Page 129 of Bonds of Hate

Logan’s weight suddenly collapses on top of me with agrunt. His body goes completely slack, pinning me to the couch.

“What—” I push at his shoulders, trying to wiggle free. Confused, I look up to see Cillian standing over us, holding a now broken lamp from the side table.

“Get up,” Cillian orders, his voice tight with urgency. “Hurry.”

He helps me by rolling Logan’s unconscious form enough that I can slip out from underneath the unconscious mass of Alpha. I scramble to my feet and yank my dress back into place. My heart hammers against my ribs as I stare at the beta in shock.

“Did you just knock him out?”

“He’ll be fine, just a headache when he wakes up.” Cillian tosses the lamp base aside and wipes off his sweat-soaked brow. “You need to follow me. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, not after you fed me fake suppressants.”

“I didn’t—“ he cuts himself off with a curse. “We don’t have time for this.”

I force myself to study him despite the haze slowly overtaking my logical thought processes. His eyes dart back and forth, body tense with an almost frantic energy as he edges toward the hallway.

“Why would you help me?” I ask.

“Poe and Ares are already on their way back and Logan won’t be out for more than a few minutes,” he challenges, instead of answering the question. “You really want them to find you like this?”

I cast a glance at Logan’s collapsed form on the couch. In a few minutes, he is going to wake up drunk, angry andlooking for me. Another cramp twists through me and a bead of fluid drips down the inside of my thigh. It’s too late to run. I’m probably only minutes away from full-blown heat. “Fine.”

He surprises me by heading deeper into the apartment instead of to the exit. I stumble after him. We go down the long hallway past all the bedrooms until we reach a door that I belatedly realize is familiar.

“The training room?”

“Repurposed training room,” he corrects, gesturing for me to proceed him down the rickety stairs. “In the old days, every royal’s apartment was outfitted to have a panic room for their Omega’s heat. Thick walls, no windows and a door strong enough to withstand even the strongest Alpha in a rampage. Obviously, we haven’t had a need for that until now.”

I huff out a shallow breath as another wave of painful need rolls through me. “So what’s the plan? Lock me in here until it passes?”

“Something like that.”

Halfway down the stairs, I hear the door slam shut. Turning back, I watch as he does up an impressive sequence of locks and then swings down a heavy metal bar.

Locking us in here together.

He brushes past as I stand frozen, deliberately skirting me in a way that doesn’t require any part of his body to come into contact with mine.

“You’re staying, too?”

“Obviously,” he replies drolly. When I continue to stare at him, he rolls his eyes. “Not for that. Believe it or not, I’m just trying to help you.”

“Could have fooled me with those fake suppressants.”

“I didn’t give you fake suppressants. My normal dealer said he got a new supplier. It didn’t occur to me to question it until it was already too late.” He runs a hand through his pale hair, clearly agitated. Blankets are piled up in the center of the room. He takes an armful and dumps them on an exercise mat near the wall. “This is your side. Stay on yours and I’ll stay on mine. There is some food and water in the cabinet there. Hopefully, it’s enough to last.”

Cillian takes the leftover blankets and drags them to the far side of the room. Ignoring me, he methodically arranges them on an exercise mat of his own. When a pillow falls over, destroying the tent-like structure he’d been making, he lets out a high-pitched sound of frustration.

Baby powder and lily scent the air.

I force myself to look at him. Really, look at him. His slim frame, lithe with muscle and normally elegant in its movements, practically vibrates with nervous energy. The plain white t-shirt he wears is damp with large circles of sweat and sticks to his skin. The fine strands of his pale hair, usually perfectly arranged, stick up in different directions as if he’s been compulsively running his hands through it.

Then I notice the packet of pills tossed in the corner, yellow tablets scattered on the floor like he’d thrown them across the room.

Puzzle pieces I’d noticed and discarded over the last few days slowly fall into place, forming a picture very different from the one I’d seen on the box. All the evidence had been there, obvious if I’d been more willing to accept the impossible.

I don’t even mean to say it out loud, but the sheer shock of the realization compels the words out of me.

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