Page 103 of Bonds of Hate

But the memory of Logan’s gentle touches and displays of obvious pride throughout the day wars with my resolve. The way he actually listened to my suggestions during his meetings, how proud he seemed of my contributions. For the first time, he treated me like a true partner rather than just anornament.

Would it be so terrible to let myself want this? To be his princess? His queen, even? The thought sends an electric thrill down my spine.

Another low moan from the shower breaks through my musings. My breath catches as the sound seems to vibrate through my entire body. I press my palms flat against the cool leather, trying to ground myself.

I’m supposed to be resisting him. There are good reasons, but with each passing second, those reasons grow hazier and less convincing. I’ve already signed my body over to Logan and his pack, agreed to provide almost anything they want from me. It’s only a matter of time before one of them takes that next step and claims me completely. I’ve been mentally preparing myself for it from the moment I arrived at the palace.

Why am I still resisting this?

Why am I delaying the inevitable?

Especially when I think I might want this too.

I rise from the couch before I can second-guess myself. My feet carry me down the hallway toward the sound of running water, heart hammering against my ribs. Steam billows out from under the bathroom door, carrying Logan’s rich scent with it.

The door handle turns easily under my trembling fingers. No lock. Practically an invitation.

I open the door, a gust of humid air immediately clinging to my skin and making the elaborate dress feel even more constricting. Through the frosted glass of the shower door, I can make out Logan’s silhouette — all hard planes and powerful muscles.

Whatever else I might think of him, Logan has always been a perfect physical specimen of Alpha male.

He doesn’t notice me enter. His head tilts back under the spray, likely obscuring the sound of the door swinging open on oiled hinges. Water cascades down his broad shoulders and perfectly sculpted back. My mouth goes dry at the sight. I’ve never seen an Alpha fully naked before, and Logan’s body is breathtaking.

My gaze traces the powerful lines of his shoulders, admiring how the water highlights every ridge of muscle. But then I notice something that makes my blood run cold.

The steam suddenly feels suffocating. I stumbled back through the still open door, desire entirely snuffed out by a rising tide of panic. My hip bumps the counter and I freeze, terrified he’ll hear me, but the sound of running water covers my clumsy exit as I flee the bathroom.

There, on his left shoulder blade, was a mark I’d recognize anywhere. The distinctive starburst pattern of scar tissue, slightly raised and silvery against his tanned skin, long healed but permanent.

A claiming bite.

The dinner arranged for tonight isn’t as elaborate or well-attended as the gala, but it’s a close thing. Many of the ministers and advisors I encountered today are here, including some I don’t recognize. At least a dozen royal princes, along with their packs and Omegas, occupy seats at two long tables in the ballroom. A much smaller, butslightly elevated, table has been set up at the center of the room where the king sits alone.

There are enough people here that my solemn silence goes unnoticed in the constant din of active conversation. When I am I forcibly engaged, I’m barely aware of what I’m saying or doing, relying on instinct to keep from making a fool of myself.

I push food around on my plate, feigning at eating. Of course, Ares notices my lack of appetite. He continues to pile choice cuts of meat and the freshest-looking vegetables on my plate until I’m forced to take a few bites just to get him to stop.

“You’ve barely touched anything.” Ares slides a piece of buttered bread onto my plate. “Remember what I said about skipping meals?”

He sounds more concerned than demanding, which just makes me feel worse.

“I’m just tired from all the meetings today.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

Poe dark eyes narrow at me from across the table, though his frown lifts somewhat when he catches me looking at him. His gaze falls to the golden pendant in the shape of the Corellian sigil cradled on my chest, a perfect match for the lace pattern gleaming on my back. He had gifted it to me just before dinner, admitting to have liberated it from the former queen’s apartment with a boyish smile.

Maybe I should play drinking games with them more often. They might not be drunk anymore, but the good mood of that night has lasted.

It helps that they only seem to remember the best parts.

Even Cillian had shot me a questioning gaze when I sunk into my seat, looking very much as if he wanted to ask me if something was wrong. It’s the most sympathetic I’ve seen him appear, particularly noteworthy as he doesn’t look particularly well himself. There are dark circles under his eyes, as if he didn’t sleep well the night before.

Their kindness pierces my chest like a knife. Each gentle word and thoughtful gesture is another stab. They’re treating me like I actually have any chance of becoming a part of their pack.

All I can think about is what I saw in the bathroom.

Do they know?

My gaze shifts briefly to Logan, who lounges in his seat as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. For all I know, he doesn’t.

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