Page 21 of Sacrifice

Gunnar’s voice cuts through the heavy atmosphere, as rich and commanding as his physical presence. “Aisling does what she wants now,” he states, firm and unyielding. It’s not just a fact; it’s a declaration of her reclaimed autonomy—a prize hard-won in this brutal world.

Curiosity piqued, I tilt my head, directing my unseen gaze toward where her voice last came from. “And what is it that you want, Aisling?”

The pause before her answer is pregnant with possibilities, stretching out like the endless night surrounding us. Then her voice emerges, softer but edged with steel. “I want to protect my pack. Gunnar, Oberon, Luka, Rook—all of them.” Her words weave through the darkness, stitching a tapestry of solidarity and strength. “And I’ll take you in too if you’re willing to fight with us.”

It’s enticing, even if I play it cool. I appreciate an omega who feels that same kind of protectiveness toward her pack as she does toward them. And damn, there’s something about her conviction that gets under my skin, makes me want to see this invisible woman who commands her life with such fierce determination.

“Is that all you want, Aisling?” I probe further, leaning back in my chair, my senses sharpening as I try to read between the lines of her spoken desires. “Just security?”

There’s a moment of silence, a brief interlude where I sense her considering her next words—a strategic player contemplating her move on the chessboard of our conversation.

Then, without warning, I feel it—the unexpected touch of her foot sliding up the length of my calf. A bold move that sends a jolt through me, more potent than any words. It’s an intimacy that is both startling and intriguing in the pitch-black veil of this place.

“Security?” Her voice is a velvet caress against the backdrop of darkness, her foot inching higher, deliberate and provocative as it finds its way onto my lap. “In the post-Mutation world, it’s never just about security, is it?”

The audacity in her gesture stirs something primal within me. There’s a smugness to her tone, an unspoken challenge that she knows exactly what kind of game she’s playing—and how well she’s playing it.

“Never,” I agree, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth, even though she can’t see it. My own hand hovers above the table, tempted to reciprocate her daring with a brush of fingertips along her skin. But before I can act on the impulse, the waiter returns, his footsteps a soft shuffle against the carpet.

“Your dessert,” he announces, setting down plates with a practiced precision that comes from navigating in the dark. “Chocolate mousse with raspberry coulis and toasted hazelnuts.”

“Speaking of dessert…” I murmur, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a wad of cash thicker than the plot we’re weaving. The bills pass from my hand to the waiters with a rustle and a whisper of promise. “We’ll be needing some privacy for the next half-hour.”

“Of course.” His response is immediate, obsequious—a testament to the power of currency over courtesy. Then he’s gone, his footsteps retreating into the soundless abyss that swallows him whole.

“Thirty minutes?” Aisling’s voice cuts through the darkness, laced with amusement and something else—curiosity? Anticipation? “Do we need that long for dessert?”

“That,” I say, leaning back in my chair, the ghost of her touch still lingering on my leg, “is entirely up to Gunnar.”

There’s a comfort in the anonymity of this pitch-black space—the way I can’t see Aisling or Gunnar, but feel them, their energies mingling with mine in a dance that has no steps.

“Maybe,” Gunnar’s voice rumbles from across from me, a laugh hidden within the single word. It’s a sound that pulls at the corners of my lips, tugging them into an involuntary smirk. “What do you think, Aisling? Want to take this engagement for a test drive?”

Chapter ten

Rook

I thumb the burner phone, then hit ‘send’ on a message to Luka: “Moonshine Lounge. Need your ears on something.” It’s cryptic enough to pique his interest and urgent enough to get him moving.

We need to start talking about the Mojave raid…and how we’re going to get rid of Vance and the eros operation all at once.

Fuck me.

I feel like a real asshole.

The city is a living, breathing entity at this time of night, one that doesn’t care for the plight of any lone beta like me. I shove my way through throngs of bodies, each lost in their own tales of survival and sin in this dystopian cesspool I once called home. Oasis can be beautiful, but in the dead of night…well, it’s best not to walk alone.

I push open the door to the Moonshine Lounge, feeling the weight of the day slough off with the cool wave of artificially chilled air. The place is dimly lit, the kind of atmosphere where secrets fester and deals are cut over glasses that never stay empty long. I make a beeline for the bar, claiming a stool as my temporary throne in this kingdom of broken dreams.

“Rook,” the bartender nods at me when I take a seat, the familiarity between us unspoken but understood. He knows my poison; no need to waste words when I’ve been spending a hell of a lot of time here since dragging my sorry ass back from Pacific City.

Time ticks by, seconds stretching into minutes while I wait. The jukebox wails an old world tune, some country ballad about love gone wrong. It grates, scratching at the scabs of my own buried heartaches.

I want to give Aisling time…but damn it all, she doesn’t make it easy.

Then the door swings open again and there he is—Luka, late as usual but worth the wait. He scans the room, spots me, and prowls over with the grace of a predator despite being drenched in the stink of the past.

“Sorry I’m late,” he mutters as he slides onto the stool beside me. His profile is a study in tension, jaw set, eyes hooded. Whatever he’s got roiling inside him, it’s heavy, and it sets my teeth on edge.

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