Page 16

Chapter sixteen

Bare Naked Truth

T he colony's courtyard was nearly empty, the lunchtime rush faded to a few scattered figures at the edges. Too far away to help if things went wrong. Rowen sat on one of the stone benches, her container of food untouched beside her, the mere thought of eating making her stomach clench. She sent another silent prayer that Petre had received her message.

Varian sat too close, his thigh pressed against hers despite the bench's ample space.

"I had a lovely night," he said, leaning closer still, his face eager in a way that made her skin prickle with warning. "I can't wait to do it again."

She forced her lips into a bright smile that felt like cracking open her face. "It was nice," she managed. She could do this. She had to buy time for Petre.

Get away from me. Don't touch me.

"So when can we do another night? Tomorrow?"

Rowen fought the urge to physically recoil. One wrong move, one too-obvious rejection, and Bylelle would know her plan had failed. The Maman's threat to Petre echoed in her mind. She couldn't risk setting that in motion.

"Um, I think I'm busy then." Her voice sounded thin even to her own ears. She shifted subtly, trying to create distance without being obvious.

"Ok, what about the day after?" He moved with her, closing the gap she'd tried to create, his smile never faltering though his eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"You know, I'm not sure. Let me get back to you?" She flashed another false smile, feeling something essential crack inside her with the effort. Every muscle in her body screamed to run, to get as far from him as possible.

His face tightened, the friendly mask slipping for just a second. Enough to reveal the coldness beneath. Enough to make her pulse spike with genuine fear.

"Is something wrong? Did I upset you the other night?"

Yes, your entire existence upsets me. The way you look at me like I'm already yours.

Rowen exhaled shakily, aware of how isolated they were in the courtyard. She glanced around, noting the emptiness, the lack of witnesses. Her palms dampened with sweat. She really wasn't cut out for this.

"No, I just don't want to move too fast," she said, the words ashen and hollow.

"Ah." His eyebrows raised, but his emotional signature darkened with a possessiveness that made her want to shower for hours. "Are we moving fast?"

"No." She swallowed hard, fighting nausea. "But I want to make sure we don't."

"Alright," he said slowly. "So next week?"

Never. Not if you were the last male in the galaxy. She breathed through her mouth, trying not to inhale his scent. "That should be good. I'll send you a message when I'm free."

His frustration spiked, sharp enough that she almost winced at the empathic impact.

"I really feel like there's something off here. Something changed." His voice took on an edge that scraped against her nerves. "Are you sure I didn't offend you?"

The pretense was suffocating her. Her skin felt two sizes too small, crawling with the effort of maintaining this charade. “I’m fine.”

He pressed, “Are you sure?”

She snapped.

"Ok, you want honesty? I'm an empath, remember?" She kept her voice steady, though anger simmered beneath, a welcome heat compared to the cold fear. "I don't like being played, Varian."

"How did I play you?" He stilled, and his face arranged itself into a mask of innocence.

Rowen narrowed her gaze at him, her hands trembling slightly. She curled them into fists to hide it. But she couldn't maintain this fiction another moment.

"Your emotions when Bylelle approached us at dinner… they weren't those of someone annoyed by an interruption. They were those of someone receiving orders."

He had the grace to look ashamed, though she noted his first instinct was to check if anyone was within earshot. "It wasn't entirely fake," he said. "I find you attractive. Interesting."

"But Bylelle suggested you pursue me." It wasn't a question.

"She… mentioned that you seemed lonely. That a suitable match might be beneficial for everyone." He gave her a small half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I won't pretend I didn't jump at the chance. You're brilliant, beautiful…"

"Save it." The words emerged sharper than intended, but she couldn't bear another second of his practiced lines. "I'm not interested in pretty lies, Varian. I want to know why. Why would you let someone manipulate you like this?"

His expression darkened, and she tensed, ready to run. But she held her ground, aware that showing weakness now might be dangerous.

"You don't understand what it's like. The Maman—"

"Are owed everything?" she finished. "Your total submission?" The bitterness in her voice surprised even her. "Yeah, I've heard that line before."

"Because it's true." His fingers clenched white against the bench's edge. She pressed herself against the back of the bench, trying to create distance without seeming afraid. "We owe them everything. Our education, our positions, our very lives. When a Maman gives a suggestion, it's not really a suggestion at all."

"And that makes it okay? To let them play with people's lives? Their hearts?" Her voice shook despite her best efforts.

"They're not playing," he hissed, his face inches from hers now. "They're maintaining order. Structure. Without the Maman, we'd be nothing but animals scrabbling for territory. They know what’s best for us."

Rowen stared at him, truly seeing him for the first time. Not just the handsome pilot with the amiable smile, but the product of generations of conditioning. It made her heart ache, even through her revulsion and fear. His mind was a prison built by others.

"You really believe that, don't you?" She shook her head slowly. "That you're nothing without their control?"

Varian suddenly went rigid, his expression hardening. "You're rejecting me."

It wasn't a question. Rowen shifted uncomfortably, trying to maintain some distance between them on the bench. Panic filled her. This was a disaster. She was supposed to keep this going, to protect Varian. “No, I’m not rejecting you. I’m just disappointed that you’d hide things from me.”

His eyebrows slammed down. "That's not how this works," he hissed.

"Excuse me?"

"You don't get to reject me." His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "Bylelle promised you to me. She said if I followed her instructions, you would be mine."

A chill ran through Rowen. "I'm not property to be promised to anyone," she said carefully, "and Bylelle has no say over who I choose to be with."

"You don't understand." His voice took on a desperate edge. "She's never wrong about these things. We're compatible. She saw it." His eyes searched her face with an intensity that made her skin crawl. "If you just give me a chance—give us a chance—you'll see it too."

Rowen stood, gathering her container. "I need to get back to work."

His hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist with bruising force. "Don't walk away from me."

"Let go." She kept her voice steady despite the spike of adrenaline. "Now."

"Not until you listen." He rose to his feet, using his grip to pull her closer. "One more date. That's all I'm asking. If you'd just stop thinking about him for five minutes—"

"I said let go." She tried to twist free, but his fingers only tightened.

"You're being unreasonable," he hissed, his pleasant mask completely gone now. "Bylelle said you'd be difficult at first, but that you'd come around once you saw how good we could be together."

His other hand reached for her face, and Rowen reacted instinctively, jerking back. "I'm not interested in being anyone's project or prize."

"It's him, isn't it?" Varian's face twisted with a mixture of anger and hurt. "After everything he's done? You're still holding out for that traitor?"

The word hit her like a physical blow. "What are you talking about?"

Varian's laugh held no humor. "You don't even know, do you? Your precious Petre, the things he's been doing for us—" He cut himself off, but his smile was cruel. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you and I are supposed to be together."

His grip was definitely going to leave bruises. Rowen looked around, but the courtyard had emptied during their conversation.

"I'm only going to say this once more," she said, her voice dropping to match his intensity. "Let. Me. Go."

"Or what?" His smile was unpleasant now. "You’ll—”

The rest of his words were lost in an explosion of movement. One moment they were alone in the courtyard, the next Petre was there, a silver blur of lethal fury. His fist connected with Varian's jaw before either of them could react, sending the pilot sprawling.

“Petre, stop!” But he was beyond hearing, beyond reason. His composure had shattered completely, leaving a creature wild and dangerous in its place. His eyes had shifted fully feline, pupils contracted to slits, claws extended as he advanced on Varian.

The pilot rolled to his feet, but Petre was faster. Another blow sent Varian staggering back, blood spraying from his nose. “You manipulative bastard,” Petre snarled, the words barely recognizable through his partial shift. “Playing with her heart on Bylelle's orders—”

“You don't understand,” Varian tried to defend himself, but his words cut off in a gurgle as Petre's claws raked across his chest, shredding fabric and drawing blood.

“Don't I?” Petre's laugh held no sanity. “I understand. You let that bitch use you to hurt her.” His next strike caught Varian's jaw with a sickening crack. “To manipulate her.” Another blow drove the pilot to his knees. “To keep her away from me!”

This wasn't just rage at manipulation; this was primal, territorial fury. She watched in horror as Petre circled his prey, fully shifted now, silver hair wild around his face, fangs bared in a snarl that spoke of death.

“She's mine,” he growled. “Mine to protect. Mine to love.” His boot connected with Varian's ribs, drawing a pained gasp. “And you dared to touch her with your lying hands—”

“Petre, please!” Rowen tried to reach him, but his shift had taken him somewhere beyond reason. She recognized the look in his eyes, the same deadly focus she'd seen in vids of Verit warriors in battle. He would not stop. Not until Varian was dead.

She moved to intervene, reaching for his arm. “Stop—”

She felt the impact before she registered what had happened. Pain bloomed across her cheek as Petre's elbow caught her in his backswing, sending her stumbling. The shock of it seemed to freeze all three of them motionless.

“Rowen…” For a heartbeat, horror replaced his murderous rage as he saw the mark forming on her face. But then his beast took over, darker, more feral. He launched himself at Varian with lethal intent, claws extended for a killing blow.

Before he could strike, muscular arms wrapped around him from behind. Broken's voice cut through the chaos: “Stand down, warrior!”

Petre fought the restraint with inhuman strength, nearly breaking free as he snarled, “Let me end him! Let me tear out his lying throat—”

“No!” Broken's voice carried decades of command. “Not like this. Not in front of her.”

Lucius appeared from nowhere, positioning himself between them as Broken wrestled with Petre's feral strength. “Goddess wept, what madness—”

“Get them out of here!” Broken commanded, muscles straining as Petre thrashed in his grip. “Now!”

Lucius didn't hesitate, grabbing Varian's arm and steering him firmly away. The pilot went without a fight, though his eyes never left Petre's face, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had happened.

“Rowen.” Petre's voice cracked as he strained against Broken's hold, the shift slowly receding to show the broken male beneath. “Please, I didn't mean… I would never hurt you. I love—”

“I know.” She touched her cheek, feeling the heat of what would become a spectacular bruise. Lucius’s mate, Denara appeared beside her, grabbing her arm. “Come on, let’s get that seen to. He’ll settle more without you here.”

She let herself be led away, leaving Broken to deal with the aftermath. Her chest felt hollow, scraped raw. She’d ruined it, ruined Petre’s chance to save his father.

She only made it a few steps when she saw her. Bylelle stood in the shadows of the courtyard's eastern arch, her perfect features twisted with fury as she watched the security teams converge on the scene. Their eyes met, and Rowen felt her last shred of patience snap inside her.

“Are you satisfied?” The words emerged before she could stop them, carrying all the hurt and anger of the past weeks. “Is this the chaos you wanted?”

Bylelle's lip curled. “You dare speak to me, you presumptuous—”

“She dares,” Denara said as she appeared beside Rowen, Fila close behind. “And she's right.”

“This is what happens,” Rowen continued, drawing strength from her friends' presence, “when you treat people's lives like markers on the board. When you break good males with your twisted games.”

“You know nothing of our ways,” Bylelle hissed, but Rowen caught the flicker of uncertainty in her stance. Three against one, and all of them with considerably more influence than a junior Maman far from home. “The males belong to us—”

“The males belong to themselves,” Fila retorted sharply. “And you've just forced one of our finest to his breaking point for your own sick satisfaction.”

Raw possession blazed in Bylelle's gaze, nibbled at the edges with fear. Her gaze darted between the three of them, calculating odds. Whatever she saw made her step back, though her voice remained venomous. “This isn't over.”

“No,” Rowen agreed quietly. “But it isn’t what you planned, is it?”

Bylelle's fingers twitched, as if she wanted to strangle her. “Remember this moment,” she intoned, “when everything you love turns to ash.” She swept away, leaving the threat hanging in the air.

The Falosians stood in shocked silence for a moment.

“Come on,” the healer said gently. “Let's go treat that cheek.”

Rowen didn't look back as they led her away. Couldn't bear to see what remained of Petre crumbling into pieces. Instead, she walked until the violet sky blurred with unshed tears, wondering how everything had gone so terribly wrong.

Behind her, she heard Broken's voice, gentle despite its authority: “Come on, son. Let's get you somewhere quiet before the security teams arrive.”

***

Broken's quarters were a fascinating mixture of warrior and engineer, like the male himself. Traditional Verit weapons were mounted on the walls alongside half-finished designs and prototypes scattered on the tables.

Petre sat at the table in the small kitchen, head bowed, the last of his feral rage draining away to leave nothing but hollow emptiness.

“Drink.” Broken set a glass of clear liquid in front of him. Probably that bitter Malurien spirit he kept for emergencies. “Then talk.”

Petre's hands shook as he lifted the glass, as cooling muscles reported in with the litany of their injuries.

The door bashed open, and Luken burst in, his usual composure shattered. “I came as soon as I heard. Brother, what have you done?”

“What I should have done weeks ago.” Petre's voice was raw, his emotions scoured clean. “Though perhaps with less public violence.” The violence had been cathartic, a chance to vent all the rage and frustration that had built up over the past few months, and in the aftermath, he felt surprisingly calm. It almost made him laugh. He supposed this was what his warrior ancestors must have felt like after a battle. The clean simplicity of it all, of rending your enemy and feeling his blood spurt out, wet and hot. A small part of his mind, the engineer, pointed out that this was a crazy line of thinking, but the warrior was in ascendancy, and it was pissed.

“You could have killed him.” Luken's voice cracked. “If Broken hadn't stopped you—”

“I wanted to.” He didn't regret it for a second. “I wanted to tear him apart for touching her. For being Bylelle's puppet.” He laughed, the sound devoid of humor, and he saw Luken wince at it. “Though I suppose that makes me a hypocrite.”

“Enough,” Broken roared. “Tell me everything. Now.”

The brothers exchanged resigned glances. “They have Father.”

Broken’s expression was like thunder. “What?”

“The Maman are holding him. Have been for months.” Luken's voice was tight with suppressed fury. “They're using him to blackmail us. To blackmail Petre specifically.”

“And what do they want?” Broken’s voice was glacial in its calmness, and it made both brothers sit up straighter. That voice had only come out a few times in their youth, but each time it did, it scared the shit out of everyone around them.

“Bylelle—” Petre's voice caught on her name. “The Maman wanted access to Casti's technology. They used Luken and Father as leverage to compel me to steal it. And when that wasn't enough…Bylelle learned I care for Rowen…” He trailed off, unable to voice the rest.

“Bylelle's obsessed with Petre,” Luken finished.

Understanding dawned in Broken's eyes, followed by a stinging sadness. “I see.” He examined Petre closely. “I’m sorry, son. You’re not the first male a Maman has wanted.”

Broken reached out slowly, giving Petre plenty of time to move away, and put a gentle hand on the back of Petre’s neck. “I wish I could say you would be the last.” He leaned in close, his voice a quiet rumble in Petre’s ear as he hauled the younger male into a hug. “But listen to me. You survived . Whatever you did or didn’t do, you did it to survive. The bitch didn’t take that away from you. You are a warrior, one of the best I’ve ever trained. A warrior fights on many battlefields, uses whatever weapons he has.”

Petre just sat there, his parched soul soaking up the words, before he reached up and gripped Broken’s arm, his fingers digging in, as if he could imprint the warrior’s confidence and strength and belief into his own skin and bone. Luken reach out and gripped his other arm, and they sat, letting the fear and pain quietly soak away.

Eventually, Broken stood and got another two glasses, and filled them with more of the biting clear liquid. He took a drink, then another.

“Alright. Now tell me this. Your father is my blood brother,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. “Why did you not think to come to me?”

“We couldn't risk—” Luken started, but Broken cut him off with a snarl.

“Risk what? That I might actually help? That I might have connections that could save him? That I could have prevented this madness?” His massive fist slammed into the wall, leaving a dent in the reinforced surface. “You stupid, prideful brats! Did you think you were protecting me? Or were you just too caught up in your own pain to think clearly?”

Petre flinched. “We thought… we thought we could handle it.”

“Handle it?” Broken's laugh held no humor. “Yes, I can see how well that worked out. You left your father in their hands for months, nearly broke yourself, your control shattered in public, you nearly killed another warrior, and you struck a female you claim to love.” His voice softened slightly at Petre's visible flinch. “Though I suspect that last was not entirely your fault.”

“None of this is entirely his fault,” Luken protested. “The Maman—”

“Are corrupt to their core,” Broken finished. “Yes, we know. Why do you think the resistance exists?”

“The resistance? You know the resistance?”

“Strange how those rumors keep circulating. How males keep disappearing from Maman controlled zones, only to resurface later outside of Verit territory.” He fixed them both with a hard stare. “How the worst of the Maman seem to suffer so many fatal accidents.”

Luken and Petre exchanged glances. “We contacted them. I met with them when we were on IntGalOne, but there was an incident. Bylelle and Varian killed the contact.”

Broken’s eyes widened. “That was you?” Broken sighed heavily. “You idiots!” he hissed. “If you had trusted me, told me what was happening, I could have helped weeks ago.” He fixed them with a glare and then softened. “This is what they do, how they’ve stayed in power for so long. They manipulate and control and scheme, pitting us against each other.”

“Are you saying you’re part of the resistance?” asked Luken.

“Now, that’s a dangerous statement. Let's just say I have contacts who might be interested in extracting a captive warrior from the Maman.” Broken's expression hardened. “But if I help you, you follow my lead. No more lone-wolf heroics. No more sacrificing yourselves to protect others.”

The brothers exchanged glances, and Petre nodded, relief making him lightheaded . He wasn’t alone anymore . “What do you need us to do?”

“First, we go to the K'Dec.” Broken's voice carried absolute authority. “She needs to know what's happening in her colony. And then…” His smile was predatory. “Then we show the Maman exactly why they should fear Verit warriors fighting as one.”

For the first time in months, Petre felt hope stir in his chest. “Alright.”

Luken's hand squeezed his shoulder in silent support.

Broken's nod held all the weight of a warrior's oath.

***

The meeting with the K’Dec happened quickly. They couldn’t risk being seen at her office, so she came to Broken’s house later that night.

K'Dec Maral sat quietly and contained on the sofa, her expression unreadable, as she listened to his confession. MakenRoy lurked behind her, his red gaze impassive.

Petre had spent the last two hours steeling himself for this, and he sat himself opposite her, prepared for judgment. “I’m ready for whatever punishment you deem necessary, but I beg you to protect Rowen and Luke.”

The K’Dec sighed heavily. “I know.”

The K’Dec’s quiet word rang through the still room and stopped him cold. “What?”

“I said I know. I’ve been monitoring Frei and her attempts at espionage for months.” She allowed herself a faint smile. “She’s not nearly as smart as she thinks.”

Petre felt like he was floating, untethered from reality. Of all the things he had prepared himself for, that was the last thing he thought she could have said. “How?”

Maral considered him for a long minute, her fingers tapping on her knee before she nodded, clearly having come to a decision. Her gaze grew distant, and she murmured into her HUD, and then refocused on him. “We have an informant.”

Minutes stretched like hours before the door slid open with a soft hiss.

Scara walked in.

Her arrival hit Petre like a physical blow. The world sharpened to crystalline clarity and his heart rate surged, pumping combat hormones through his system with dizzying speed. He surged to his feet in a fluid motion, claws extending with an audible click as his shift triggered in response to perceived betrayal.

"You!" The word emerged as a snarl.

He rounded on Maral, fury blazing through every cell. "This is your informant? A Maman?" The roar that tore from his throat echoed off the walls.

But something wasn't right. No one else had reacted to the threat. Broken remained seated, his expression watchful but not alarmed. MakenRoy hadn't moved to protect his mate. And Maral herself, the K'Dec, watched him with something like compassion in her golden eyes.

“Sit,” she commanded, and he found his legs crumpling without his conscious volition.

Scara paused in the doorway, one hand still on the frame.

“Come in, Scara. Petre has recovered himself now.”

Scara lifted her chin, her usual timid demeanor replaced by steel-cold resolve as she glided regally in and settled herself next to the K'Dec. “I've been reporting to the K'Dec for months.”

Maral nodded.

The nod cracked something inside Petre, disbelief giving way to a new, sharper fury. "And you did nothing?" The words scraped his throat raw. He leaned forward, muscles coiled tight enough to snap. "You let that bitch threaten me, abduct my father, and did nothing?"

Maral flinched. “That is an internal Verit matter. I have no jurisdiction there.” She sighed. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, but I won’t start a war over this. I need more.”

When Scara spoke, her voice was steady, though her hands trembled slightly. “I’ve embedded a tracker provided by Casti into every piece of data you provided. We've been gathering evidence of where it goes, who receives it.”

“You let me think I was betraying everyone. Let that bitch terrorize me, let me tear myself apart with guilt while you—”

“While I did my duty to our people,” she snapped, her eyes wet. “Do you think I enjoyed watching you suffer? Watching what Bylelle did to you? But the rot in the Maman council goes deeper than one obsessed female. We needed proof.”

“Proof?” He lunged for her, barely containing his shift. “At what cost? They—”

“Sit down, warrior.” Maral's voice cut through his rage like a blade. “And listen.”

He sat down, though every muscle trembled with the need to strike.

“Everything Bylelle has done,” Scara continued, “falls within acceptable Maman behavior. Acting on a senior Maman's orders, pursuing an unmated male, arranging matches between unmated pairs… even arresting and holding your father. It's all technically permitted. She’s cruel and manipulative but she’s working within the parameters of her role.” Scara smiled slightly. “She’s the epitome of what the current Maman council breeds for. Crystal clarity about her own superiority and the supremacy of Verit, and ruthless enough to implement their goals.”

“Permitted?” He choked on the word. “She's insane!”

Scara shrugged. “Being sociopathic is an inconvenient personality quirk, not a deal-breaker for them.

Maral spoke into his appalled silence. “We need to prove she's dangerous, not just ambitious. We need her to break the bounds of acceptable behavior completely. And I need solid proof Frei is taking unauthorized technology from the colony.”

Understanding dawned slowly. “You want to trap them?”

“We want to expose them,” Scara corrected. “Bylelle, Frei, and everyone like them who twists our traditions into tools of control.” She met his eyes directly. “Will you help us?”

“Why should I trust you?” he demanded. “After everything—”

“Because I'm trying to save our people.” Her voice cracked. “The Maman were meant to be guardians, protectors. Not… this mutation, this perversion of our culture. Not these creatures who break males for sport and call it tradition.” She dashed away angry tears. “I am sorry for how you've suffered. But make no mistake, I will sacrifice anything, myself, you, your trust, whatever I need to, to stop what's happening to our people.”

“That’s not good enough!” he roared. “What is the point in saving people if you destroy the ones you’re trying to save?” He got into her face. “Tell me, Maman,” he spat the word, and she flinched. “How many people will be enough in your private war? A hundred? Two hundred? Ten thousand? You sit there all pretty and safe, while I’ve watched everyone I care about get closer and closer to the edge.”

Scara scoffed. “Don’t be so dramatic, Petre. Look at you—you are unharmed, as is your brother. Your father has not been permanently harmed yet. I’ll help you find where they’re holding him.” She cast him a withering glance. “And as for Rowen, she wouldn’t have been in danger if you hadn’t dragged her into this.”

He snarled. “Not all harm is visible, Scara. You’d know that, if you’d actually lived any time outside of your closeted little bubble.” She flinched. “You’re just like all the other Maman, playing with people’s lives for power and sport.”

“No,” she replied quietly. “I’m not. I feel your pain, and I sorrow for it.”

“But you ask me to endure more. To put the people I love at further risk.”

“Yes.” She wiped a tear away. “I do. Because if we don’t take the risk, we’re just quietly giving in. Not standing up to tyranny is a decision to accept it, and I won’t do that.”

“And you, K’Dec, would you really stand by if Bylelle threatened Rowen?”

“Of course not!” Maral snapped. “Until you came here, I didn’t know Rowen had been pulled into this mess.”

Scara’s voice was scalpel sharp. “You don’t really have a choice. You need our help, and this is my price. If you want us to protect you, then you’ll help us complete this plan.”

MakenRoy spoke. “That’s not entirely true.” Scara spun round, surprised at his interruption. “He has another option. We will protect him.”

“Maku, what are you doing?” Maral asked in exasperation.

“Extending an offer on behalf of the Malurien empire.” He smiled slightly at Petre. “We always have a need for talented engineers and warriors. If you want it, I will extend you, Rowen, and your brother an offer to join our house. You can work for us here, although it might be challenging to protect you on Dalat, or move to one of our colonies or homeworlds.” His expression firmed. “You’ve endured a lot. What they ask of you, it’s beyond what is reasonable to ask. If you choose to help, that’s one thing, but I won’t bargain your safety for it.” He glared at Scara. “That is a line that shouldn’t be crossed, even for the best of intentions.”

Scara looked down, unable to meet his gaze.

Petre looked to Broken, who nodded slightly.

“Alright. Let’s say I consider helping you. What would you need me to do?”

“Give Frei the final data she wants,” Maral said. “Let her think she's won.”

Petre frowned. “Frei won't stop. Even if I give her everything she wants, she’ll keep pressing for more. She’ll milk me dry until I’m caught.”

“Then you threaten to tell me, and break the Alliance.” Maral smiled toothily. “The Verit Maman are in a precarious position. There are enemies on all sides. This alliance is one of their strongest pillars of safety. Frei will not break it; the Matriarch would never allow it. She’ll back down.”

“Alright,” he said, “but what about my father? And Bylelle.”

Broken put a warm hand on his neck. “Leave your father to me. We’ll get him out. We won’t move until I’ve got word he’s safe.”

“As for Bylelle…” Scara's smile held no warmth. “We push her over the edge. Make her show everyone exactly what she's become.”

“Using me as bait,” he said flatly.

“Use her obsession. We’ll need Rowen as well. You’ll have to make a public declaration of your love. Bylelle’s a narcissist. She will never accept the insult of you choosing Rowen over her.”

“No.” The word emerged as a growl. “I won't risk her—”

“That's not your choice to make.” Maral's voice was gentle but firm. “Why don’t you ask Rowen what she wants? Let her decide if the risk is worth taking.”

“Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll ask her. But if she says no—”

“Then we find another way,” Maral agreed. “If it comes to it, I’ll get you all off world to Maluria.”