Once Upon A Pack (Royalverse #1)

Chapter 12

twelve

One of the doctors at the town’s free clinic eventually got sick of me coming in for anxiety-related symptoms and had me download a list of “Medical Anxiety Coping Techniques.”

The first one was: “Breathe.”

So as my hand slides against Asher’s—and a wave of delirious dizziness swallows my insides—I force myself to inhale.

Which… turns out to be a bad move.

Whatever citrusy, caramelized richness is filling the ballroom sends a jagged jolt of want right to the aching cramps that squeeze my core. Another wash of giddiness follows, lighting every nerve in my belly and creeping higher. Pinching my lungs until a high-pitched whine builds behind my breasts.

But, no . That can’t be right . Betas don’t truly whine the way omegas do. And certainly not as some involuntary reaction to?—

What?

Them?

Fluttering my lashes, I try to clear the blurred edges of my vision. Working hard to remember how I ended up here. Or even where “here” is …

Something warm and surprisingly gentle squeezes my hand. My eyes finally settle on the face looming over me—all high cheekbones and square tightness. A flexed jaw, worry pulling at a chiseled mouth.

And hazel eyes.

Light brown, green, gold. They flicker, absorbing my gaze. A faint twitch leaves the prince’s fingers clasped a bit tighter over my own.

The prince.

That’s right. I’m at their party—the masquerade to help them find their mate. I came down the stairs and, for some reason, found Lord Burns waiting for me.

And then I realized he didn’t recognize me like this. He was flirting . And staring . And…

Now Asher is here.

Ash .

I should scold myself for even thinking of the nickname in his ballroom, while he frowns at me. It’s sort of hard to do much of anything, though. This deep bergamot scent has my head floating.

Not to mention whatever burned, sugary warmth is making my mouth water …

So, yeah.

Breathing does not help.

The second thing on that medical anxiety list was a grounding technique. Finding a certain number of things to look at, touch, and smell.

Since that last sense is out, I focus on the feel of the prince’s skin. His fingertips, skimming the thin flesh of my wrist. Stroking back down to my palm. Curling my hand over his to bring my knuckles to his lips. That soft brush, the sort of kiss that’s really a question.

I don’t know what he’s asking.

But, for Ash, my answer will always be yes.

My body agrees. The jitters stretched taut between my hips give a shiver and start to melt .

It’s the strangest sensation—too cold and too hot all at once. When it breaks, a molten trickle of wetness soaks into my panties as a chill streaks up my spine, stiffening my nipples until they peak under the thin silk of my gown.

Sebastian makes a strangled sound behind me, covering it with a cough. I barely notice—too transfixed by the way Asher’s eyes burn .

His nostrils flare as his fingers spasm around mine again. Chest heaving under his gilded white tuxedo, he tugs me closer. Pain breaks over his face.

“Please,” he rasps. “Dance with me.”

This is wrong.

It doesn’t really matter what sort of confusion is causing the royal pack not to recognize me or my true designation. Letting the prince think I’m an eligible omega, allowing him to lead me onto the polished dance floor in front of God and all the world…

It’s wrong . I know that.

The fact that I want it— need it , somehow—makes it worse. More selfish and sinister.

I know who I really am, but he doesn’t. And if he did…

Well, it would be bad either way, right?

If he finds out I’m the beta maid he can’t stand the sight of, it will be humiliating for him. And, on another level, if he finds out I’m also me …

At the end of the summer after I turned sixteen, he asked me to leave the manor. It was too hard for him, he explained. Caring for me and knowing he had to preserve his heart for his mate.

Something I could never be.

It was difficult for him to even say the words. Sometimes, when I close my eyes to sleep at night, I still see his face. The true, deep regret. The longing.

I promised I wouldn’t come back. And I didn’t… Until I had to.

Working at the manor was the only way to support my family. I couldn’t quit and risk not finding another position. Not even when the princes made Maytown their home while they courted every omega in the country.

And quite a few from other countries, too.

I wonder which one this dress belonged to.

Another waft of delicious perfume rises from the fabric as I follow His Highness. The unique scent—tart, sweet, dark, fresh, warm—squeezes my lungs.

The feeling only swells bigger and higher. Blocking my throat as Asher whisks me to the center of the dance floor and arranges us in an all-too-familiar position.

His hand at the top of my hip. Our free fingers clasped at shoulder level. The broad height of his body carefully locked into a proper dance frame.

How To Ballroom Dance For Morons said as much. He was to be the frame—and I the picture. He liked those sorts of metaphors; they helped his rational mind grasp abstracts.

I always loved watching his gears grind when he tried to understand simple things. He could build a nuclear reactor if he wanted to—but learning how to rest his hand on the curve of my waist sent him into a scowling mood .

Ash .

Fresh guilt seasons the pain slashing my stomach. He wouldn’t want this with either version of me. The girl he sent away… or the maid he can’t stand.

So why can’t I stop him?

I’m so busy thinking about how wrong it is, I forget to worry about how stupid it is.

For two reasons. One: Because, of course, dancing requires closeness . The heated skin of his throat is just inches from my nose. And somehow, as his touch digs into the curve of my hip with a bit more force than it should, the dark, bitter bergamot turning my panties into a creamy mess gets stronger .

He might clear his throat, but I can’t be sure. I’m too busy feeling like the room has melted into a watercolor painting, all the hues bleeding into a blur as the orchestra starts up.

A waltz.

I can still hear his voice from years ago, the deep, uneven tone of an almost-grown man. Counting his steps while I tried to hide my smiles.

One, two, three. One, two, three .

He moves exactly the same.

I’m sure I do, too.

Which brings me to the second, perhaps more pressing reason why this is so dumb:

We are still us .

And as the violins swell, he sweeps me across the boards, cutting a turn that should be too sharp to follow cleanly.

If I were anyone else.

But I’m not.

So I see him coming. And that sudden pivot doesn’t trip me up or even throw me off balance. I clip right into it, my hair flying behind me as he stops short. Both his large hands fall to my waist, framing my ribcage as we crash to a halt.

With harsh, visible breaths, he glares down at me in horror. His mouth drops halfway open, one hand automatically flying toward my mask.

I barely manage to shrink back before he touches the silver-trimmed lace. “No,” I mouth, almost inaudible. “Please. Don’t.”

Of course, he listens. His hand drops limply to his side as he stands and stares. Not noticing the way other couples have stopped dancing to watch.

Or not caring.

A strange fervor glows in his eyes. And when he opens his mouth, he only has to say two words. “It’s you .”

I know what he means.

Me—the real me.

Ivy, not Addison.

The girl from the garden, not the maid on her hands and knees.

He knows it’s me . Which means, if I take this mask off and let him see my face… he’ll know the girl he rejected is also the one who folds his laundry. And scrubs their toilets.

God, none of this was supposed to happen! I was going to keep my head down, do my job, and help in any way I could while he finally found the mate he’s been dreaming about since we were teenagers.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this .

And I’m not even sure what this is .

I feel sick and scared and ecstatic .

Because he’s looking at me. Seeing me.

“Finally.”

Um.

Was that… a voice? In my… stomach?

Lord, I really have lost my mind. Maybe going to the doctor tomorrow isn’t soon enough. Maybe I should have Gracie call an ambulance this time.

Then again, hearing voices isn’t exactly a physical emergency. More like a psychological one…

It’s definitely there, though. Behind my diaphragm, under my lungs. In a place I can only describe as the middle of me.

The voice sounds small and soft. Weak. But it echoes inside my body the same way thoughts usually reverberate through my mind.

Does he understand? she asks, too pitiful to sound as desperate as I feel. Does he see me?

Am I supposed to answer ? Wouldn’t that officially make me a lunatic? But—gosh darn it—I’ve never been good at ignoring pitiful creatures. Or even capable of it, really.

I… I think back, blinking while the room whirls and the prince speaks. A low, humming question I can’t answer because I have to reply to—myself?

I don’t understand what’s happening , I finally manage. What—what do you want Asher to see?

Maybe she’s a lost spirit. And if I complete her mission, I can release her ghost. She’ll go away and I’ll go back to being nobody.

No! she cries, more insistent but distinctly less powerful. No , she mewls again, crying. Please. He has to see . He has to know I’m here .

Here? Like inside of me ?

I can’t think because— oh —I can’t breathe . New hands skim my back. My arm. Flashes of color fill my vision.

Golden blond. Inked fingers.

White, gray, and—black.

Dairragh?

But, yes, that’s his hand, with a thorn-torn wildflower tattooed on the back. Cupping my cheek.

Dark, shining beams connect with my gaze. The voice inside me rises, higher and more frantic. I’m here, I’m here, I’m right here .

And, this time, Dair answers her.

“Hey,” he murmurs, low and urgent. “Hey, I see you. It’s okay. Stay with me, all right? Stay with me, baby.”

This time, I can’t contain the whine that tears from my lungs. When it ekes out, the hand petting my back twitches. Bast’s, I think. That sugary richness definitely smells like his new cologne?—

And is he… purring?

“People are staring,” he whispers. Not angry, just… aware .

Dair snarls. “I don’t give a fuck ,” he growls, menacing. “She’s obviously about to pass out. And can’t you smell her? The fear is making me fucking sick .”

Strong fingers smooth over the back of my hair. “I don’t want her to be embarrassed,” Bast replies, gritting the words. “This is a very public place to do this.”

Do what?

What am I doing?

I was dancing with?—

Asher’s gone. I whip my head around, searching the crowd for him. Bast steps closer, until the rattle in his chest rumbles along my bare back. More slick heat slips into my panties, and I whine again, so confused and scared and just— where is Ash?

“He’ll be right back, angel,” Bast breathes. “It’s okay. He went to get his parents. We’re going to?—”

His parents.

Oh God.

Oh no .

Whatever this is, they can’t know about it. Asher’s parents were the main reason he asked me to leave. We knew they would never approve of me for their alpha prince. And my mother’s job was on the line if they found out how thoroughly I’d broken their rules.

Only now, it’s my job on the line. And for what? So these poor guys can get their hopes up over nothing?

Because that’s what I am.

Nothing. Nobody.

Just the maid and a beta and a silly girl who talks to ducks.

If anyone finds out the princes mistook me for their mate , The Crown will be humiliated.

An image of Asher from the day we met flies through my mind. Of his face when those boys mocked him. I don’t ever want to be the reason he looks like that.

The voice inside me tries to scream, begging me to stay, but she’s too weak. And as one group after the next pause their conversations to turn and stare at the princes. At me …

Strangling panic spikes, shoving me into motion. I slip from under Bast’s hands, away from Dair’s. When I see a gap in the crowd, my hindbrain takes over.

And I run.