Chapter 23: Valek

Chapter

Twenty-Three

VALEK

W hen did I start letting people touch me without killing them?

The fog in my brain has cleared enough that I can think somewhat straight now, but everything still feels... soft. Hazy around the edges.

Like looking through frosted glass.

I shouldn't be tolerating Wraith petting my hair. But I do. Why? Because it feels nice to be touched by someone who isn't hurting me?

Oh, how far I've fallen.

I rise unsteadily to my feet, ignoring Thane's wary gaze as I drift toward one of the archways leading deeper into the guest wing. My feet sink into the plush carpet with each step, and I can't help but marvel at the obscene luxury surrounding us.

White marble and gold filigree.

Pristine and perfect.

Like my father's lab coat before I painted it red.

The memory makes me smile.

Has it really only been a few days since I took Ivy?

Maybe even less.

Time has no meaning when you're riding the edge of sanity, dancing with madness like an old friend. The drugs they pumped into me at that facility certainly didn't help. But even before that, everything was... disconnected.

Fractured.

I trail my fingers along the wall as I walk, feeling the cool stone beneath my skin. So different from the sterile metal walls of the lab. From the rough concrete of the facility where they tried to break me again.

They should have known better.

You can't break what's already shattered.

My reflection catches my eye in a gilded mirror, and I pause. Silver eyes stare back at me, too bright. Too sharp. The white hair nearly every Vrissian has falls in disheveled choppy layers around my face.

I look exactly like him.

Except for the eyes.

His were blue.

Were .

Past tense.

Because I ripped them out before I killed him.

A soft laugh escapes me at the memory of the day I escaped that shithole and watched it all burn to the ground, and I watch my reflection's lips curve into that familiar grin that makes me look so different from the man who forced me into this world.

But there's a softness to my grin that wasn't there before.

It's less sharp, less malignant.

I look almost normal.

My grin falters.

Disgusting. Here I am, following an omega around like a lost puppy, letting her feral beast pet me like a house cat.

Caring .

The thought makes my lip curl in disgust. I was supposed to be better than this. Stronger. I wasn't supposed to need anyone. That's what he bred me for, after all. The perfect killer.

Cold.

Calculating.

Emotionless.

But he fucked up somewhere along the way.

Because I do care.

Not just about Ivy.

About this pack of broken toys.

Even about that idiot Whiskey, though I'd rather gargle glass and cyanide than admit it out loud.

Then again, my father would be so disappointed.

He would loathe what I've become.

He was even disappointed in me when I cried about one of my brothers dying during an experiment. Said I was a little bitch. The new me that pines and wallows over losing the fucked-up family I've somehow found would be utterly disgusting to him.

Perhaps caring isn't so bad, then.

I hope he's watching me from hell.

I move deeper into the guest wing, my footsteps silent despite my unsteady gait. The white walls seem to go on forever, each corridor identical to the last. Like the endless maze of hallways in the lab.

But these are different.

These don't echo with screams.

I thought I was doing the right thing when I took Ivy. Thought I was giving her the choice I never had. The freedom to decide her own fate.

But I was wrong.

Not about the choice—she did need that—but about how I went about it.

I may have opened her gilded cage, but when the little bird didn't fly free, I reached in and grabbed her. Tried to force her to do something she didn't want to do, like every other scum of the earth beast who's tried to trample her spirit. Thought I knew what was best for her. Thought I had the right to make that choice for her.

I hurt her.

Betrayed her.

And for the first time in my life, that bothers me.

A lot.

I deserve to be cut out of the pack.

Cut out of her life.

It's only justice.

My hand finds the wall again as another wave of dizziness hits. The drugs are still working their way out of my system, making everything tilt and spin at random intervals. But my mind is clearer than it's been in days.

Clear enough to understand what I've done.

Clear enough to feel something dangerously like guilt.

Guilt and regret and shame.

Is that what this hollow ache in my chest is?

How fascinating.

Never thought I was capable of that.

Then again, I never thought I was capable of love, either.

But here I am, my black heart beating for a fierce little omega who hates me. Who has every right to hate me. Who should execute me by her own hand for my pathetic, self-serving betrayal.

And by God, I'd let her.

I'd even let her hang me.

And yet...

She held my hand.

Offered comfort when I deserved none.

Just like she did for Wraith.

For all of them.

My father would say that makes her weak. That compassion is a fatal flaw. A defect to be bred out. To be extinguished. His own flesh and blood meant nothing to him. If anything, he took extra pleasure in torturing those of us who came from his own sperm.

I remember hunting him through the smoke and flames. Remember the way he tried to reason with me, to appeal to our shared blood.

As if that meant anything.

As if he hadn't spent years teaching me exactly how meaningless blood ties were. And I made sure he lived long enough to appreciate the irony. Made sure he understood that he had succeeded in his goal of creating the perfect killer.

Just not in the way he intended.

So if bonds forged in blood itself have no meaning, why would bonds forged in precarious, capricious bullshit like trust and affection and love mean anything? Blood at least means something to most people in this fucked up world.

But they do mean something.

Not just something.

Everything .

And that terrifies me more than any torture ever could.

I'm not just attached to this pack and the omega at the center. It goes against everything I've ever believed, everything that I am, but I'm afraid I'm starting to love them.

It makes me shudder.

I find myself in what appears to be some kind of temple. More white marble, more gold filigree. Plush chairs arranged around low tables. Gauzy curtains drifting in a breeze I can't feel. Incense with a sweet scent smoking in ornate holders shaped like the bird herself.

She stands in the center of a colorful mosaic that spans the room from wall to wall, her impossible wings casting rainbow shadows across the marble floor and the white stones that form an identical image of her in the floor. She cocks her head at me, third eye gleaming with ancient wisdom.

Magic isn't real.

Neither are gods.

But in this moment, this strange feathered beast feels as real as I do.

"I see you made it off the train," I say dryly, swaying slightly on my feet.

"Yes , " she says softly, her voice echoing in my skull. " And this is the last time you will see me, Valek. "

I grin at that. "You know my name?"

"Of course I do, " she replies, her head arching back on that serpentine neck to preen a long white feather in her slender beak. "I know every child of mine who is called to Surhiira. "

"I wasn't called anywhere," I say. "I followed an omega and her pack of idiots onto a train. Not exactly a divine summons."

All the bird's eyes gleam with clear amusement. "And yet here you are," she says, her voice resonating like a bell. "Following your heart rather than your head for the first time in your life."

I bare my teeth in what might be a smile or a snarl. "I don't have a heart. They carved that out of me long ago."

"You're not as broken as you think," she says, her voice resonating. "Just cracked in all the right places to let the light in."

I bark a laugh, the sound bouncing off the pristine walls. "And what would you know about being broken, my feathered friend?"

She spreads her wings, and for a moment, I see the fracture lines running through her ethereal form. Like stained glass pieced back together with threads of gold.

"More than you might think," she replies.

Maybe I'm still higher than I thought.

Or maybe I'm finally going properly mad.

I open my mouth to ask another question, but the bird is already gone. The temple is empty except for a young attendant across the room, lighting candles with practiced grace on an elaborate marble altar. Her veil shifts as she glances at me, wariness evident in her posture. I study her for a moment, amused by how she tries to hide her fear.

Smart girl.

Most people's instincts about me are correct.

"I have some questions," I say smoothly. "About this place."

My head still feels fuzzy around the edges, but I need to know more about where we've landed.

She hesitates, glancing toward the door like she's hoping someone will come rescue her from this conversation. But no one appears, so she inclines her head slightly, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I will try to answer what I can."

"What is this place like?" I gesture vaguely at our pristine surroundings. " Really like. Not the shiny surface everyone sees."

"I... I'm not sure what you mean."

"Yes, you do." I drift closer, noting how she tenses but doesn't back away. Interesting. These people have spine beneath all their ethereal grace. "The perfect white walls. The gilded everything. The way everyone floats around like they're above the rest of the world's problems. Are they? Or is there more to it?"

She studies me for a long moment, head tilted. The beads on her veil chime softly with the motion. "We are... different," she says finally. "But not in the way outsiders think. We don't hide from the world's problems. We simply choose to face them in our own way."

"And what way is that?"

"Through beauty. Through preservation of knowledge. Through maintaining what was lost when others chose destruction." Her voice grows stronger as she speaks, pride evident in her tone. "We remember what the world was like before. And we keep those memories alive."

I drift over to one of the low tables, running my fingers along the intricate filigree. The metal is warm beneath my touch, like it's alive. "And the omegas? I've heard they're treated differently here."

Her smile is clear through her veil. "They are sacred to us. Blessed by the Goddess herself." She gestures to the mosaic where the bird stood moments ago, though she shows no sign of having seen what I saw. "They are the heart of our society. The keepers of our oldest traditions."

"Not property then?"

The words come out sharper than I intended.

"Property?" She sounds genuinely horrified. "No. Never. Omegas are treasured. Protected. But free to choose their own paths. Rules are more rigid for alphas, though that has changed recently under the queen's decree. She is an omega herself."

The drugs must still be affecting me more than I thought, because I find myself considering possibilities I've never allowed before.

A place where Ivy would be safe.

Truly safe.

"And if someone wanted to stay?" I ask carefully. "Someone from... outside?"

"You mean your omega?" Her voice is gentle, knowing. When I snap my head up to look at her, she just shrugs. "We have eyes. We see how you all orbit around her. How fiercely you protect her."

"She's not mine anymore," I mutter. "I fucked that up spectacularly."

"Did you?" She moves to light another candle, her movements precise and graceful. "She held your hand earlier. Offered comfort when you were in pain. That does not seem like someone who has given up on you entirely."

I bare my teeth in what might be a smile or a snarl. "You're more observant than you let on, but you're wrong. Ivy does not want me. She was simply showing me mercy. You have your goddess and I have mine."

"Perhaps," the attendant replies. She sets down the taper and turns to face me fully with a sigh. "To answer your question… yes. If she chose to stay, she would be welcome. All of you would be, though it would require certain... adjustments."

She casts a pointed, judgmental glance over me.

"Adjustments?" I echo, interested.

"We do things differently here. Our customs, our ways of living… they take time to learn. To understand." She pauses, considering her next words carefully. "But for those willing to try, to truly embrace our ways... there is always room. Especially for the omega of the lost prince."

The thought is tempting. More tempting than it should be.

A fresh start.

A chance to be something other than what I was made to be. What I made myself into.

But I'm lying to myself.

Ivy doesn't want me.

And she shouldn't.

Not that it matters anyway. I'm sure I'm going to die soon. The angel of death has followed me all my life, and I can feel it closer than ever now.

But it does matter to me that I know Ivy is safe when I breathe my last, and this strange slice of impossible heaven on earth just might make that possible.

"What's the catch?" I ask.

She laughs softly. "The 'catch,' as you say, is complete dedication to our ways. No half measures. No keeping one foot in the outside world." Her eyes grow serious. "We maintain our isolation for a reason. Those who choose to stay must choose it completely."

"A gilded cage is still a cage," I point out.

"Is it a cage if the door is always open?" She spreads her hands. "We choose to stay because what we have built here is worth preserving. Worth protecting. Even from ourselves."

I think of Ivy again. Of how she chose to stay with the pack even when I offered her freedom. Of how she's slowly teaching all of us that maybe being bound by choice isn't the same as being trapped.

Fuck .

When did I start thinking like this?

The drugs must be wearing off wrong.

The attendant watches me with those knowing eyes. "Think about it," she says softly. "There is time."

Is there?

I'm not so sure.

Not for me, at least.

But before I can question her further, the temple door opens and another attendant appears. "You are needed," she says to the first one, who bows slightly to me before gliding away.

Wonderful.

Now I'm alone with my thoughts, which are far too coherent for comfort as I approach the altar where the attendant was lighting candles.

Like everything else in this ornate city, the altar is a masterwork of white marble and gold filigree. But there's something different about this one. The surface is worn smooth in places, as if countless hands have touched it in devotion over the centuries.

The polished stone reflects the light from dozens of candles, their flames perfectly still in the unnaturally calm air. Brass censers shaped like birds and blossoms hang from delicate chains, trails of sweet-smelling smoke curling from their beaks like frozen breath. The smoke forms patterns in the air that seem almost deliberate. Almost like writing.

A marble statue looms over the altar. It's the bird, her jeweled eyes locked on me as her outstretched wings frame the tiered shelves and flickering candles. Only this statue has two eyes rather than three.

A flash of white by her left wingtip catches my attention.

A scarf.

It's white like the others, but instead of gold threads throughout the silky fabric, the accents are silver. The geometric patterns the silver accents form are sharp and triangular.

Almost like knives.

It's as if this scarf had been made for me.

The attendant's words about "adjustments" echo in my head just like the spectral bird's words. My fingers twitch as I hesitate for only a moment before reaching out and lifting the scarf off the altar. The fabric feels like liquid moonlight against my skin, so fine I can barely feel it. Nothing like the coarse military-grade shit I'm used to.

The massive bird mosaic seems to watch me with those impossible eyes as I bring the scarf to my face. Her eyes gleam with something that might be amusement. Or judgment. Hard to tell. I was never good with divine beings.

Even imaginary ones.

"Don't look at me like that," I mutter, carefully wrapping the fabric around my lower face. "You're the one who said I was called here."

She doesn't respond this time.

Probably for the best.

The scarf settles into place with unnatural ease. I hate wearing anything remotely similar to a muzzle, but the silk is cool enough against my skin that I manage to keep it in place without tearing it off and throwing it into the flickering candles. I breathe in, expecting mustiness or the cloying sweetness of the temple incense.

Instead, I smell nothing.

Clean.

Pure.

Like freshly fallen snow.

How fitting.

I catch my reflection in one of the polished brass censers. With my hair, eyes, and scarf all gleaming with the same silver, I almost look the part. Almost like I belong in this impossible place with its impossible promise. Almost like I'm not an escaped abomination that became a serial killer because I didn't know what else to do with my mess of a life.

I can't help but laugh.

How bizarre.

The Surhiiran goddess's words echo in my mind.

Just cracked in all the right places to let the light in.

Fucking perfect.

Now I'm taking life advice from hallucinations.