Page 85 of Bonds of Hate

“Had a guard escort her back.” Logan grabs a champagne flute off a nearby tray, then downs it in one swallow. “She said she was tired. Had a headache or something.”

Bullshit. Maya is more reliable than an etiquette manual. No way she would ditch an event like this early with such a lame excuse. If anything, she’d figure out a way to make some grand exit that made it clear the party would be over without her.

It isn’t exactly like her to slink away, especially over something as dumb as a headache.

I’m tempted to call him on it. An unfamiliar urge. Logan is a prince. Leader of our pack, not just by birthright but because of a natural ability to compel others to follow him. An Alpha of my size and strength has his pick of packs. I chose Logan because I knew he was destined forgreatness, because I stood a good chance of becoming the right hand of the future king.

Doesn’t mean I don’t notice what a fucking idiot he can be sometimes.

I lean past him to grab my own glass of champagne. That’s when I catch it — the faintest trace of Omega arousal clinging to Logan’s jacket. But it’s almost incidental. Weak enough, I could convince myself it’s something else entirely.

If he and Maya had actually fucked, I would have been able to scent it from across the room.

But I’ve tasted her slick, I remember the way it coated my tongue for days afterward. That isn’t something you just forget.

I abruptly stand, deliberately ignoring Logan’s look of annoyance.

“Where the fuck are you going?” he asks.

“I think that headache is contagious. I’m gonna go take something for it.”

I don’t wait for him to gainsay me as I slip into the crowd. If he commands me to stay, it will force me in to a situation where I either have to choose to comply or refuse.

Better for both of us not to test which way that might go.

Maya’s scent is easy to follow back to the apartment, especially tainted with the sharp tang of distress as it is. A guard stands just outside and I wave him away with an impatient gesture. At least I know she made it back here in one piece. With Logan, you never know how things are going to turn out.

The apartment is silent and nearly pitch black when Ienter. Maya didn’t hit a single light switch on her way through, which makes me wonder how desperate she must have been to disappear into the darkness.

There isn’t any sign of her in the dining room or sitting area. Low light from the open curtains chases shadows across the walls as I move through the open space, alert for any sound or movement and finding none.

She has to be here, but where?

I take the stairs to the upper level two at a time, following the faint trail of Maya’s scent. Cherries, champagne and the salt tang of sadness. It leads straight to the upper hallway where all our bedrooms are located, but every door is already closed.

“Maya,” I call, not expecting a response.

I swear I hear her breathing, just the quickest intake of breath, narrowing the choice down to one of the rooms on closest to the stairs.

“It’s just me. The others are still at the gala.”

A faint shuffling sound comes from my left. I wait for almost an entire minute for the sound to come again, but the hallway remains silent.

In other circumstances, I’d be all for an extended game of hide and seek. Right now, I just need to make sure she isn’t floating in blood-tinted bathwater or wrapping a bedsheet around her neck.

On impulse, I try the middle door while thinking to myself there is no fucking way.

The handle doesn’t budge. Locked.

A choked sob comes from inside, followed by rustling fabric.

“Maya?” I keep my voice low, gentle. “You want to come out and talk about it?”

Silence answers me. Then another quiet sniffle.

“Can you at least let me know you’re okay in there?”

More silence.

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