Page 87 of Psycho Pack

Thane has a wary look on his face I don't like at all.

"How?" I ask, unable to keep the suspicion from my voice. "You said they wanted nothing to do with us. What changed?"

A muscle ticks in Plague's jaw, but he doesn't answer. The silence stretches, growing more uncomfortable with each passing second.

Finally, Whiskey breaks it with a bark of laughter that holds no real humor. "Oh, I get it. Who'd you suck off to get us on that fancy-ass train? Must've been one shitty experience?—"

Plague moves so fast I almost miss it. One moment he's standing still as a statue, the next he has Whiskey by the throat, slamming him back against a snow-covered boulder. The larger alpha's eyes go wide with shock as Plague leans in close, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

"Shut. Your. Fucking. Mouth."

Whiskey, to his credit, doesn't back down. He meets Plague's glare with one of his own, and for a heart-stopping moment, I'm sure the alphas are about to come to blows.

Again.

Then Thane is there, physically inserting himself between the two alphas. "Enough," he snaps, his voice carrying the full weight of command. "Both of you, stand down.Now."

Slowly, reluctantly, Plague releases his grip on Whiskey's throat. The larger alpha rubs at the reddening marks left behind,a low growl rumbling in his chest. But neither of them makes a move to continue the confrontation.

"If you two are done measuring dicks," Thane says, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "we have a train to catch. Unless you'd rather freeze to death out here?"

The reminder of our precarious situation seems to snap everyone back to reality. Whiskey mutters something under his breath I can't quite catch, but I'm pretty sure it's dick related. He falls in line as Thane starts leading us toward the distant train. Plague follows a few paces behind us, his posture rigid, gaze fixed straight ahead like we're walking straight to the gallows.

The strange tension is unnerving.

But what choice do we have?

The wind whips mercilessly at my face as we trudge through the knee-deep snow toward the gleaming white train. Even nestled in Wraith's arms, the biting cold is seeping through the layers of clothes hanging off my body.

As we draw closer to the train, I catch a glimpse of people bustling about on the platform. My eyes widen as I take in their appearances. High cheekbones and aquiline noses give them an aristocratic air. The lower halves of their faces are all covered, the men wearing white scarves while the women wear jingling beaded veils. Their clothes are a sea of pristine white, adorned with glittering gold accents that catch the sunlight. Flowing robes and tailored suits alike move with an otherworldly grace. The sheer head coverings the women wear do little to contain their uniformly lush black hair spilling out in glossy waves.

They all look strangely out of place against the backdrop of the desolate wasteland. As we approach, several of them turn to look at us, wariness in their furrowed brows.

A tall woman whose plump build fills out her beautiful silky robes steps forward, her golden veil swaying gently. "Welcome, travelers," she says, her voice musical as she glances over us. Shesmells of alpha, but she has none of the usual aggression in her stance or tone.

Her gaze lingers briefly on Plague, her hazel eyes unreadable before flicking to Wraith. He holds me fractionally tighter with a soft growl, lowering his face into my hair to hide his scarred jaw. That draws her attention and her eyes crinkle at the corners with a smile.

"And an omega," she adds softly.

Thane tenses beside us, his jaw clenching. I glance over at him, confused by his reaction to such a friendly greeting, but he steps forward and gives her a stiff bow.

"Thank you," he says in a stiff tone.

"Please, come aboard," the woman says, gesturing toward the train's gleaming entrance. "We've prepared a special car for your comfort."

I have to admit that sounds kind of nice.

Thane gives a curt nod and motions for us to follow. The tension radiates off him in waves and the others don't look much more comfortable.

Especially Plague.

The opulence that hits me the moment we step inside the train car is instantly overwhelming. Everything gleams and sparkles, a stark contrast to the harsh world outside. The cream and gold carpet beneath our feet is so plush, the alphas' boots sink into it like they're walking on snow. Delicate floral patterns weave through geometric borders, each thread catching the light from polished brass lamps mounted at regular intervals along the walls.

My fingers itch to trace the mother-of-pearl inlays that wind their way through the rich wooden panels like frozen streams. The designs tell stories. Birds in flight, flowering vines, and what looks like ancient script in a language I don't recognize. The gauzy curtains framing the windows drift in an unfeltbreeze, their edges embroidered with tiny golden beads that chime softly when they brush against each other. The soft tinkle of piano music fills the space, the notes flowing from hidden speakers.

The air smells of jasmine and sandalwood, sweet and exotic. Brass tables with intricate filigree legs stand between plush chairs upholstered in cream silk, every surface displaying ornate silver trays full of biscuits, croissants, tiny sandwiches, and fine porcelain teacups. My mouth waters at the scent of fresh, warm food despite my nerves.

It's beautiful.

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