Page 18 of The Princess and the Pack

Being close to her, even briefly, healed something inside my bruised, lonely heart. How could I have ever believed I’d be able to give her up? How could I have spent all this time in her absence convinced I wouldn’t do everything in my earthly power to win her? My faith in our mission was renewed the moment her scent wrapped around me and made my soul sing.

That is, until her sister accosted me like I were some wild animal daring to breathe the same air as my Ivy. Reality is a cruel mistress, and it stung to be reminded that, no matter what intense devotion I hold in my heart for her, my claim will never be accepted.

Never.

The world isn’t ready for the truth of what Cillian wants to expose. Parentage, title, inheritance: all of it more important to these noble alphas than living a long and happy life with their bonded omegas. Does he truly believe they don’t know why the nobility perish so young—why the common folk live to ripe old ages? This cruel cycle continues solely because of their pompousness.

They’ll never accept their inability to provide an omega with the care and attention required for a healthy life. Just as before, these alphas would rather their mates die than acclimate to pack living.

Even the knowledge that losing one’s bonded mate will inevitably drive them to madness doesn’t inspire action in these fools.

My mother—all of our mothers—doomed to live half lives. This court, and others across the western kingdoms, would prefer my mate face the same fate than see me at her side with Cillian. Worse still, the backlash that would come from learning we let a commoner into our ranks.

Sloan touching our new queen with his soil-stained hands?Unthinkable.

Today is a reminder of Cillian and Ivy’s inevitability. While what’s left of their lives may be joyous, she’ll grow more ill with each unsatisfied heat. If they’re lucky, they’ll produce an heir so the McKenna line can carry on once they’re gone.

The way the former king managed to survive as long as he did after the death of his queen was damn near a miracle. But given how callously he sealed her fate, it’s clear their bond meant little to him.

Cillian is ten times the alpha and leader his father ever could have hoped to be. But his good heart and determination alone won’t be enough to save Ivy. As much as I long for things to be different, I don’t belong in their lives beyond the role of dutiful advisor. This disinherited noble who has refused the conditions of his birthright, shaming the noble house of Rafferty, will never be good enough for them.

My family name will die with me, and that is something my father can’t forgive. Because I won’t marry—won’t be able to touch another woman—now that I know Ivy exists. I’ve witnessed the gift Fate has so cruelly dangled in front of me, and I would sooner die than accept another omega. No matter how many he shoves under my nose.

My queen is the beginning and the end of all my dreams. She is the love I’ve always craved, but never had the courage to believe could be mine. And though I can’t have her, I would never dare try to fill the hole in my heart with another. Not when it was carved by Fate with my Ivy in mind.

For all Lucernia has in riches and splendor, I’ve never experienced anything quite so grand as a Namarian feast. The banquet hall is positively bubbling over with festive spirit. Boisterous music rings out around us, and the roar of excited chatter is well above the polite din of a banquet in my home country. It’s a good indication of how the court feels about their new king, as they celebrate him with such jubilation.

When the ceremony first ended, Cillian and I received many of the nobles while they offered their congratulations and expressed hopes for our future heirs. The fact that they felt so comfortable speaking about such a private matter did have me blushing at first. But as I’ve witnessed time and again, the Namarian people are much less repressed than my countrymen. I welcome their candor and how it allows for more sincere connections to be made between us all.

As the hours passed the reception has taken on a life of its own. My growing need to be alone with my husband has similarly intensified. Discovering our scent match so publicly without being able to discuss how we feel was already difficult enough to contend with. But the heated glances he sends me and the headiness of his sea-soaked scent is driving me mad with desire.

A certain nobleman—who has yet to show his face— also comes to mind. How am I meant to put my racing thoughts to rest when I can’t confirm or deny my suspicions? I once thought a scent match between Cillian and me couldn’t be possible; he hadn’t responded to me so viscerally when we first met last year. Clearly, given his reaction earlier, I was wrong in that assumption. Perhaps my perfume hadn’t fully developed until my birthday, and he was only now able to perceive it.

Could the same be true of Lord Oran?

“To the king and his bride!” is shouted, and then echoed, somewhere in the hall. It shakes me from my muddled musings and sparks warmth in my belly. I fear I’ll never tire of hearing myself referred to as such.

Cillian’s bride.

My new husband sits to my right, grinning around the rim of his chalice at the toast. It’s a proud, triumphant thing, stirring excitement deep within me. To see him revel in our union is far more attractive than I could ever have imagined. Against my will, I perfume for what feels like the hundredth time today.

Cillian groans low and aching, turning to regard me with fire and promise in his eyes.

“Dance with me, wife?” The gentleness with which he takes my hand and brings it to his lips is so at odds with the rough desperation in his voice.

When I look to the dance floor, I see more of the same unfamiliar steps I witnessed earlier. In my country, the dances are precise and practiced, with no room for improvisation. Here, it seems, everyone is happy to move freely about the room so long as they don’t collide with others. Beyond our first of the evening, I haven’t been brave enough to try another.

“I’m not familiar with these dances. What if I step on your feet and scare you away?” I ask, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth. I wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself in any manner that could dull the sparkling way Cillian looks at me.

“Little terror, you could never frighten me enough to leave,” he says with a playful roll of his eyes. “I’d gladly take ten broken toes if it meant feeling you against me.”

Little terror.

It’s not the first time he’s referred to me as such, but the endearment is shockingly adorable. My inner omega seems to agree, letting her appreciation be known through yet another cloying wave of perfume.

“Omega.”Cillian’s pupils dilate as he leans in to grasp the back of my neck. With swift precision, his fingers slide into my hair and tug just enough to close the distance between us. Pinpricks of pulsating pleasure radiate over every inch of me, settling between my legs so I’m aching for more.

Feeling this alpha’s desperation is more intoxicating than anything else I’ve experienced, and I have little doubt of my impending addiction to such a sensation. With his mouth so near to mine, he strokes the pulse point on my throat, coaxing a whine from my now-dry lips. If he doesn’t kiss me in the next second, I fear I’ll devolve into a fit of hysteria.

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