Once Upon A Pack (Royalverse #1)

Chapter 34

thirty-four

Asher’s going to have my balls for this.

Sort of worth it, though, for the wide-eyed excitement on Ivy’s face.

Okay. Totally worth it.

Grinning behind my face shield, I swing my leg over my Ducati and turn to unbuckle her helmet. I ordered it after our night on her front porch, unable to get the image of her clinging to my back as we raced through Lyledon out of my mind.

It lived up to the hype in a way few things do. Sneaking down the back stairwell with her little hand tucked into mine… watching her stammer and grimace while I explained how to hold on to me… hearing her yelp when I started the engine… leaning into the wind while she clung to my back, her breathless giggles blurring into our wake.

And, best of all, Everdeen shrinking away into nothing.

She needed that as much as I did. I felt it in her posture, her muscles loosening as she sank closer and closer to my back.

I fucking loved it.

On the other side of the city, I pulled onto a quiet side street. It’s a Monday night and the pubs lining the sidewalk seem sleepy. I was counting on that. After we introduce Ivy to the world, she won’t be able to go anywhere without people noticing her—but for now, this should be fine.

I wore street clothes for the same reason. Asher is far too famous to ever go incognito, and Bast’s good looks are equally well-known. I can usually fly under the radar, though, as long as I wear the right outfit.

Ivy doesn’t comment on my black jeans or the hoodie I threw over my T-shirt. She changed into one of her pairs of threadbare leggings and a T-shirt after her shower; I unzip my jacket and wrap it around her body without thought.

She blinks in surprise, and I cock a rueful smirk. Welcome to the club, baby.

Two weeks ago, if you’d told me I would be so down bad I’d resort to chivalry …

I would have stabbed myself.

At least my disgust amuses Ivy. She snorts a quiet laugh at my expression, shaking her head. “If I didn’t know any better,” she teases, “I’d think you liked me.”

Ha . I wish I liked her.

That might be manageable. Unlike whatever the hell this is.

And, yes, I know what it is.

Shut up.

“Yeah, yeah,” I grouse, grinning. “This happens to have nothing to do with you, little dove. I need cheese fries.”

That isn’t strictly true. More like my Alpha needs her to eat some cheese fries. Because my mate is wasting away, and last night I had to sit and watch her push fancy food around her plate.

She follows the wave of my hand, her eyes lighting when they reach the truck parked between two bars. Then her brows pinch.

“You mean cheesy chips ?”

With an eye-roll, I sling my arm around her shoulders and kiss her crown, muttering, “Whatever. In America, they’re cheese fries.”

Relief bleeds through my chest when my omega wraps her thin arm around my waist and leans closer. “You moved there when you were a kid?”

A reflexive bolt of rage snaps down my spine. “Yes.”

My tone doesn’t invite any more questions, and Ivy takes the hint. We approach the food truck, and my muscles tick tighter, preparing to be recognized. It doesn’t happen, though. To the vendor, we’re just a random couple. The way he throws two gloopy batches of fries together proves it.

I drop some cash and take our food. Ivy follows meekly, sitting beside me when I drop down to the curb, handing her the paper carton of fried potatoes and melty cheese with a grunt.

Shit . I really suck at this. Bast would have some witty observation and a charming smile; Asher’s manners and class could send most women swooning, too.

But me?

Ivy blinks down at her “cheesy chips.” Surprise lifts her features once again. “They don’t have any bacon.”

She must not have heard me tell the guy to hold the pork. Probably too busy trying to figure out why I went from zero to dickhead in two seconds flat.

I scoot closer and wrap my arm back around her in silent apology. “You’re a vegetarian.”

Ivy smiles slightly. “I don’t think I ever told you that. Stalker.”

Her little jokes always catch me off guard. And delight me in the craziest way. A grin cracks my bad mood instantly. “ Stalker ? No, I just sent that charcuterie tray up the day you passed out and noticed you didn’t touch any of the meat.”

She smiles wider. “Only stalkers hang around to see what people leave on their plates, Your Grace.”

I really hate it when she calls me that. But that cursed title is the whole reason I’m here. The whole reason… I found her.

Fuck me .

I’m going to have to tell her, aren’t I?

“I think I prefer ‘Stalker.’” I mutter. “Or just ‘Dair.’”

She looks over at me, seeing far too much. Understanding softens her frown. “Okay. I-I’m sorry.”

I nuzzle my forehead into her temple, scent-marking her. “Nothing for you to be sorry for, baby. I just… hate being what I am.”

Nervous blue irises flash up at me. “Any particular reason?”

Waiting for my answer, Ivy pops a fry in her mouth. As she chews, something in my center unclenches. The relief unlocks my lungs enough for me to answer, “Well, my father was the last Duke of McAffry—and I hated him , so.”

This is how she gets to me, I realize. Most people would ask why. Or launch into a reply. But this is my mate . And some innate part of her knows me in a way I may not even know myself.

Instead of speaking, she scoots closer and leans her head against my shoulder. Just… there. Here . Not judging or fixing or even reacting, apart from offering the reassurance that I haven’t offended her.

Which is sort of a miracle. Hearing I hate my wealthy, well-connected father and the title that’s gotten me everything I’ve ever (or never ) wanted usually pisses people off.

Somehow, knowing she doesn’t expect an explanation makes it easier to offer one. I set my takeaway tray on the curb and sigh, balling my fists and pressing my elbows into my knees.

“Did anyone ever tell you why my mom and I went to America?”

Ivy eats another fry. “No. I don’t think so.”

That’s no shock. Only a handful of people know the real reason. I swallow the wad in my throat and stare unseeingly across the dark street.

“I was only two, so I don’t remember it. But my mom told me she had to leave for me. That my father wasn’t a nice man and hadn’t been nice to her. She married him because they were scent-matched. She thought she could withstand all of his bullshit, because she loved him. But when he started slapping me around, she couldn’t take it. So we left.”

Ivy’s scent has burned to ash by the time I find it in me to go on. “He had a lot of influence here, so we went to America, which is where I grew up. I knew I’d have to come back eventually—he didn’t have any other heirs, and by default, that made me the next duke.”

Shame swells in my stomach, recalling the way I secretly wanted to return. After a decade, my mother’s stories about my father’s cruelty faded into background noise. And I was a teenage idiot—one who wanted all the money and power my name could give me.

I never expected my mom to die .

Or to be sent back here to live with him .

As I say the words, I feel Ivy’s sharp, shaky inhale. My Alpha doesn’t know whether he should purr or rage. He doesn’t like me upsetting his mate. But he wants her closeness now more than ever.

Her comfort and goodness… she’s everything we’re not.

Especially right now.

“My mom wasn’t exaggerating,” I remember, growling slightly. “She said he was a cruel bastard… if anything, she downplayed just how bad he was. And I was a perfect target, of course. Powerless and stupid. Plus, he always had a built-in excuse, because I sucked at being a duke pretty much the same way I suck at being a prince.”

She starts to swell up slightly, ready to rush my defense, but I shoot her a wry look. “It’s okay,” I assure. “I do it on purpose, mostly. Once I realized I’d never live up to my father’s standards, I went out of my way to piss him off. The tattoos, the smoking, the drinking, and sleeping around. If I had to be the Duke of McAffry, I wanted to make damn sure that title became a joke .”

And, fuck, I suffered for it. The first time I came home with a tattoo, he beat me so hard, I couldn’t see my ink for a week. It just blended into the bruises.

I flex my right hand, remembering. Staring at the tattoo I have there for my mom.

Ivy’s pale, unmarked fingers stroke the barbed curves. Her observation floats through my mind. This flower has more thorns than petals .

I’m not sure anyone could sum me up better than that.

“I still didn’t like the fact that he’d gotten what he wanted—an heir. Another alpha to pass his title to,” I admit. “When he sent me away to boarding school and I met Asher and Bast… I came up with a solution.”

Sadness salts Ivy’s sweetness and fills her sparkling eyes. “You decided to join their pack and become a prince instead.”

Hearing her say the words… for the first time, it occurs to me that they’re hurtful . To Asher.

I used him . His name, his title.

And if Ivy figured it out in five seconds, he must know it, too. Probably has from the very start, the brilliant bastard that he is.

Why didn’t he call me out?

Why didn’t I ever apologize? Or at least explain?

I sigh, deflating. “Yeah. The laws of succession in Crenmore force any titled alphas who officially join the royal pack to give up their original titles when they bond.”

Ivy still isn’t judging me. I don’t know how; I’m judging the fuck out of myself.

Especially when she peeps, “So… if we bond…”

Fuck, my heart. It aches . “Yeah,” I husk again. “If we bond, I won’t be a duke anymore. I’ll be a Crown Prince.”

Ivy’s face is as pale as her nod is solemn. “And then a king.”

A stone sinks into my center. “Yes.”

She stares at me for a long moment, then nods again slowly.

Now she knows just how much I’ve fucked this up. If she thought my self-imposed celibacy was only a punishment for the way I treated her at the manor…

It’s always been more than that.

Because, really, I’m not just using Asher, am I?

Ivy sets her food aside and ducks her head. “I think I’m ready to go h?—”

But she doesn’t have a home. We took her away from that. Brought her here, where she doesn’t fit in. And, God willing, never will.

I don’t want her to change. The thought is fucking agony.

“—back to the palace,” she finally fumbles. “Please?”

I agree, unable to blame her. I’ve lost my appetite, too.