To heal a Rogue

LYSANDER

Johann’s mouth curled, a sneer and a smirk wrestling for control across his bruised face. Blood streaked his chin, but he wiped it away with the back of his hand—dismissive, as if pain were a familiar nuisance, not worth remarking. When he straightened, shoulders squared with a weary swagger, he offered a twisted half-grin.

"Yikes." The word dropped with practiced nonchalance. "Well. Don’t say I didn’t warn you."

He turned and strolled off, each footstep echoing in the stone corridor, unhurried, almost insolent in its measured cadence. I watched the line of his back until he disappeared beyond the bend, only then registering the tension that had locked my breath in my chest. When the hush returned, it pressed in, thick and expectant.

Bonnie lingered in the silence, her gaze steady and unreadable. I found her eyes, searching for a foothold in the aftermath.

"About what he said... About Hazel..." My voice faltered on the name, the syllables shaped by memory and regret.

She shrugged, but the movement was careful, calculated. "I don’t care much about that," she answered, though her tone betrayed an undercurrent, words chosen with surgical precision, as if she feared what honesty might cost her. "Of course you did it. Half the things your uncle let slip in that library made it obvious you might have killed your own father." She hesitated, voice thinning. "That isn’t a bad thing, for what it’s worth. I know what kind of man he was. But using an Omega to do it—"

"That isn’t what happened." The denial came out sharper than I intended, brittle and immediate.

Her stare sharpened, unwavering. "Wasn’t it said she killed your father? Isn’t that why she ended up dead?"

The bluntness of it cracked something open inside me. Air scraped my lungs. I forced myself to hold her gaze.

"I did it," I said quietly. "To protect someone."

She absorbed that, her features softening only slightly. "She might have been born a Luna. That doesn’t change the fact that she died an Omega. The lower ranks always take the fall." Her voice was low, certain, a verdict delivered from experience. "And then the Alphas, the Betas, the Gammas—all of them wonder why the rogue networks always find new recruits."

I hesitated, a bitter taste rising. "This circles back to the retainers. Doesn’t it?"

"Of course it does. It’s all connected, Lysander. I honestly don’t understand how you can’t see that." She crossed her arms, the gesture protective, a flicker of exhaustion settling over her. "At the end of the day, you’re still privileged. You get to decide who takes the fall and who gets protected. She didn’t get that choice."

Hazel’s name pulsed between us, a wound refusing to close. "Hazel was not a good person. Not in the slightest. She was manipulative and cruel, and she deserved what came to her. I won’t back down from that."

Bonnie snorted, the sound brittle. "Okay."

A prickling indignation rose in my chest, uncoiling before I could suppress it. Bonnie’s composure, so unyielding, suddenly felt like an affront, as if she alone had claim to the moral high ground. I steadied my voice, hoping to reclaim whatever balance had gone missing between us.

"And you," I said, watching for the flicker in her eyes, "Johann implied you were shot. That clearly isn’t the case. Care to explain that?"

She didn’t flinch. "Maybe because I wasn’t shot." The words fell with a finality that left no room for argument, flattening any attempt at further interrogation.

For a moment, silence expanded between us, filling the corridor with something heavier than accusation. My breath left me slow and deliberate. She’d locked herself behind a wall and, if I was honest, I’d been doing the same since Johann dredged up Hazel’s name. We each curated our truths, editing out the parts that cut too close. It occurred to me how easy it would be to judge her for omission, how impossible it would be to do so without hypocrisy.

I raked a hand through my hair, searching for composure in the familiar gesture. The air felt different now: not hostile, just thick with all the things unspoken.

"Okay," I said at last. "I’ll do it. I’ll find a way to reduce the punishment for the retainers caught in the crossfire. Spare them, if I can manage it. Does that make you happy?"

She hesitated, her eyes searching mine, something fragile shifting beneath her careful exterior. "You mean that?"

"I’ve kept my word to you twice already." My tone was gentle, but the promise was ironclad. "Of course I mean it."

She swallowed, her gaze dipping for the first time. "Thank you."

I let the moment settle between us, the corridor growing quieter, the space tinged with something almost warm. "I hope," I said quietly, "that whatever history Lily of the Valley handed you, whatever grievance you carry against the goddess herself, you’ll come to trust me."

We stood suspended in that hush, the balance between us restored if only for a heartbeat. I held her gaze a moment longer than I meant to, then looked away, breaking the spell. "Let’s get those books."

We emerged from the corridor to find the library’s hush unsettled, the retainer gone and only two sentinels remaining. The first sentinel, the one who had held the retainer back, stood with arms folded, his posture designed to project calm authority. A second, unfamiliar sentinel glanced at the pile of books abandoned on the cold marble floor.

The books—their leather spines scuffed, one with a torn dust jacket—seemed out of place, as if their abrupt displacement echoed the lingering tension in the air. I gathered them up, the weight of each volume grounding me in the present, and set them aside as the sentinel spoke.

"I apologize for his behavior, Alpha Lysander." His voice carried a careful formality, practiced and impersonal. "I hope you’ll forgive the outburst."

"It doesn’t matter," I said, my tone clipped, unwilling to dignify the incident with further attention. "He knew better than to speak that way in front of me."

For a heartbeat, I considered making an example of the retainer—some pointed remark on discipline, perhaps even a threat. But then I caught Bonnie’s expression, composed yet wary, a silent plea for restraint. The desire to defend her bristled inside me, but I let it subside, recognizing the boundary she set without words.

"I will just take the books," I said, breaking the tension.

The first sentinel bent to collect a stack, the second followed suit, and together we moved down the corridor. The cadence of our footsteps mingled with the faint hum of evening settling across the estate.

I led them to my mother’s old quarters, my fingers recalling the keypad code by rote. The lock disengaged with a muted click. Inside, the air retained a faint trace of her perfume. Something floral, almost ghostly. The sentinels set the books on the dressing table and withdrew, leaving Bonnie and me alone in the fading light.

I reached for the door, intending to seal us in a pocket of privacy, when the sound of determined footsteps approached. An elder appeared at the threshold, his robes shifting with each brisk movement, eyes sharpening when they found me.

"The steward said I’d find you here," he announced, voice carrying the weight of expectation. I met his gaze, feeling the pressure of protocol return.

"What now?" I asked, unable to keep the fatigue from my words.

"It’s nearly evening." His glance darted past me into the room, then returned. "It is time for you to learn your speech. And to change into something appropriate."

His attention shifted, settling on Bonnie. I noticed a subtle change in his expression—something evaluative, edged with disapproval—passed over his features.

"They also told me she’d be here," he said, then, lowering his voice for my ears alone, "Alpha Lysander, I don’t believe growing closer to the girl is wise."

"If we’re going to use her," I replied, "the very least I can offer is decency."

"We still cannot say with any certainty that she had no hand in this," he said. "And the last thing you should be doing right now is growing more sympathetic toward her. Sympathy clouds judgment, Alpha Lysander, especially tonight of all nights. With what needs to be done."

"Drop it," I said. "If dressing up and memorizing a speech is what you need from me, I have no objection to doing that."

"She’ll need to come as well," he said, nodding toward Bonnie. "She has to be prepared for her role tonight."

Something cold gathered in my gut at the word he chose. Role. The syllable hung between us, reducing her to a pawn in a game whose rules kept shifting, while she waited, silent, just out of his reach and well within mine.

"Her part as the sacrificial lamb," he added. Beside me, Bonnie went motionless, her presence suddenly sharper, as if bracing for the next move.

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