Page 36 of The Princess and the Pack

Not my Ivy, so they’re not important right now.

Did she wander these halls looking for me? Or for Cillian? I’m not even positive I want to know the answer. But I’ll soon need to be prepared for her reaction once she knows the truth about me.

Can I ever truly lay myself bare for her? Hand her a knife so she can either spare me or plunge it straight into my chest with her rejection? If she can’t accept me, I’ll go fucking mad with grief; I know it.

I can’t decide if this bond, this tether to my mate, is a gift from Fate or a curse. How can anyone stand to be so on edge? So dependent on the love of another?

It’s maddening.

Thrilling.

All-consuming.

And I’m losing myself amidst the uncertainty.

“Oran!”

Eyes like dark amber meet mine with panic emanating from their warm depths. Tiernan’s furrowed brow looks so out of place upon the smooth elegance of his handsome face. In all our years of friendship, I’ve rarely seen him direct so much worry my way.

But the sensation of his hands grasping my shoulders is dulled by the buzzing need to seek out my mate and soothe her. To give her pretty things and promise her the world.

“Saysomething, you growly fucker. You’re scaring us all.”

At any other time, I would indulge my dear friend in this most simple request, but he doesn’t understand. He can’t sense her distress like I can.

“Mate” is all I can manage to say. Or maybe I growl it, if he’s to be believed. At present I don’t know if I even exist inside my body any longer.

I push past Tiernan—past Cillian—and barge into his study, where this instinct drags me. She’s here, my Ivy. She needs me.

“Omega!” I call out, distraught and desperate.

On a normal occasion, I would revel in letting her hide from me—as she did last year. I would pretend as if her scent is not some divine beacon constantly lighting a pathway toward her. But now I’m keenly aware we have no time for games.

“Goddess wept,Oran. What are you doing?” my prime alpha asks as he enters the room. He should be looking for her as I am. Surely he can scent her by now.

She iseverywhere, her pungent perfume soaking into each corner of the king’s study. But I don’t see her, can’t find the source of her sweet despair. Until it hits me, a memory I keep hidden in the recesses of my mind: Cillian’s desk.

Confidently, and with haste, I stride to find my mate—my little mess of mischief—curled into herself under the desk. Sweat beads against her fair skin and she shivers with the heat racking her soft body.

When she whimpers, I let instinct take hold and drop to my knees without any regard for the impact of the hard stone floor. Maybe it would hurt if I were able to register anything besides Ivy’s every breath, her wildly beating heart, or the way her skin burns where my fingers brush against it.

My omega is practically on fire, a perfect complement to my scent and the way it intensifies in response to hers. Her perfume invades every part of my consciousness: sticky-sweet apples dipped in the decadence of honey, coated with cinnamon-sugar sex.

Ivy’s pliant body curls into mine as I scoop her into my arms and cradle her to my chest. I purr for her, a new and wondrous sensation thundering freely from my chest. It’s a show of my devotion—of the care and comfort I wish to provide her for all the days of my life. This is how alphas and omegas are meant to be: giving, taking, coming together as one.

Comforted by the steady rumbling of my chest, Ivy stirs, running her nose against my neck in search of the source of my alpha signature. I let it bleed out of me then, holding nothing back as I similarly burn from the inside.

Her soft panting against me is sweet satisfaction, as is the cool, wet drag of her tongue trailing my throat. She sucks there, drawing my skin between her blunt teeth as if she is the alpha and I’m her omega to bite—to claim.

Goddess knows I would gladly wear her bond if such a thing were possible. Still, my inner alpha is pleased with my mate’s attention and the heady decadence of her arousal in the air.

“Oran, dear,” a soft voice calls, feminine and pretty. Omega. Notmyomega, but she poses no threat to the treasure in my arms. “The queen is having a heat spike. You need to get her into her nest so she can get her rest.”

I know I can trust this omega, my friend. What she says makes sense as to why Ivy’s perfume is so intense—why I’m presently damn near feral. But I can’t stand parting with her. Instead, I hold my mate tighter so no one is able to steal her from my arms.

Not Cillian.

Not Sloan.

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