Chapter 7
seven
Rain splatters onto the stone courtyard, the deluge punishing and purifying.
I stand in the middle of the garden, letting it sink into my bones. A certain lightness expands through my chest with each droplet—the giddy knowledge that I’ve never done anything like this. Never allowed myself to stand in the rain and not care.
Let it ruin my hair, my clothes, my phone.
I don’t care about anything except the girl in the white T-shirt, spinning circles under the storm.
She laughs up at the heavens, as if all of this weather is some sort of inside joke between them. Rain soaks the fabric of her top until it sticks to her body… and turns entirely see-through.
I’d be lying if I claimed that isn’t part of why I step out from the alcove carved into the side of the manor. Because, as much as I hate the fact that the girl who has become my best friend looks more and more like a woman by the day… I also love it.
Things are different this summer. Last year, we still felt like kids. Childhood friends.
Now, all the ways she’s transformed into a young woman make me feel more like a man—protective and possessive. Wanting to shield her beauty by hiding it away for myself. Wishing to be the only one who will ever see it… or touch it.
Some magnetic force draws me closer, tugging at my middle. I’m an alpha, but she’s recently designated as a beta. There should be no pull between us. It isn’t possible …
Unless maybe this isn’t chemical at all.
Maybe I just… love her.
How could I not? It would be like not appreciating sunsets or springtime or the stars she likes to wish on.
This girl is an undeniable thing of beauty.
And I can’t stay away.
When I find myself at her side, she stops her breathless giggling and spins to face me. Her thick, wavy hair is dark from the rain, a large swath of it tangled in the silver locket at her throat. My fingers reach for it without thought—because her joy has somehow turned off the part of my brain that constantly analyzes and overthinks.
Now, there’s just silence.
Peace.
The rain.
And her.
Her hair sliding through my fingers. The warm skin between her collarbones. The drops clinging to her lashes as her lips part around my name.
There’s only her. And me.
Until suddenly, in the space of half an instant, there’s us.
The dream keeps me in a headlock as I stand under a stream of water. It burns, but that’s the way I like it. Scalding. Especially at this hour, after a night of restless remembering.
Shifting under the shower head, I glare down the front of my body. At my dick. And knot.
Both of which have decided we’ve had enough of this courting horseshit.
My disdain for the process may not be new, but the thick heat swarming my veins is. We’ve been looking for an omega to suit all three of us since we left university—and I’ve never had an issue like this .
Hard day and night. With no solution apart from?—
No.
No .
I won’t go back to random women and the spiral of self-loathing that followed every one of my hook-ups.
Because they weren’t right.
They weren’t her .
And even though I knew I’d never see the girl I sent away again, it still felt like a betrayal every time I loaned out everything that ought to have been hers .
Hot water pelts my back, but, for once, the burning stream isn’t enough to shut my mind off.
What will I do if this godforsaken ball doesn’t produce the mate we need?
What will I do if it does ?
Will it still feel wrong to think about another person if that person is our mate ? And, if it does, how will I manage to produce the heirs my parents are so desperate for?
I guess Dair could always handle that part.
But, surely, any omega we bond with will expect an explanation for why I don’t allow anyone in my bed. Or my heart.
I somehow make it through my shower without succumbing to all my insane urges. The insistent hum of need gets harder to ignore in my silent room, though.
I find myself hurrying to shove myself into clothes, hunting for a distraction.
There’s always work. Plenty of it.
When I realize how impossible sitting at a desk feels, I turn to my bedroom’s library, scanning for anything unread. Maybe the latest study on particle physics. And a walk .
It’s masochistic to pause by my window and look below. At the garden.
Which sits empty. Because I basically decreed it should always be empty.
Perhaps that was childish. At the time, I only knew Ivy was gone. And all I had left was the blank space where she should have been.
Soft rain patters over the cobblestone path carved between the hedges. I watch moisture soak into the rocks, lost in involuntary memories.
Last night’s dream wasn’t the first of its kind. Anytime the weather turns gloomy, I wind up right back in the garden below, reliving the day I kissed Ivy for the first time.
But recalling the feel of her lips on mine and her body heat radiating through our wet clothes doesn’t steal my breath. It’s the image of her dancing under the deluge, smiling at the sky.
Now I know. That was the moment I fell in love.
Young and clueless, but true.
And permanent, apparently.
Because watching the rain drench the garden still puts a hard swell of regret in my gullet. I choke it down, turning away from the window and the mirror on the adjacent wall. Not wanting to see the ink branded into my chest.
Fucking hell. That will be impossible to explain to whoever we pick tonight.
It’s only eight a.m., but I’m already on-edge. So staggering out of my room and nearly tripping over our maid is decidedly irritating .
She squeaks, dropping her dirty cloth and straightening on her knees to bow her head. “Your Highness. Apologies. I was only?—”
Something in my middle snaps .
A strong current ripples under my skin. I step over her with a growl. “Your duties don’t interest me. Be mindful of blocking doorways.”
Christ, I sound like an asshole.
What I really want to do is sink to my knees and make sure the door didn’t hit her when I burst out of it. Look her in the eye, for once. Ask her name again, since I made a careful effort not to remember it the first time.
I remember that day with an odd clarity that’s always irked me. Wasn’t it hard enough—this young woman in our intimate spaces? Did she have to be so damn beautiful ?
I only let myself look that initial day, when I saw her from across the main ballroom downstairs. It was our first time coming to Maytown as a pack and my first summer back since university. One of our assistants scurried through the manor at our heels, introducing the staff. But when we got to the ballroom and I saw that our personal housekeeper was exactly my type…
No .
Enough.
I can’t let myself think of the maid that way. I don’t let myself think of any woman that way.
There was a time when I did. I might have been the tamest alpha in my pack and the calmest royal in my family, but I was still a man . For years, I pushed through the guilt and wrongness, driven by carnal need.
But every time I found myself back home, alone in my bed… I saw her face.
It didn’t matter how many other women I tried on; that shame always found me.
Because even pretending to like other women was an awful betrayal of the girl I sent away.
As I stride off, my stomach hardens into a wad of lead. It drops, rolling around in my abdomen, striking nerves that send painful charges to my lungs. I ignore them, focusing on all the things that usually make me feel better.
I had to.
It was for her own good.
She would have been miserable with me.
I would have ruined her.
She wasn’t my mate—couldn’t have been—so there must be someone else waiting for me.
It’s logical. And true .
So why does it all feel like a lie?