Page 172 of Psycho Pack

The vendor doesn't look so sure, but he doesn't complain about the coins. As we turn away from the fruit stand, I glance back and see him holding them up into the sun, marveling at how they catch the light.

"How interesting," Valek remarks to Plague as we walk away. "Is your family not quite as benevolent as they seem?"

Plague gives Valek an uncomfortable sideways glance. "My father wasn't. And Azarel has always been on the… serious side. But he was never cruel. Not unless something's changed since I've been gone." He turns back to me, drawing the dagger from his belt. "Here. You cut it into sections, like so?—"

"Nah, my way's faster," says Whiskey, grabbing the pomegranate from Plague. He tears it open with his bare hands, the whole fruit splitting into multiple sections. Red juice pours out and onto his hands as Plague gives him a judgmental grimace. Especially when some of the juice sprays onto Whiskey's previously pristine white jacket.

"That works, too, I suppose," Plague says dryly.

"Watch out. It'll stain the fuck out of your dress," Whiskey says, handing me a juicy section of fruit. The flesh is pale yellow and weblike, dotted with seeds the brightest red color I've ever seen. I can see why Valek compared them to blood.

I go to take a bite out of it like it's an apple slice and Whiskey barks a laugh. "Not like that," he says. "That yellow shit's bitter. You don't wanna eat that. Just eat the seeds. Like this." He plucks one from the webbed flesh and tosses it into the air, catching it in his mouth.

"Show-off," Plague mutters.

Whiskey flashes him a grin. "You love it."

I pluck one of the gleaming seeds and pop it into my mouth through my beaded veil. The burst of flavor is shocking. Sweetand tart at once, complex in a way I didn't know fruit could be. The seeds crunch pleasantly between my teeth.

"Oh, wow," I mumble, reaching for another. "This is..."

"Good?" Whiskey asks, handing sections out to the rest of the alphas before tearing a handful of seeds free from his own all at once.

"Amazing," I correct him, savoring each little explosion of flavor.

"Easy with the white fabric," Plague grumbles, holding the pomegranate in his hands like the bright red juice might set his white gloves on fire.

I don't have to see Valek's mouth to know he's smirking. The glint in his eyes is unmistakable even before he tugs his scarf down to take an unnecessarily vicious bite out of his section of pomegranate, bitter flesh and all. "Give up, princess," he purrs, the juice staining his lips like he's a vampire that just bit out a victim's throat. "We're all wild beasts, even you. That's why we make you so uncomfortable."

Plague shoots Valek an irritated glare. "I liked you better when you weren't trying to be deep."

I bite back a laugh, popping a few more seeds into my mouth. Wraith does the same thing, his massive hands surprisingly careful as he plucks one out and slips it behind his scarf. Then again, it shouldn't be much of a surprise considering how much control he had when we had that first encounter.

The memory makes my face heat up all over again.

Valek gives a dark chuckle and turns to me. "In Vrissia, we have a story about the pomegranate. An omega eats six seeds in the underworld and becomes the queen of the dead." He grins wickedly. "Perhaps you'll become the queen of something too, yes?"

I roll my eyes at him, but can't help smiling. The way the juice stains my fingers red does feel somehow decadent, almost dangerous. Like I'm indulging in something forbidden.

"I would have to be the king, and that isn't happening," Plague says pointedly before eating a few seeds himself. Much to my relief. Surhiira is incredible, but I couldn't keep up the queen act for long.

The omega of a prince, though?

That might be different.

The sweet-tart flavor of pomegranate still lingers on my tongue as we make our way deeper into the bustling market district. My eyes dart from stall to stall, trying to take in the dizzying array of colors and textures on display. I've never seen so many beautiful things in one place before.

Once we finish our shared pomegranate and get rid of the bitter shell, and Whiskey washes his hands in a fountain at Plague's insistent urging, we head to a shop with intricate golden filigree framing the windows. Everyone here seems to speak the same common language we do, but the writing above the door is nothing I recognize at all.

As we enter through the front door, a bell chimes softly, announcing our arrival. An attendant glides over, her white robes whispering against the polished floor. Her eyes widen as she takes in our group, lingering on Plague for a moment in clear shock before she composes herself with a deep bow.

"Welcome, honored guests," she says, her voice wavering slightly. "How may I assist you today?"

Plague steps forward, his posture regal. "We're in need of new attire," he says smoothly. "Something that would help us blend in with scummy partygoers at a masquerade ball."

She looks shocked at his words. Guess being around the Ghosts for so long has messed up his otherwise princely vocabulary. "Of course, Your High?—"

"Just sir will do," Plague interrupts gently.

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