Page 9 of The Princess and the Pack

Ciaran clears his throat, moving closer to catch a glimpse of Prince Aspen entering the carriage. I can tell he believes me in how his shoulders relax when he settles beside me.

“Betrothals are for the fucking birds,” he mutters, his voice forlorn.

He doesn’t often speak of his betrothed, not in the way Cillian does. But then, from the little I know, most royals aren’t so lucky as to find love within their arrangements.

“Shame, that,” I offer, patting the prince on the back in consolation.

With a sigh, he looks on as the carriage holding both our hearts takes off into the distance. The tug in my chest pulls tighter with each passing second, and soon, I’ll have to find something to distract from the emptiness growing inside me. Though she’s only just gone, I’m already counting the hours until she returns.

When her ocean eyes and bright smile are before me once more, I’ll be ready for her. I’ll make sure she has a home, a nest,a packshe’ll be proud to call her own.

1 year later

No truer torture exists than knowing my mate is in Namara—in my castle, no less—and being unable to hold her. Worse still, custom dictates I can’t even lay eyes upon the curve of her coy smile or luxuriate in the soft sensuality of her body until tomorrow, when we finally wed.

Agony is too tame a description for the clawing, nagging ache that’s plagued me since Ivy departed just one year ago. To learn my very heart existed outside my chest only to have her kept from me? No turn of phrase could ever capture the bone-deep anguish that has afflicted my packmates and me all this time.

In Ivy’s absence, the lushness of her apple-cinnamon scent has invaded my every waking moment. Even sleep hasn’t granted me a reprieve from its haunting memory. Every night I’ve dreamt of the taste of my omega on my lips and the sweet surrender she offered me before our brief dalliance was interrupted. And every night I’ve woken in a cold sweat, my cock throbbing with the unfulfilled urge to bury myself inside the warm welcome of her dripping cunt.

I’m obsessed, to state it plainly. I merely exist to be near her; to hold and worship her so long as we both live.

I suppose these are normal emotions an alpha can expect when thinking of his flawless, Fate-blessed mate. But the distance, the denial of seeing her safe and well, has made it so I can hardly function.

The need to sate my carnal imperatives is slowly driving me to madness, but more than that, I long to truly know Ivy. It is one thing to be infatuated; and there is no part of her I don’t desire. But to know her mind—to earn her love—is a privilege I desperately want bestowed upon me.

The irony of it all is, were it not for my own choices, I might have what I want most in the world. Keeping my packmates and me away from Ivy during her visit was all my doing. After I first scented her, I knew I couldn’t trust any of us not to woo her into bed and mark her gorgeous throat with our claiming bites.

Though bonding the princess may be our deepest held desire, achieving such a blissful end requires delicateness. Ivy is a princess of the Bancroft royal line of Lucernia—the most powerful and wealthy of all the western kingdoms. Her oldest brother, King Hawthorn, is known to be very protective of his seven siblings, especially the omegas among them. Had he learned of my plans, he could have easily kept Ivy from me.

It matters little that she and I were promised to each other long before he ascended the throne. Betrothals have been broken for less, and packs are simply not a reality for people of our station. Rather, we’re expected to go against the laws of our nature and mate in loveless pairs for the most vain and vapid reasons: legacy and power.

Any misstep from Oran, Sloan, or me could keep us all from our mate, and that fear was too high a risk until she and I were wed. And though I’ve hated every moment of deceiving her, I’m certain the ends will justify the means.

A scent match is not something so easily disregarded—as is proven by my restlessness, Oran’s despondence, and Sloan’s endless affirmations of fate since she’s been gone. Now that she has turned twenty-one and developed her omega senses, she will finally learn the truth of what we are to her.

I ache to have her know me as I’ve known her this last year, to have my scent wrap around her so she can feel its rightness in her soul.I want nothing more than to see the elation in her eyes when she realizes I belong to her completely, just as she belongs with me.

It is my hope this gift we’ve been given will be the catalyst for something great. With it, we can build a new society that will spare so many from the unjust and barbaric fate of those before us.

Ivy may not know it yet, but with her at our center, we have the potential to change the world.

All I need is to make it through this final night and she will be mine. Unfortunately, in the meantime, I’m stuck entertaining the only men who could put a stop to all my grand machinations: her brothers.

My study is modest compared to the gilded opulence I’m sure the Lucernian royals are accustomed to. Namara is not so grand a kingdom, but I’m no less proud of my most treasured space of solace. Besides, itisa rarity this room is used to entertain.

Normally I would receive visiting royals in a less intimate setting, but King Hawthorn requested a private audience between the alphas of our respective families. I surmised the Bancroft royals might need a quiet evening away from my court’s festivities, given they just spent a long week at sea. Selfishly, I was happy to oblige, as I’m in no mood to partake in the revelry without my future queen there to enjoy it with me.

“It’s a shame about your father passing so close to the wedding,” Hawthorn says in an earnest attempt to offer his condolences. He crosses one long leg over the other, settling into the emerald settee and training his gaze on me.

My father’s health took a turn for the worse this past year, and he met his end just one month ago. Though I can’t say I’m saddened by the loss of such a selfish prick. Upon his death, I was able to claim my birthright to the throne. But as far as my brothers and I are concerned, we were orphaned the day we lost our mother nearly seven years ago.

“A shame,” my brother scoffs, trying and failing to hide his indignation. While neither of my brothers are famous for their composure, Callan’s impulsive demeanor is unmatched.

He is the youngest of us, and the least concerned with his role as a prince of Namara. The fact he is even present tonight and not drowning in wine and women at court is a wonder. Still, he should know better than to let his tongue slip in such company. Polite society might frown upon our shared loathing of the former king.

“What he means to say, Majesty,” Ciaran interjects in a gentle tone, “is that our father was not well for a long time. Better we focus on the joyous union of our great kingdoms rather than his passing.”

A smile tugs at the corner of my lips in appreciation for my brother, ever the courtier. Of the three of us, Ciaran has always had what my mother lovingly described as ‘the gift of the gab.’ There was never a situation he could not talk his way into or out of when he put his mind to it.

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