Chapter 4
four
It’s happening.
I’ve snapped.
The world has been waiting for this day—when, finally, the goddamned Duke of McAffry would lose his mind.
Or, at the very least, admit he’s lost his mind.
My mind.
Jesus.
The hallway smells like whatever Asher ate for breakfast. Muffins or something sweet enough to cloy. It isn’t like him. He’s usually a poached-eggs, dry-toast, served-with-a-side-of-sadness sort of guy.
And don’t even get me started on Bast. That motherfucker eats egg whites . With vegetables .
Why not just scrape bird shit off the castle windows with a leaf and put some salt on that?
As if he can read my mind, Bast shoots me a dark look as we pass one another in the entryway to Maman’s suite. “You’re late.”
Yes. And?
I don’t think I’ve ever actually been on time for anything. He knows that. I return his glower with one of my own. “I had guests to see to.”
“You could have at least showered,” he comments, dropping his dark blue eyes to my rumpled white shirt and open vest. “Or buttoned your shirt all the way.”
Asher’s mother won’t be surprised that I’m a mess. Queen Selene may have perfected her role, but my reluctance toward mine amuses her to no end. And always, regardless of how poorly I perform, she treats me like her own son.
She even likes me better than Bast. A fact that irks him to no end.
Maybe that’s why he’s dressed like a total tool. The cashmere sweater tied around his shoulders matches his spotless white pants. I glare at them, wishing I could smear something into the fabric.
I’ve been chasing that itch—the need to destroy pristine things—my whole life. All in all, I’ve done pretty well. Ruined my family’s proud lineage. My own reputation. And now, I’m slowly poisoning our pack, too.
It’s a wonder any of them put up with me. Let alone… care.
God.
Can you imagine?
Ignoring the way my stomach pitches, I shrug and give a lazy nod toward Maman’s open fitting room. “How bad is it this time? Does she have us all dressed as matching show ponies?”
Bast snorts. “And ruin your carefully crafted pirate aesthetic? Never.”
That merits a slight smirk. “Good. Ash is in there?”
He nods. “Finishing up. He’s sending me out to have tea with the omega from last night. Apparently, your constant litany of insults poses a risk to national security and he needs me to make sure her military doesn’t try to nuke us like a microwave burrito.”
Oh right. That.
Better Bast than me.
Especially today.
My Alpha has been on a rampage ever since that dinner last night. So it may have been short-sighted of me to scare the polished, chocolatey omega off. Based on the way my impulses have been prowling just under my skin ever since?
No .
I won’t let myself consider the possibility that any of these stuck-up bitches belong to us.
Maybe the other guys. But not me .
“Have fun with that,” I taunt, strolling past him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, but leaves all the same. Off to do The Crown’s bidding, like the good pup he is.
Makes you wonder how the fuck a feral wolverine like me got in here.
Truth is, my whole life is some half-assed boarding school plot that got away from me. When this whole fucking mess started, I had no designs on the throne . The title, the castle, this pack.
Well, okay.
So I did .
But not really .
I didn’t slither my way into Asher’s pack to become a king . I had my own reasons—selfish, immature ones that I still totally stand behind.
And either way, it worked out, didn’t it? I got to piss off all the people I hated most; and Asher stopped getting his ass kicked every damn day.
Now, when I step into the queen’s sumptuous dressing room, I see no traces of the cornered, dorky prince with fear lurking behind his glasses.
Nope. Our little Asher is all grown up. Looking like a goddamn nutcracker in whatever formal suit Maman’s selected this time.
Good God. Why is it white?
The creamy color matches the plush, over-stuffed room around us. And so do the polished brass buttons.
I swear, if she tries to stick me in something like that…
Queen Selene smiles knowingly at her phone screen, not bothering to glance up. As an omega, she can sense our scents, even before she sees who’s entered the room.
“Come in, cherie ,” she calls, wagging her manicured fingers at me. “I’ve almost finished torturing mon petit .”
Her little love . She only calls Asher that, and I suspect he secretly likes it, because he never balks at the endearment. While I internally cringe every time she uses mine.
Hailing from France, Maman has one for each of us. Mine— cherie —means darling. And Bast’s— petit chou —literally translates to “little cabbage.”
It’s possible he has a point about being Maman’s least favorite.
Asher looks over his shoulder, shooting me a black look. Probably in retaliation for my entertainment this morning.
Maman stands and meets me beside the fitting pedestal the prince is standing on. She brushes at my shoulders. “Are you sober?”
I manage a half-smile. “Unfortunately.”
Her pursed lips nearly wobble into a smirk. “Hm. Well, you smell like the bottom of a bottle.”
“At least a bottle of something good, I hope.”
“Cheap wine,” Asher drawls, tugging at the tails of his tuxedo. “The boxed kind.”
Maman’s mouth finally curls up, her eyes flashing affectionately to her son. “As if you’ve ever had boxed wine.”
Anyone who saw them would immediately note their similarities, especially when they smile. Apart from his height and his alpha designation, Asher got most of his looks from Selene. He has her dark wavy hair and hazel eyes. He’s pale like her, too. Not quite as fair as me, but several shades off Bast’s tanned complexion, at least.
Asher ignores the punch I lob into his arm, absorbing it easily and raising his brows at his mother. “Control your beast, won’t you? I have a meeting with Portugal.”
I grunt, flipping him the bird as Maman grins, waving me toward the seat next to hers and the lunch service on the table beside it.
Slouching into the beige damask fabric, I put on my very best impression of Asher’s posh accent and sarcastically repeat the latest news headline, “ His Highness has declared that there is to be a royal ball. ”
Asher grumbles. “His Majesty has declared,” he corrects. “Spurning Princess Ahmad was the last straw for him. He wants us to select an omega from those in attendance this week, or he’s going to go ahead with the marriage contract he and Shah Ahmad made up for his daughter’s hand.”
I snort. No way in hell are we bonding with someone because Asher’s daddy says so. “Her hand ?” I spit, “Or her?—”
Maman swats the back of my head, silencing me. Asher scowls, adjusting the sleeves of his suit. “The fact is, we’ve taken too long to decide. He wants the matter settled within the week.”
They’re not his words; they’re the king’s. But I see a glimpse of my packmate’s true feelings when his eyes drop to his feet.
“I want no part of this whole thing,” he mutters. “It’s a huge distraction from my actual work. And, despite your many claims that I have a computer where my heart should be, I don’t relish the thought of marrying a total stranger I didn’t even choose. Plus, I find the entire concept of a party to choose a mate utterly ridiculous.”
That tracks. He hates parties almost as much as I do.
Which is a fuck-ton.
Watching him pout satisfies my chaotic streak enough to allow for a goading grin. Because, really, this is a joke . There’s no way we’ll find a mate at this thing—and I’m not about to be trapped in an arranged marriage, either. This isn’t the fucking Dark Ages.
“What’s the theme this time?” I ask, “Butterflies? True love?”
Asher cuts me a more severe glare. Without his usual reading glasses, he actually manages to look halfway imposing. For a second, I think I’ve truly pissed him off, but then he speaks. And the reason for his rage is acutely clear.
“A masquerade.”
Oh FUCK no .
Mouth gaping, I turn to Maman. She cackles. “It’s traditional . And an oh-so-delightful way for me to torture you.”
I have to stab an answering growl. “Traditional?”
An older beta woman who tailors our suits starts to carefully peel pinned layers off Asher as he sighs. “Back when all royal alphas formed packs and looked for scent-matched omegas,” he explains, “masquerades were popular ways to search for mates. The idea being, without people’s faces in view, alphas and omegas were more likely to be attracted to each other on scent alone.”
When I full-on snarl, Maman rolls her eyes at me. “It’s meant to be romantic, cherie .”
Christ. Gag me.
“I know,” Asher agrees darkly. “Trust me, I argued against the whole mess. Strenuously.”
Judging by the look on his face, I actually believe him. Which means I’m forced to direct my outrage at his mother.
Queen Selene laughs merrily at my betrayed anger, hemming and hawing while Asher changes into his regular suit and the seamstress wrestles me out of my shirt and vest.
“Yes, yes,” Maman tuts, holding up a midnight-blue tuxedo jacket with a frown. “You have to go to a party with every beautiful, rich, single omega in the continent. Poor baby.”
When she puts it like that …
I scowl, taking the second suit jacket from her. It’s black—and the way she snorts to herself when I put it on tells me she knew I’d choose it.
What did Bast call this? My pirate aesthetic?
It makes sense when I see the others’ suits back on their mannequins, all in a row. White for Asher and a medium, cloudy color for Bast. Almost the same shade of dove gray the maids wear.
Shh, little dove.
The words I wish I dreamed float through my mind. Along with a sting of regret and another, even worse recollection.
Would you really say no to a duke?
Turns out, she would. And did .
Despite me spilling my miserable guts to her. Telling her things I never should have thought , let alone said out loud… Addison did, in fact, say no.
Ivy Addison.
No idea why the girl decided to go by her last name, but that detail annoys me. Along with pretty much every other thing about her.
I can’t stand the way she flinches and trembles like a nervous dog. I hate watching her work, having her in our space. Especially after nights like last night.
Mostly, though, I really can’t stand how damn nice she is.
I mean, what’s wrong with her? After what I pulled? She should have run to every tabloid in town.
She could have made millions selling that story. Or gone viral posting it herself. Instead, she just… moved on with her life? Kept all my secrets? For no reason ?
What the hell is her game?
It kills me, not knowing.
But I’ll watch her until I figure it out.
Asher storms off to go deal with whatever bullshit he thinks is actually important, and Maman forces me to button my vest. A new tray appears, laden with tea, and the server who scurries off has my glare lodged in his back as he retreats.
“That one steals silver, you know,” I mutter, popping a piece of shortbread into my mouth.
Maman nods, brushing off my shoulders. “Yes, but he’s the fastest runner we have and only takes two place settings a month.”
He’s also using the money to pay for his kid’s braces, which is the reason I didn’t tell Asher or Mrs. Kemp. Maman is like me—she sees everything and knows everyone a little better than they think she does.
The king is a sledgehammer, but our queen is a scalpel. There’s a precision and an elegance to how she wields her power. His Majesty is lucky he wound up with someone so much better than his sorry ass.
Maman reads my mind again, patting my arms. “Don’t you think,” she says quietly, “that just maybe, you could meet someone perfect for you? All three of you?”
I don’t. Because I’m not the kind of person that people love easily. If at all.
And the ones who do?
Learn better eventually.