Once Upon A Pack (Royalverse #1)

Prologue

prologue

TWELVE SUMMERS AGO

“Now, you know you need more than that .”

The duckling puffs its downy feathers out in a stubborn sort of way. I cock my head at him, frowning as sternly as I can. “Listen, you won’t be able to grow big and strong without food. How about some of Mama’s sourdough? You liked that last week.”

When he blinks back, I giggle to myself and reach for my tote bag. The loaves inside are warm—and not because they’re fresh. Mama only lets me take the stale ones for my friends, but the summer sunshine does a decent job of reheating them. Pinching my fingers, I sprinkle sourdough crumbs on the sun-warmed marble beneath our feet.

Well, my feet.

His… webs?

Do ducks have a special word for their feet? I should ask Mama. Or maybe Mr. Montrose. He’s a groundskeeper, so surely he would…

My newest friend sets to work, gathering his breakfast. I turn my head, looking for the rest of his family. I haven’t seen them in a few days and I’m worried he’s somehow been left behind.

My eyes prick while I watch him eat, wondering what will become of him if he’s really all alone. Mama warned me not to touch ducklings, because it upsets their mothers… but maybe, if this one is on his own …

Boyish jeers ring across the yard. I flinch, ducking low to hide before it occurs that no one over there can see me. I’m hidden by the garden’s hedges, crouched between a wall of fat pink peonies and the smallest of the castle’s six fountains—one that looks like some sort of princess, petting a swan.

Not a very realistic image, I’ve learned. Swans are quite persnickety creatures; I have a scar on my left forearm to prove it. Still, I suppose I like the bubbling statue well enough—this has been my preferred hiding spot all summer.

During the school year, I spend my days in class and at the public school’s aftercare center. But, during vacation, Mama asked permission to bring me to the castle with her.

She said the housekeeper agreed, so long as I “behave like a lady.” Which, I’ve been told, does not include tracking mud inside or feeding any of the mice that totally live in the cellar.

I keep that to myself; who knows what the grown-ups would do to them?!

I’m well-acquainted with the way adults treat creatures they consider to be “underfoot.”

Not just adults, actually.

The sneering boys grow closer, and my duckling friend— he looks like a Bartholomew , I decide—scurries toward the fountain for sanctuary.

I slap my crumb-dusted palm to my face, whispering, “You’re meant to be in the lake , Bartholomew! No wonder your mama lost track of you.”

He ignores me, of course. After watching him hop in place for a long moment, my heart hurts. With a sigh, I nudge a nearby bag of mulch toward the edge of the basin and he scurries up the sack, quacking happily.

“Wait.”

The unexpected voice is so close, I jump and squeak, wheeling around to find?—

The prince .

Asher Leopold Everhart.

The Fifth.

Biscuits .

Mama is going to be mad .

That was the king’s one rule. The housekeeper wanted me to behave like a lady, but His Majesty decreed that none of the employees’ children should “fraternize” with the prince. Which I guess means I’m supposed to leave him alone.

Does it count as “fraternizing” if he talks to me , though? It’s not as if I’ll ever have the nerve to actually speak back …

I shrink away, heart leaping as he strides toward me, the fountain, and Bartholomew with a mighty frown. Probably because I’m in the royal family’s private gardens instead of out on the lawn with the other servants’ kids.

They’re mostly boys, though. And older. And mean .

Last week, one of them tried to hit a snake with a stick. And recorded it.

I shudder at the memory, but my motion stops the prince in his tracks. There’s a long, breathless moment of pause where I feel his eyes on my face but don’t dare glance back. Then, slowly, he lifts his hands, showing me his palms.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he explains, his voice deeper than I expect. “But the duck can’t get into the fountain. The filter will suck him into the plumbing.”

That mental picture is so horrifying, my eyes instantly leap up to the royal’s face, aghast. Behind square tortoiseshell glasses, his hazel gaze is calm and calculating. It drops to the bag of mulch.

With a hard swallow, I step back, letting him slide the sack—and Bartholomew—off to the side, near the hedge. When my little friend hops into the mulch and goes right for a thicket of thorns, the prince gently blocks the path with his foot, scowling harder.

“Not that way,” he mutters, shooing the little bird with the toe of his Oxfords. “Daft thing.”

My stomach twists at the insult, even though it’s wry. I kneel in the dirt, carefully guiding the duckling’s path and doing my best to keep the prince’s toe away from him.

“You aren’t daft , are you, Bartholomew?” I whisper. “You’re just lost .”

The prince goes so still, I find myself turning to look up at him again. His eyes flicker directly to mine for the first time.

“Bartholomew?”

Oh dear. I did say that out loud, didn’t I?

See? This is why none of the other kids at school—or my own cousins, for that matter—can stand me.

My throat sticks as I stammer, “Y-yes. Bartholomew Waddlesworth.”

Dear Lord. Maybe I’m daft.

The prince’s expression jumps in surprise. Reminding me that— oh, right —this is the future king I’m talking to. Not the stablehand’s stick-wielding son or the chauffeur’s snobby nephew.

The. Prince.

“Y-your Highness,” I add, lashes fluttering as I rise, squeezing my hands together and dropping my head for a very belated curtsy.

I wait for a rebuke. Or, maybe, he won’t bother with me and he’ll just tell his parents. Then I’ll be stuck back at my mother and aunt’s flat, dealing with Caitlin and Claire for the rest of the summer.

If I’m there, who will feed Bartholomew?

A quiet laugh has me raising my face, blinking in shock. The prince’s eyes crease slightly while he chuckles at me.

He’s older , I realize. Only by a few years, but still bigger than me. More mature-looking. And… beautiful? With flawless skin and a head of thick, unruly brown hair the same color as my favorite chocolate tarts from the manor’s kitchen. Not to mention the unique green-and-gold of his eyes.

Those irises sparkle as he raises one thick brow at me. “Bartholomew Waddlesworth ? Is that his official title?”

Yes, by the way, I am daft for sure. Because I simply bumble, “His official title is ‘Bartholomew Waddlesworth, of the Maytown Manor Ducks.’”

The corner of the prince’s mouth ticks up, but he nods, straightening to hold the book dangling from his left hand behind his back. “Naturally,” he agrees, somehow teasing me without making a joke. “And what about the squirrels? Are they all ‘of the Maytown Manor Squirrels’?”

“No,” I giggle. “There are a bunch of different squirrel families on the grounds. They’re named by their home tree .”

Prince Asher is known for being quiet. It’s true, even when he laughs in earnest, flashing rows of perfect, white teeth.

Like most beautiful things, his laughter doesn’t last very long. The humor falls from his face as he watches Bartholomew totter toward the lake situated east of the manor. “Neither of you should be in this garden, you know.”

His gaze slides to mine, briefly, even though it doesn’t belong there. We aren’t supposed to look the royals in the eye unless addressed by name.

It occurs to me, a second too late, that he’s trying to ask what to call me. Maybe so I can look at him? I swallow again, brushing my hands against my navy leggings. “Ivy,” I tell him. “My mom is your—is Her Majesty’s tailor.”

Prince Asher nods again, the motion slow and considering to match the glide of his gaze over my face.

“Ivy,” he repeats. “I’m Asher.” A mild grimace cracks his handsome features. “You already knew that,” he adds, rambling. “I mean, I assume you already knew that.”

My head bobs, strangely weightless. Some distant part of my mind wonders what he’s doing out here. Talking to me .

Shouldn’t he be, like, at an elite boarding school? Or in a war room?

Do they make princes walk around with dictionaries balanced on their heads, or is that just for “ladies”?

Prince Asher is known for having many texts to choose from. “His Nerdiness,” some very mean websites dubbed him after a photo from his bedroom leaked to tabloids.

Luckily, he wasn’t in it.

But about four hundred books were.

And some unfortunate star-patterned sheets that are— okay —maybe a teensy bit nerdy.

Figuring it would be best to distract him from his earlier line of conversation—and any thoughts of my broken rules—I gesture a fluttering hand at the text trapped in his clutches. “D-did you come outside to read, Your Highness?”

That’s odd, actually. It’s blazing hot out here. Why would he read in this heat? He could be in any room of the manor he wishes…

When his jaw hardens and his throat works, I realize I’ve accidentally asked a question that embarrasses him. And, since I’m not even supposed to speak to him, I’m guessing that’s also… a blunder.

“Yes,” he finally replies, blowing out a breath. “I’m… studying.”

I nod, not quite quelling the rude urge to peek at the book trapped in his clutches. How To—something?

But the voices I heard laughing interrupt us from the other side of the hedge.

“—total fucking dweeb .”

I gasp, covering my gaping mouth with my hand. Mama would be appalled if I ever said that word. We heard a valet use it once, and she muttered about it under her breath the whole way home.

A scoff answers the curse. “I know, right? Next time I see him out here, I’m going to kick his ass.”

“You will not ,” another kid snorts. “Because then you’d be thrown in the dungeon.”

“This place doesn’t have a dungeon , shithead. And besides, you think the king would care if I tried to toughen up his sissy son? I bet he’d thank me. Maybe I’ll get knighted.”

They’re… talking about beating up Asher ? Prince Asher? What on Earth ?! How dare they?! Why would they?!

Fear bolts through my belly, but I start to step toward the hedge anyway, intending to chase them off the way I did when they harmed that innocent snake.

Long, cool fingers grasp my wrist. I whip my head around, finding the prince much closer than he was before. The book in question hangs from one of his hands while the other squeezes softly at my hammering pulse. His hazel eyes are solemn, his mouth a thin line while he shakes his head.

Telling me to stay here. And be silent.

Before I can decide if it’s wrong to obey him, the boys start up again.

“I feel bad for the king,” one says airily. “He only has one heir and the guy’s a wuss . I bet he won’t even be an alpha. I bet he’s a delicate little omega like his mommy.”

“Ha!” the other barks. “Even she isn’t as much of a pussy as that loser.”

The prince’s jaw sets. His hand at my wrist twitches.

But the horrible moment isn’t over yet. Because the first boy speaks again. “He asked if he could go into town with us; last week when we were meeting up with those girls from the gym?” He snorts. “I told him he needed balls to get laid.”

The atrociously rude joke sinks in at the same second every speck of color drains from Prince Asher’s face. When his eyes drop to the stones under our feet, I realize just how mortifying this is for him.

Even in front of a nobody like me… he’s a prince . And they mock him openly. Gleefully . Almost for sport .

He was seeking their approval when he asked to go somewhere with them. And now he knows that I know just how pathetic they found that.

Hurt blooms behind my sternum. A thick, throat-clogging cloud.

I watch his eyes lose focus, blinking at the ground. He seems to have forgotten he’s holding my arm. I note the way his posture changes, hunching in…

And I— daft, underfoot Ivy Addison ?—

I reach over to touch him.

My fingertips graze his starched sleeve. It occurs to me that he must be terribly hot and uncomfortable out here. The aching sensation smoldering in my chest kicks up higher, overpowering the prick of fear I feel when his head turns sharply, that gold-green gaze regaining its focus and flying to where I’ve accidentally stroked the skin of his wrist.

He stares for a long moment. So long that the boys wander off, unwittingly leaving us on the other side of the hedge, a world away from where we started.

Asher examines our hands and I watch, holding my breath. Bracing.

My aunt usually corrects my social faux pas with a sound whack to the back of my head when Mama has hers turned. Surely the prince wouldn’t hurt me, though. He might tell his father and have me formally reprimanded… or try to get my mom fired or?—

His eyes slowly rise back to mine. “I apologize that you had to hear that. It wasn’t appropriate for a young lady.”

I half-swallow a relieved, nervous giggle. “That’s okay, Your Highness. My cousins watch a lot of YouTube, and some of the videos they’ve put on are?—”

“Ivy?”

I cut myself off, gulping. Opening my mouth, hoping the words—the right words—are sitting on my tongue.

Yes, Your Highness?

My apologies, Prince Asher.

I beg your pardon .

Before I manage any of them, he tilts his head slightly and holds up his book. Solving the mystery of its title once and for all.

How To Ballroom Dance for Morons.

The fingers wrapped around my wrist twitch again as he blows out a deep breath, scowling seriously. “Do you, by any chance, know how to dance?”