Once Upon A Pack (Royalverse #1)

Chapter 6

six

Sometimes, it’s better not to ask.

That’s one lesson I’ve learned when it comes to cleaning up after other people.

It’s best not to look too closely when I’m tidying for the princes. After all, it’s none of my business how many condom wrappers line the bottom of the waste basket. Or the number of crumpled water bottles are mixed in.

Or why there’s also an empty canister of whipped cream?

I mean, really. A whole canister seems excessive, but…

At least I can pretend that’s the sole reason for the white-streaked sheets.

Maybe I ought to ask for hazard pay. Or a Hazmat suit.

Or, at minimum, better insurance. Because by the time I finish restoring the duke’s bedroom to its stoic, gray glory, I’m distinctly lightheaded.

He must have had candles burning in here last night during his… date. There’s a new scent wound through all of his linens. Something tart and fresh, with a clean edge. It blends well with whatever bitter, citrusy tea one of them spilled on their common room’s couch.

That’s a bit of a mystery, actually. Not the tea—Prince Asher is known to love his breakfast tea. Or even the spillage—I remember from childhood how exceptionally unobservant the prince can be when he’s reading. But it’s more the fact that someone bothered to try to clean it up.

By the time I got to it, only the scent lingered. There wasn’t even a stain.

I assume he tossed whatever rags he used to clean up after himself in his bedroom. I’m forbidden to go in there; everyone on the staff is. So, I suppose I’ll have to see if the cloth ends up coming down his laundry chute later this week.

Sebastian’s door is the only one that perpetually hangs open. It’s very like him not to care who sees the socks balled up under his bed or the alarming array of skincare products displayed on his desk. Right beside the latest treatise he’s working on—which is sort of the whole appeal of Lord Sebastian Burns. He’s as smart as he is beautiful.

Friendly, too. He’s never gotten my name quite right, but he continually asks how I am and apologizes for their messes. Compared to Dair’s lethal glares and Asher’s utter apathy, the baron’s jovial comments about the weather are practically swoon-worthy.

His new cologne isn’t bad, either. I took note of it earlier when he caught me in the garden and—kindly—left me in peace. He smelled sweeter than whatever neutralizing fragrance he usually wears.

His room does, too. This new scent is warm and sugared, with a uniquely delicious thread of burned bitterness.

Once I finish in Dair’s room, I might go back to Sebastian’s and see if I can’t spot a new bottle mixed into his others…

But by the time I finish fluffing the duke’s clean bedding and collecting his laundry, my dizziness is so bad, I have no choice but to sit on the edge of his mattress and put my head between my knees.

Every sharp inhale feels like snorting a cold burst of wooziness. The more I try to breathe, the harder it is to stay upright. Until my whole mind dissolves into a tumbling fog of scents and sensations that don’t make sense.

I’m making this up. It’s just anxiety , I remind myself. There’s nothing wrong with you. The doctors said so. “Perfect beta woman.” In “excellent health.” Just “an overactive imagination” and a “low pain tolerance.”

Which explains why this sudden abdominal cramp feels like a stab ?—

“ What are you doing?”

Oh. Crap.

It’s the duke himself, paused halfway over the threshold to his bedroom. Staring at me through a mask of horrorstruck rage.

Which is fair.

Because he’s naked.

Not fully. But his shirt hangs open and his pants do, too. I immediately turn my face away, stuttering as my cheeks flame. “I—I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I was tidying your bed and I felt faint.”

An alpha growl vibrates low in his chest—the wide, chiseled expanse full of black ink patterns and sinuous lines. When he clocks the way my blurred vision locks onto those designs— a skull wearing a crown, a butterfly with flames for wings, a candle melting into a puddle of midnight —his snarl deepens.

“You’re supposed to be out of our wing before noon,” he grits.

Nodding is a mistake—as soon as I bob my head, the whole room tilts sharply. “I usually am,” I mumble, blinking to clear my bleary eyes and swallowing the nausea inspired by my gut’s latest tweak.

Just anxiety. Overactive imagination. Low pain tolerance.

“I only—Lord Burns stopped me this morning in the garden a-and your room was s-so?—”

Those cold black eyes snag mine, ending all coherent thought. Memories and fantasies blend into a blurry mess. Things that happened—that happened , right?!—things I wished for.

Shh, little dove .

Don’t leave me. Please.

As if he can hear my recollections, Dair snaps up to his full height with a hard jerk. Feral menace flickers through his gaze. “Get. Out.”

I nod again, faster, the room rotating another thirty degrees. “Uh-of course. Your Grace. Sir. I’ll just?—”

It’s all in my head. An overactive imagination. Silly fear that makes no sense .

So I stand up.

Take six steps. Or maybe just one.

Then I hear his voice. Closer and rougher. “ For fuck’s sake .”

Two tattooed hands fly out. And I’m not sure if they’re pushing me into oblivion or trying to pull me out. But everything goes black either way.

The first thing I see when my eyes open is a chandelier. It’s one of my least favorites—the one with a thousand crystal baubles that take ages to shine individually.

As soon as I see it, I know we’re in the princes’ meeting rooms. Just down the central hall from their living quarters—this space is rarely used for anything apart from PR pow-wows and party planning. Their real business happens on the other side of the manor, in the king’s study. Or back in the capital, at their palace .

I stare up at the gold-foiled ceiling, turning my head slowly. My neck is stiff. Likely because I’ve been slumped in this rolling chair for…

Oh dear.

Outside the nearest window, the sun glows gold. Too near to the western horizon for my taste.

Last I knew, it was just after noon and?—

Oh.

Oh no.

With a groan, I jolt upright and scrub both palms over my face. “No, no, no!”

A dry harrumph answers from the other side of the long, antique table. “Oh yes,” Gracie retorts, glancing up from her laptop to give me side-eye. “You passed out in Dairragh Vreeland’s room. Don’t worry—I’m all but certain this isn’t a first for him.”

My stomach heaves as horror washes through me. “Did he—did I?—”

Gracie closes her MacBook and offers a sympathetic frown. “He wasn’t as terrible as I would have expected. Carried you in here himself, actually. And only snarled at me a few times while he explained. “

He… carried me?

Mortification swarms my middle. “W-what did he say ?”

Gracie shrugs her shoulder, shifting her berry-red blazer. “That you were in his room, cleaning, and you fainted. I don’t know how he knew where to find me, but he didn’t mention that at all. Just said I should call for help if you didn’t wake up soon.”

My thoughts lurch, trying to understand. “And you didn’t think me being passed out all afternoon was a problem?!”

Gracie raises one of her black brows. “I thought you wouldn’t want to be hauled out of here on a stretcher in front of everyone. Or lose however many days’ wages it would take to get you back out of the hospital.”

Her painted lips quirk up. “Besides, your pulse was strong, and you were breathing. I figured you had been pulling your usual no-sleep, no-food routine and just needed some rest. Here.”

She pushes a tray down the length of the table, past piles of party linens and different china patterns. It’s a platter of charcuterie, all arranged by the manor’s cook. He must have sent it up for Gracie.

My stomach is tender, but it gurgles insistently. Reminding me that I did, in fact, forget to eat last night. And this morning.

“Fine, fine,” I sigh, picking around the cured ham and rolling a piece of cheese around an apple slice. As soon as I crunch into it, my friend visibly relaxes.

“You know what I’m going say,” she mumbles, leveling me with a wry look as she passes me a silver pitcher of water and a glass.

I nod. “I know.”

Her expression softens. “I worry about you, babe. When’s the last time you took a night off?”

I squirm in my seat, gulping down the last of the apple slice. “What do you mean? I almost never work nights. Unless the princes have one of their courting dinners.”

Gracie watches me for a long beat before gently replying, “I didn’t mean a night off from work. I meant a night off from everything . Have you gone out at all this summer? Even just for dinner? Or a drink?”

At my cringe, she nods knowingly. “I think you should,” she suggests. “Just for one night. You can tell your aunt you’re working one of those dinners.”

Imagining the lie, I automatically wince, but ask, “Where would we actually go?”

My best friend gestures around at the party stuff strewn everywhere—all the makings of… the princes’ ball .

Uh-oh.

Gracie grins. “I’m so glad you asked.”