.”

It’s a simple gesture, but it feels like a dam breaking, unleashing a torrent of solidarity that washes over us all. I stand straighter, as if responding to some ancient call to band together, to protect the pack.

“Rest tonight,” Gunnar finally says, his gaze sweeping the room, locking with each pair of eyes as though seeing into our very souls. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead, but I know we can do it. Together, we’re unstoppable.”

As the crowd begins to break apart, finding comfort in hushed conversations or solitude, I stay rooted to my spot. I’m caught in the crosscurrents of my own turmoil—the pride I feel for Gunnar, the concern that shadows every decision we make, the lingering scars of the past year…of my whole life.

It’s all crystalizing into this.

Now.

“Hey,” a voice whispers beside me, and I turn to find Oberon, his eyes warm with understanding. “You good?”

I nod, unable to muster words when my thoughts are still tangled. Oberon offers me a half-smile, his silent assurance that he’s here, no matter what storms may come. Gunnar catches my eye across the room, and something unspoken passes between us. A promise, a challenge, a shared dream. For a heartbeat, the weight of our past conflicts lifts, and all I see is the man who has become my compass in the chaos, the alpha whose resolve mirrors my own.

I push through the dissipating crowd, my steps deliberate as I make my way to him. Gunnar stands like an ancient warrior among the ruins of a battle, unyielding and fierce, yet his eyes soften when they meet mine.

“We did good tonight,” I say, my voice barely above the murmur of conversations around us. It’s a simple statement, but it carries the weight of every fight we’ve survived, every moment we’ve clawed back from the brink of despair.

Gunnar’s nod is slow, contemplative. “Yeah. But this is just the beginning.” His words are heavy with reality, a reminder that what we’ve accomplished is only a prelude to the war still ahead.

“Are you ready for this?” I ask, not because I doubt him, but because I need to hear his conviction, to feel it wrap around me like armor against the uncertainty gnawing at my insides.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he replies, his hand finding mine, his touch grounding me. “With you by my side, Aisling, I believe we can face anything.”

Our fingers intertwine, a silent vow exchanged in the simple gesture. Oberon joins us, his presence a comforting constant, and Luka watches from afar, his gaze a complex tapestry of regret and resolve.

In this fractured world, with its shifting alliances and treacherous paths, our bond is the one certainty I cling to. Together, we are more than the sum of our parts—more than omegas and alphas, more than warriors and survivors.

Gunnar pulls me into his arms and I think he’s just about to kiss me—but Rook suddenly strides toward us, interrupting. Isla is at his elbow, a phone to her ear. “Yeah…mmhm,” she’s saying. “I’m disappointed, but not surprised. I’ll let them know.”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Isla takes my elbow, Gunnar letting out a low growl in response. She ignores him.

“You’re going to want to hear this,” Rook says. “Somewhere private.”

“Is it about…” I trail off. “You know who?”

Rook nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Him…and Nero’s shooter.”

Chapter thirty-two

Rook

I stand at the center of Nero’s suite, my eyes scanning the faces of my packmates. The luxury of the room—its high ceilings and plush carpets—is lost on us now. We’re too caught up in this moment, our instincts tuned to the same frequency of dread.

Nero sits down on the couch with a pained grunt, his black hair a stark contrast against his artificially pale skin, his brown eyes unreadable. He’s been quiet since we gathered, but I know the wheels are turning in his head. The guy’s mind is a labyrinth; I’ve always found it impossible to predict his next move.

Around me, Gunnar, Aisling, Oberon, Luka, and the rest—all of them stiff as statues, waiting for me to break the silence. Aisling’s fingers twist a strand of her silver-blonde hair, a tell that she’s anxious. Gunnar stands close behind her, a silent pillar of support. In their proximity, there’s a tension that speaks of a bond solidified through trials by fire. Oberon shifts, his posture rigid with the kind of tension that precedes a storm. Luka mirrors him, his body language screaming readiness for combat. They don’t have to say it aloud—I can feel the weight of their concerns.

“Look, I won’t sugarcoat it,” I continue, folding my arms across my chest. “We’ve been in the dark for a while, but that’s about to change.”

I pace a short line in front of the expansive window, the cityscape of Pacific City sprawling below us like a diorama of desolation under the iron-gray morning sky. Every step I take is measured, deliberate—the calm before the storm.

“Since we hit the Mojave lab, I’ve been digging through the data,” I say, my voice steady despite the churn of my stomach. “Sifting through code, cross-referencing, hacking into encrypted channels.”

---