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The other was Bertram.
Or maybe it was Frederich.
Whoever it was, when his eyes landed on Sorin, they filled with pain. “Raven.”
Not Sorin.
Raven.
Sorin’s field name.
The name of the leader of the Vanguard.
Frederich’s enemy—not Bertram’s lover.
Not his beloved mate.
Sorin’s heart shattered. He’d known that Bertram would not forgive him after what had happened to Reynard’s clutch, but it was different knowing it than seeing it. Hearing it. Forced to confront the fact that in Bertram’s eyes, Sorin had died, and only the worst part of him remained.
He wanted to cry.
To give up, then and there, mission be damned.
But what was right wasn’t always what was easy—was it?
He had warned Bertram all those years ago that if Bertram betrayed him, he would do what he thought was right if it meant keeping omegas safe… and with Bertram having named him as the enemy, it seemed that time was now.
“Shit,” he muttered, not because he wanted to, but because it would ruin everything if he let on how devastated he truly was. He gave Bertram one last look, wishing with all his heart it didn’t have to be this way, then turned and ran for his life.
* * *
Sorin had only ever toured the wine cellar virtually, but he knew from his time on Zillow that there was a cellar door at its very end. He sprinted toward it, the pounding of his feet drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. Bertram had to be steps behind him—he was sure of it. Reaching for him, claws at the ready, moments away from grabbing him by the back of his shirt or the strings of his apron. From capturing him, and in the same breath, putting a violent end to his crimes.
But despite everything, Sorin didn’t want to die.
He didn’t want to give up hope that somehow, there might be a happy ending for him. That all his suffering wouldn’t be for nothing. That because of him, the world would change for the better, and countless lives would be saved.
With a cry, he ducked his head and ran harder. He did not look back, even when he thought he felt the prick of claws curling against the back of his neck. He sprinted wildly past racks of expensive wines and barrels of spirits even older than he was until, at last, he found what he was looking for: the dusty set of stairs leading up to the cellar door.
He flew up them, grabbed the cellar door by its handle, and pushed with all his might, but it was stuck. Panicked, he slammed into it with his shoulder, but it still wouldn’t budge. Hadn’t he unlocked it from the outside after he’d arrived? He could have sworn he had. He remembered the coarse rustiness of the slide bolt on his fingers, the scraping of metal, the way it had resisted him on its way out of the keeper.
“C’mon,” he muttered under his breath, and rammed against it again. The cellar door creaked, sounding like it would sooner splinter than swing open, but even that would be preferable to the alternative—Bertram’s pounding footsteps echoed down the corridor, drawing closer by the second.
He would be here soon, and Sorin would be captured.
He couldn’t let that happen.
Near tears, he slammed into the cellar door again.
If he catches you, it’s over, a voice in his head told him. He’ll kill you for what he thinks you’ve done.
But what if he doesn’t? another voice, this one sweet and unassuming, asked. Would it be so bad to give up your dream? You’ve tried so hard to save those omegas—more than anyone else ever has. You deserve to get some rest. To let him keep you and take care of you. To be the secret he comes home to after each mission he spends helping your enemy. Wouldn’t it be better to be spoiled by him? To love him? The magic in you lived dormant for quite a few years before it killed another dragon. Maybe if you’re lucky, it will stay dormant. It could happen. After all, he is your mate.
Sorin wasn’t near tears anymore. They streamed thickly down his face. With a cry, he threw himself at the cellar door, and as he did, it popped open. A spooked Attendant stood on the other side, eyes owlish in surprise, and was promptly bowled over as Sorin barreled into her. They fell together—her with a gasp and him with a scream—and the empty handcart she had with her clattered down beside them. Sorin tripped over it as he scrambled to get up, but even as unsteady as he was on his feet, he ran.
Ran wildly.
Afraid that if he didn’t, the voices would win, and he’d give himself over to Bertram, dooming every last omega in the Pedigree.
