Once Upon A Pack (Royalverse #1)

Chapter 3

three

The mechanics of sound are very familiar to me.

Decibels, reverberations. It’s a simple sort of science I’ve understood since I was a small child.

The louder a sound, the larger its amplitude. The thicker the substance it runs into, the less momentum it has.

The doors of Maytown Manor are hundreds of years old. Solid and well-fitted. With heavy locks.

The rugs are thick, too. Perfect for absorbing noise.

Which is how I know Dair is being an absolute ass on purpose.

Across our circular common room, the door from the southern hallway snicks open and Bast steps over the threshold, dripping sweat. He’s been working out since dawn, as is his habit before a day of scheduled appearances.

Even after two hours in the gym, the sweat-darkened blond hair swept loose over his crown and faint dark circles under his eyes are the only things out of place. We’re opposites in that way—my oldest friend isn’t meticulous about anything, apart from his appearance. Which is the only subject I truly couldn’t care less about.

Dair might be worse than I am, actually. Then again, as the sheer volume coming from his room would indicate, he doesn’t care about much of anything at all.

I fight off a wince, imagining the state of his bedroom. Thinking of the poor maid who will have to contend with it later.

The pretty, blonde beta with messy bangs and unpolished fingernails. They’re always covered in pin-pricks. Does she sew? For us?

It’s the one bit of curiosity I’ve allowed myself where she’s concerned. Because if I let myself truly think about her at all, I would likely notice just how lovely she seems.

And that would be unacceptable.

Ever since the day they introduced us to our private staff, I’ve done everything in my power not to notice any of the women. Tuning out any mention of their names—the maid’s is something with an A, I think—and averting my eyes every time one of them raises their face from a task, rushing past whenever I can get away with it.

Still, I pity the woman who deals with our personal quarters.

Dair is the messiest of the three of us. And he’s been at this for hours .

Bast pauses just inside the entrance. His brows tweak up in true astonishment. God love him; no matter how much any of us fuck up, he’s always surprised.

“Still?” he asks, incredulous. “Again?”

I drop the first of three daily newspapers on the coffee table and reach for the second. My Alpha growls, the aggressive sound vibrating my lungs before I manage to stop it. Bast only flinches a little, huffing out an annoyed breath that coordinates well with his expression.

“He’s doing this on purpose,” he grumbles, dropping into a nearby armchair.

I snap my paper open. “So it would seem.”

A particularly high-pitched wail rends the air. Then another—just as loud but distinctly different.

“Jesus,” Bast curses, his blue eyes bulging. “He has two of them in there?”

“Mm,” I hum, just as another woman’s screams join the cacophony. “Three, by my count.”

My packmate balks, then frowns, considering. “Seems like a hell of a lot of work,” he mutters.

Despite my black mood, I smirk slightly. “You know Dair. Never one to slack when there’s a statement to be made.”

“Just every other hour of the day,” Bast replies, pouting as he digs his phone out of his joggers. “Speaking of—he better finish up soon. We both have fittings at ten. And I am not covering for him with Maman again.”

The mention of my mother brings a reluctant smile to my face. “He’s her favorite. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Bast snaps back, “and it’s utter shite , considering what a useless prick His Grumpiness is and how charming I am in comparison.”

I lift a shoulder to shrug. “She likes an underdog.”

Bast rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Oh yes. Dairragh Vreeland, Duke of McAffry. Heir to a veritable fortune and—apparently—in possession of a dick that can run through three women at once. The poor dear.”

I have to swallow an actual laugh that time. “I doubt he’s used his dick all three times.”

My packmate harrumphs and mutters more about “His Grumpiness.”

Sebastian is easily the funniest of us, but he’s also, normally, the most upbeat. All this sniping and complaining isn’t like him. I lower the corner of my newspaper, lifting an eyebrow in silent question.

He sighs, deflating. “Sorry. My Alpha is raging this morning. I had a guest of my own last night, and it did nothing . I thought maybe a morning on the lake—but I rowed for two hours and, again, nothing.”

His eyes drop to the silver breakfast tray on the table between us, and he bends forward. “Fuck it. Guess I’ll try food.”

I lift my foot from where my ankle sits crossed over my knee and shove the toe of my Oxford at his incoming fingers, intercepting them before they pluck up the last piece of banana bread. Glaring, I hold back another growl. “That’s mine.”

And, hell, I must be more on edge than usual, too, because his answering glower makes my insides lurch. The urge to bark and flex my dominance rears high and surges out.

All over food?

Fucking hell .

As if I’ve ever been hungry.

I spend hours every week working on the urban homelessness issue in Crenmore’s cities, so I know every statistic there is. Tens of thousands are actually starving under our rule. People I do everything I can to help, despite Parliament’s desire to divert funding to every godforsaken military endeavor and land entitlement they can come up with.

Evil, selfish politicians with weak characters. Their existence is the one reason I’ve allowed this courting farce to go on—we need an omega to bond and ascend the throne.

Once we do? I’m changing everything .

Bast feels my simmering rage and curves a brow right back at me. “Apologies, Your Highness ,” he jokes. “Feeling territorial today?”

That’s an unsettling notion. What would my Alpha be possessive of? Banana bread?

It’s true; I do love it. And our Michelin-star chef only lowers himself to bake it whenever my father and I have one of our infamous shouting matches. Word travels fast among the staff, I suppose, because the morning after a big fight, I always find a small loaf of banana bread on my breakfast tray.

I frown at it, now, pondering what has my blood racing thicker and hotter than usual. “Maybe that omega from last night merits a second look,” I muse. “If she has us all so…”

I nod over at Dair’s closed doors and the squeals within. Bast grimaces.

“Amped?” he finishes. “Yeah, I thought the same thing. But, to be honest, her scent didn’t do much for me.”

Me, neither. It was a thick, white-chocolate aroma. Sweet enough to tempt, but also overwhelmingly rich. By the end of the salad course, I felt like I needed a glass of something bitter and ten minutes on the terrace to clean my lungs out.

“Besides, Dair hated her, and the feeling seemed mutual,” Bast adds. “So I doubt this show has anything to do with last night. Who knows what the fuck his problem is?”

I still don’t. Even after ten years as a pack.

“One of his moods, no doubt,” I murmur, hoping Bast finds me more convincing than I find myself.

The baron nods, plucking a bowl of fruit from my tray and tossing a blueberry into his mouth while he sprawls back in his chair, hiking one knee over the armrest. Blue eyes scan the side of my face for a long moment.

“What did His Majesty have to say last night?”

It’s my turn to flinch, but I hold steady, turning the page of my newspaper as calmly as I can. “More of the same.”

I know Bast can sense my lie. We’ve been friends since high school and he knows me well.

Still, I don’t know how to tell him—or Dair—about my father’s most recent tirade. Or how I suspect the man who loves to berate me may actually have a point this time.

Was it a mistake for me to take a pack? I’m the first Everhart Crown Prince to do it in centuries—and I’m starting to understand why. Sure, it’s less work for me individually, but it also means contending with three opinions on every single decision.

The guys seem content to let me take the lead in matters of state—Bast because he knows I’m better-bred for it and Dair, I suspect, because he doesn’t give a shit.

But now? When it comes to finding a future queen?

We all have to agree. Anything short of that wouldn’t be fair to the two of them. Or the omega.

Maybe my father’s blustering actually makes sense. Would all of this be easier if I didn’t have Dair and Bast to consider?

The omega we met last night is practically an empress . She was born to rule. She could expand our diplomatic relations in the East…

She did nothing to unite my pack, though. If anything, we’re more fragmented this morning than we were yesterday.

It’s ironic. I thought having them here would help. I knew I wouldn’t have strong feelings for any of these prospective queens, so I hoped one of my packmates would. Or both of them, ideally.

Since I never will.

My reluctance doesn’t surprise the others. I’m known for being emotionless. Practical. Duty-bound and more content when I don’t have to manage others’ feelings.

They never expected me to have romantic notions, because I’ve never shown any.

Little do they know; logic and duty aren’t the reason I won’t ever find my match.

They’re the reason I already lost her.