Page 105 of Psycho Pack

What the hell is going on?

I follow him across the train car, close enough I can feel the heat radiating from his body. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. I watch his reflection in the glass as he stares out the window at the white city, taking in the tight set of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes.

"It's beautiful," I say softly.

Plague's lips curve into a bitter smile. "It is."

I want to ask him what he means, to demand answers about what's really going on. But the lost look in his eyes stops me. Whatever secrets he's keeping, whatever burden he's carrying... I can tell from the tension radiating off him in waves that he isn't ready to talk about it.

Not yet.

Instead, I reach out hesitantly and take his hand in mine. His skin is cool and dry, and he stiffens at the contact. For a moment, I think he's going to pull away.

But then his fingers curl around mine, squeezing gently.

I look up, startled by the intensity in his gaze as he stares down at me. The sharp planes of his face have softened somehow. His eyes, usually cold and flinty, are warm despite the sadness there.

"Ivy," he murmurs, his voice rougher than usual. "I..."

He trails off, clearly struggling to find the words. I squeeze his hand again, offering what comfort I can. "It's okay," I tell him, even though I'm not sure it is. "Whatever's going on, whatever you're dealing with... we're here.I'mhere."

Plague's eyes widen fractionally. Hope? But before he can respond, Thane's deep voice cuts through the moment.

"We need to get ready," he says, his tone clipped. "They'll be coming for us soon."

"Hopefully not our heads," Whiskey says with a snort.

Reality crashes back in, and Plague lets go of my hand. He takes a step back, that familiar mask of cool detachment sliding back into place as he glares at Whiskey.

My hand feels empty where his just was.

The train comes to a complete stop with a soft hiss of hydraulics. For a moment, we all stand frozen, exchanging wary glances.

Then the door to our compartment slides open with a soft hiss, making me jump. The attendant who greeted us earlier steps into our compartment, her beaded veil swaying.

"We have arrived," she says, her voice musical despite its formality. Her tone is stiffer than before. "If you'll follow me, please."

I glance at Plague again, but he's staring straight ahead, his expression unreadable. The rest of the alphas fall into formation around me as we follow the attendant through the train's narrow corridor.

My alphas close ranks around me as we follow the attendant out into the hall. Wraith's massive frame looms to my right while Thane takes up position on my left, their bodies casting twin shadows over me. Plague and Whiskey fall in behind, and even Valek—still swaying slightly—moves to flank us, his silver eyes less hazy than they were a few minutes ago.

The attendant leads us through the train's ornate corridor, her flowing white robes whispering against the plush carpet. The morning sunlight streaming through the windows catches on the golden beads adorning her veil, sending prismatic sparkles dancing across the polished wood panels.

As we step onto the platform, the full grandeur of Surhiira takes my breath away. The white stone city rises before us like something out of a dream, its delicate spires piercing an impossibly blue sky. The pristine marble beneath my feet is inlaid with veins of gold that pulse with a subtle luminescence, as if the very stone is alive with captured sunlight.

"Stay close," Thane murmurs, his hand coming to rest protectively on my lower back.

I don't need to be told twice. The beauty surrounding us only makes me more wary. Everything here feels too perfect, too precise.

Like a gilded trap waiting to spring shut.

More white-robed figures glide past us, their faces obscured by veils and scarves that ripple in the warm breeze coming off the lake. The air here smells different. Clean and sweet. It's nothing like the harsh chemical tang of Reinmich or the acrid smoke of the Outer Reaches.

Wraith growls softly beside me, his borrowed white scarf doing little to muffle the sound. I glance up to see his blue eyes fixed on a group of guards positioned along the platform's edge. Their pristine white uniforms are immaculate, but I notice the way their hands rest casually on the ornate hilts of curved swords at their hips. The weapons look ceremonial, all gleaming gold and precious stones, but something tells me they're as deadly as they are beautiful.

They don't seem to have noticed us. I'm getting the impression there isn't much of a sense of danger here. It's clear this glimmering city has never seen a bomb.

"This way, please," our attendant says, gesturing toward a set of sweeping stairs that seem to float unsupported from the platform's edge. The steps are carved from the same white stone as everything else, but they're shot through with threads of mother-of-pearl that catch the light like frozen lightning.

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