Chapter 237
Shoal’s jaw tightens, clearly annoyed, and he starts toward the door like he’s going after Wake. Probably to throw more smug riddles at him or drop some other cryptic prophecy.
I step into his path.
“No, I’ll go. Please, continue,” I say firmly. “We’ll find you when he’s ready.”
Shoal pauses, arching a brow at me in amusement. “You’re sure about that?”
I don’t answer. Just turn and glance at Cora, who’s already nodding. No words needed, I know that she’ll get the information we need and keep an eye on Shaol’s little cult while she’s at it.
He moves like a storm about to crack wide open, shoulders hunched, gait heavy with fury. When I round the corner, he’s halfway down the corridor already.
“Where are you going?” I call softly.
He doesn’t slow down and doesn’t look at me. “Away from him. From all of this before I do something I regret.”
I jog to catch up. “Wake, I thought you’d be… I’m sorry, I don’t understand what’s wrong. You’re going to be Heir. Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, happy?”
He stops so abruptly that I nearly run into him. He turns on me, and the wild fire in his eyes makes me freeze.
“You’re asking the wrong question.”
His voice is sharp, biting.
“Try asking why, Phoebe.”
And then he stalks off again, disappearing into the maze of metal and glass like he’s trying to outrun his own fury.
I follow. Of course, I follow.
“Where are you going now?”
He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I’m doing what we came here to do. I’m finding the crew, and we’re getting the hell out of here.”
His voice is low, but the tension in it makes it feel like it could shatter steel.
“Okay,” I say carefully. “But then what? Where do we go next?”
No answer.
I press on. “Because I want to go to the Abyss. I want to finish what you started instead of leaving things up in the air. You should be Heir, Wake.”
That gets a reaction. He stops again, but this time, he doesn’t turn around.
“What comes after, Phoebe?” he growls. “Do we play along with Shoal’s script? Just hand him the Abyss like a trophy? Let him add it to his collection of zealots like it’s just another piece on a chessboard?”
His voice hardens with every word.
“Hell, let’s go back to Ao too, and convince Khale to do the same. Then, when the Dark One rises and tears through everything we’ve ever loved, we can look around and say, look, we did our best. And no one person has to take the blame.”
He finally turns toward me, eyes like dark embers, burning and bitter.
I stare at him, searching for an opening, something real beneath the anger. But it’s not anger—it’s fear. And grief. And guilt.
All tangled together in a man trying not to fall apart.
We’re standing in the middle of a hallway surrounded by surveillance equipment and microphones we can’t see but know are there.
And I realize exactly how exposed we are.
I grab his wrist and yank him toward the nearest maintenance closet. He doesn’t resist, just grumbles as I shove the door shut behind us and flip the lock.
We’re crammed close in the dim light, but it’s safer this way.
“Listen to me,” I whisper. “You’re right. Your brother is absolutely leading us on. But if we want to know why, if we want to get ahead of whatever he’s planning, then we have to let him.”
He bristles. “You want to play into his game?”
I hold his gaze. “It worked for me. Remember? The first time I was pulled in by Enigma, I played the part. I let them think I was just another grad student poking around in things too big for her. And you know what? Eventually, they told me everything.”
Wake snorts, not buying it. “Shoal already knows what he wants. He’s always known. All of the years we thought he was out searching for his mate were apparently spent doing this instead. Axel never even tried. And somehow, it all falls to me.”
“Why’s that a problem?” I ask. “That actually sounds like the least complicated political succession plan we’ve seen lately.”
“That’s exactly why it’s dangerous,” he says darkly. “With Shoal, there is always conflict. He’s incapable of existing without pushing back against the world around him. It’s in his blood. He thrives in chaos.”
I study him for a beat. “Do you think he’s like Rafe? That if he can’t be Heir, he’ll try to be king?”
Wake lets out a low, bitter laugh. “He can’t be king. Not even if he wanted to.”
I blink. “Why not?”
“Because the Abyss doesn’t work that way,” he says. “The throne isn’t inherited—it’s elected. And even then, the king doesn’t hold the most power. The Heir does.”
That’s… unexpected. “But I thought you said that your family was royaly.”
“Coincidence,” he says. “The current king—my father—he’s held the throne for nearly two centuries. But before him, it wasn’t our family at all.”
I narrow my eyes. “Then how…?”
“The last Heir was born a lowly soldier. His power came to him young, and he used it to rise through the ranks and was eventually elected King. He earned his place in the Abyss through service, not birthright… Even if his offspring can’t all say the same.”
I tuck myself against his side, wrapping my arms around his waist. He’s warm, steady. But the storm is still in him, just beneath the surface.
“Who was he?” I ask gently.
Wake’s jaw tightens. “My grandfather.”
There’s pride in his voice, but also something else. Something heavier.
“He sounds like someone you admired,” I say.
“He was the greatest man I’ve ever known,” Wake says, and there’s no hesitation in that. “Wise. Fierce. A warrior who served Dagon with everything he had. Never cared for politics or ambition. Just… honor.”
I nod, sensing there’s more. “And?”
Wake’s lips press into a line. “He never liked Shoal much.”
I smile. “A good judge of character, then?”
That earns a quiet laugh. A real one.
“If he knew what Shoal was trying to do now—resurrecting the Dark One, challenging the will of the gods, all of it… what would he say?” I ask.
Wake closes his eyes for a long moment. Then, resigned, “He’d want to understand. Truly understand the enemy’s plan. Whatever it took.”
I tilt my head. “So… you think we should keep listening?”
Wake’s lips twitch. “I think my grandfather would.”
I lean up and kiss him, slow and lingering. “Then we do this together.”
The storm in his shoulders eases—just a little.
He wraps his arms around me and presses his forehead to mine. “I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either.”
“But I like you.”
I grin. “Then that’s a start.”
He kisses me again. And this time, it’s not out of anger or fear—but something steadier.
Something so much sweeter.
Hotter.
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