5. Cillian
1 year later
N o truer torture exists than knowing my mate is in Namara—in my castle, no less—and being unable to hold her. Worse still, custom dictates I can’t even lay eyes upon the curve of her coy smile or luxuriate in the soft sensuality of her body until tomorrow, when we finally wed.
Agony is too tame a description for the clawing, nagging ache that’s plagued me since Ivy departed just one year ago. To learn my very heart existed outside my chest only to have her kept from me? No turn of phrase could ever capture the bone-deep anguish that has afflicted my packmates and me all this time.
In Ivy’s absence, the lushness of her apple-cinnamon scent has invaded my every waking moment. Even sleep hasn’t granted me a reprieve from its haunting memory. Every night I’ve dreamt of the taste of my omega on my lips and the sweet surrender she offered me before our brief dalliance was interrupted. And every night I’ve woken in a cold sweat, my cock throbbing with the unfulfilled urge to bury myself inside the warm welcome of her dripping cunt.
I’m obsessed, to state it plainly. I merely exist to be near her; to hold and worship her so long as we both live.
I suppose these are normal emotions an alpha can expect when thinking of his flawless, Fate-blessed mate. But the distance, the denial of seeing her safe and well, has made it so I can hardly function.
The need to sate my carnal imperatives is slowly driving me to madness, but more than that, I long to truly know Ivy. It is one thing to be infatuated; and there is no part of her I don’t desire. But to know her mind—to earn her love—is a privilege I desperately want bestowed upon me.
The irony of it all is, were it not for my own choices, I might have what I want most in the world. Keeping my packmates and me away from Ivy during her visit was all my doing. After I first scented her, I knew I couldn’t trust any of us not to woo her into bed and mark her gorgeous throat with our claiming bites.
Though bonding the princess may be our deepest held desire, achieving such a blissful end requires delicateness. Ivy is a princess of the Bancroft royal line of Lucernia—the most powerful and wealthy of all the western kingdoms. Her oldest brother, King Hawthorn, is known to be very protective of his seven siblings, especially the omegas among them. Had he learned of my plans, he could have easily kept Ivy from me.
It matters little that she and I were promised to each other long before he ascended the throne. Betrothals have been broken for less, and packs are simply not a reality for people of our station. Rather, we’re expected to go against the laws of our nature and mate in loveless pairs for the most vain and vapid reasons: legacy and power.
Any misstep from Oran, Sloan, or me could keep us all from our mate, and that fear was too high a risk until she and I were wed. And though I’ve hated every moment of deceiving her, I’m certain the ends will justify the means.
A scent match is not something so easily disregarded—as is proven by my restlessness, Oran’s despondence, and Sloan’s endless affirmations of fate since she’s been gone. Now that she has turned twenty-one and developed her omega senses, she will finally learn the truth of what we are to her.
I ache to have her know me as I’ve known her this last year, to have my scent wrap around her so she can feel its rightness in her soul. I want nothing more than to see the elation in her eyes when she realizes I belong to her completely, just as she belongs with me.
It is my hope this gift we’ve been given will be the catalyst for something great. With it, we can build a new society that will spare so many from the unjust and barbaric fate of those before us.
Ivy may not know it yet, but with her at our center, we have the potential to change the world.
All I need is to make it through this final night and she will be mine. Unfortunately, in the meantime, I’m stuck entertaining the only men who could put a stop to all my grand machinations: her brothers.
My study is modest compared to the gilded opulence I’m sure the Lucernian royals are accustomed to. Namara is not so grand a kingdom, but I’m no less proud of my most treasured space of solace. Besides, it is a rarity this room is used to entertain.
Normally I would receive visiting royals in a less intimate setting, but King Hawthorn requested a private audience between the alphas of our respective families. I surmised the Bancroft royals might need a quiet evening away from my court’s festivities, given they just spent a long week at sea. Selfishly, I was happy to oblige, as I’m in no mood to partake in the revelry without my future queen there to enjoy it with me.
“It’s a shame about your father passing so close to the wedding,” Hawthorn says in an earnest attempt to offer his condolences. He crosses one long leg over the other, settling into the emerald settee and training his gaze on me.
My father’s health took a turn for the worse this past year, and he met his end just one month ago. Though I can’t say I’m saddened by the loss of such a selfish prick. Upon his death, I was able to claim my birthright to the throne. But as far as my brothers and I are concerned, we were orphaned the day we lost our mother nearly seven years ago.
“ A shame ,” my brother scoffs, trying and failing to hide his indignation. While neither of my brothers are famous for their composure, Callan’s impulsive demeanor is unmatched.
He is the youngest of us, and the least concerned with his role as a prince of Namara. The fact he is even present tonight and not drowning in wine and women at court is a wonder. Still, he should know better than to let his tongue slip in such company. Polite society might frown upon our shared loathing of the former king.
“What he means to say, Majesty,” Ciaran interjects in a gentle tone, “is that our father was not well for a long time. Better we focus on the joyous union of our great kingdoms rather than his passing.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips in appreciation for my brother, ever the courtier. Of the three of us, Ciaran has always had what my mother lovingly described as ‘the gift of the gab.’ There was never a situation he could not talk his way into or out of when he put his mind to it.
Hawthorn nods, seeming to accept the explanation, and I can’t help the dark glee entering my heart. My father is probably rolling over in his grave at not being here to gloat over securing such an advantageous match for his heir. He’s the one who arranged this marriage, after all.
To be aligned with a country as strong as Lucernia is a dream in any regard, but especially for an island kingdom like Namara. We rely heavily on trade and the bounty the sea provides. Lucernia, with their riches and resources, is among our greatest trading partners. Securing a lasting union was a brilliant move by my father, though I’m loath to give him praise.
With eight Bancroft children born to the former king and queen, I’m certain every royal in their right mind fought to secure a coveted arrangement for their heirs. Each would be considered a prize for political gain alone, but it doesn’t hurt that the lot of them are painfully attractive by anyone’s standards.
The resemblance of my intended to her siblings is remarkable. Even with a simple glance, the familial tie between them is unmistakable. Their mother was rumored to be a great beauty, with her earthen hair and eyes like the sea. It is clear all of them have been so lucky as to inherit her features.
“It’s convenient we won’t have to make another voyage to attend your coronation, Your Majesty,” Prince Aspen jests. The third oldest of Ivy’s siblings stands apart in his stature. He is the most physically imposing—towering several inches above us all. His long hair extends past his broad shoulders, but it’s not quite as long as Ciaran’s.
My siblings and I are most familiar with Aspen, as he accompanied Ivy to Namara last spring. He and Ciaran took a real shine to each other over the course of his stay. My brother, it seems, hasn’t forgotten the prince over this year-long absence. Nor has he learned his open ogling is about as subtle as a brick to the face.
Many times I caught my brother fawning over the prince when he chaperoned Ivy’s visit. And many times I reminded him Aspen is betrothed to Princess Rhiannon. Just as Ciaran is intended to wed Prince Lanier. My brother is a smart man, but his heart is so tender—I worry he’ll end up hurt if he’s not careful.
“Idiot,” Prince Sage whispers, elbowing his younger brother in the ribs. Sage is the quietest of the group, though it’s clear he is not shy. Rather, he finds value in assessing his surroundings and absorbing information over speaking unnecessarily.
“It will be a great honor to be crowned with your sister by my side,” I offer, waving off the remark. It’s true—the timing is rather convenient. With the wedding happening so soon after my father’s passing, Ivy and I can now share our coronation. “My court is very eager to welcome her, as is evident by their celebrations this evening.”
Sage smirks then, shifting his gaze to Hawthorn and raising a brow. Something silent passes between them, and for the first time since we entered the room, I’m unsettled by the possibility of why the Bancrofts wanted to meet privately. Surely it’s too late for them to oppose the marriage. With mere hours until the ceremony is set to begin, I won’t hear of postponing unless Ivy is the one protesting.
But she wouldn’t, would she? Nothing in her letters this past year has given me any indication she is unhappy or uncertain about our joining. I can’t imagine her mind would have changed since our last correspondence.
Courting my wife from afar hasn’t been ideal, but I’ve made it a point to write to her each week—no matter how brief or insignificant the letter. I may have taken away our opportunity to get to know each other while she visited, but ever since she fell asleep in my arms all those nights ago, I vowed she would never worry over my rapt and absolute interest in her again.
“About my sister,” Hawthorn says with little affect, not betraying his emotions.
He seems in no hurry to deliver what I’m sure is world-ending news. If he tries to take her from me, I may be forced to behave in a manner that would launch both our countries into a certain war.
“What about her?” I ask with trepidation.
The king clears his throat and straightens his shoulders in a move that demands respect. “I’ll say this once and once only, Majesty. You will treat her well, with the respect and kindness she is owed as a Lucernian royal, or you won’t like what happens. Do we understand each other?”
Relief floods through my veins. I’m both offended he would think I could ever dishonor Ivy, and proud he cares for her happiness as I do. It is clear to me Hawthorn is not only an admirable ruler, but an honorable alpha as well.
“After tomorrow, your sister will not only become my wife but also my queen. No day will pass when she is not first in my heart. I swear it.”
Silence envelops the space as my vow settles around us. Ivy’s brothers don’t know what she means to me, but my words couldn’t be any truer. She will always be my first priority—above my own well-being and even my duty to my kingdom.
The seriousness of the moment is broken when Prince Aspen bellows out a pleased laugh. “Good man,” he says, extending his hand in friendship. “I’d have hated to rough up your pretty face.”
Sage offers the same gesture with a curt nod, followed by the king, who simply regards me with what appears to be relief in his eyes. Whatever test this evening was meant to be, I believe I’ve passed.
Though I’m elated to have the approval of her brothers, nothing would have stopped me from making Ivy mine. The fact that they won’t stand in my way simply makes my goal easier to achieve.
What remains to be seen is how freely they will offer their acceptance once they learn their sister will wear my marks and those of my packmates as well. But that problem is for a later time.
For now, with the heavy topics out of the way, and Callan’s inability to pass up a chance to partake in my private collection of spirits, we celebrate. Drinks are passed about freely and stories are shared until the hours bleed together.
* * *
“It’s time, I think, we let the king retire. He has a big day tomorrow,” Hawthorn slurs. The apples of his cheeks are now flushed after one too many drinks, and his dark blue eyes are more than a bit glassy.
It has been hours since Ivy’s brothers and I came to an understanding—hours well spent with laughter. Never had I hoped to build a familial bond between us. A necessary diplomatic relationship, yes, but the tone of this evening went well beyond. Perhaps it’s not as foolish as I once believed to hope my mate’s family might stand behind us and the changes we will inevitably make.
It’s clear the Bancroft alphas love their younger sisters and brother dearly. Would they not want them to be fulfilled in all the ways omegas are meant to be? Shouldn’t they want to spare them the same fate as their mother?
More than once I’ve held my tongue about all I know and what I hope to do about it. The spirits may have loosened my lips, but the fear that Ivy could be taken from me has kept my thoughts firmly under lock and key. Everything will have its proper time and place.
First, I need my wife.
As the six of us shuffle and stumble to the door, I’m stopped by the hulking body of Prince Aspen. He is quite dashing, I’ll admit. And so very large. I’d venture to say he and Sloan match each other in size—and that’s saying something. I can see why Ciaran has taken such an interest. Were I not so completely entranced by the princess, I might also have taken notice.
“I meant what I said, Cillian,” Aspen says with a lazy smile. He grabs my cheeks roughly and leans in so our foreheads rest against each other. “Hurt my sister and I’ll rough up this handsome face.”
Before I can even process the shift toward seriousness and the very real threat in his eyes, the prince laughs and pulls away. I watch, an unwilling voyeur to the obvious lust rolling off him in waves, as Ciaran steps beside me.
“It’s such a nice face. Far too pretty to punch,” Aspen muses with a knowing smirk.
It’s clear his words are no longer intended for me, nor is the look of open admiration coming from him. I’ve always been aware of Ciaran’s interest but I see it isn’t as one-sided as I previously thought. I don’t know what kind of fire these two think they’re playing with, only that it will surely burn them both.
“Prince Ciaran, would you be so kind as to show me to my quarters? I fear I won’t manage on my own,” Aspen asks with what I can only describe as a flirtatious edge to his tone. It’s as if he’s not even trying to conceal his intentions. But I’m in no position to judge, what with my own salacious plans in place.
What these two do before they marry is their own business.
My now bashful brother is beet red—a blushing, bumbling fool who steps toward his paramour with a dreamy look in his eyes. But I need him focused. He has a task to accomplish before he falls into bed with my bride’s brother.
“Don’t forget,” I say beneath my breath when he passes me.
“Yes, yes. I have the letter,” he returns, not bothering to even glance my way.
“And…” I press.
“It’s handled, Cillian,” he snaps. “Fuck, you’re a real nag, you know?”
Laughing, I wave him off. It’s clear his mind is elsewhere, but he’s right; I needn’t worry. Ciaran is many things: a free spirit, a quick wit, and a monumental pain in my arse, but above all he is reliable and steadfast in his support of me.
Both he and Cal didn’t hesitate to back me when I laid out my plans of bringing pack living to our court. After Ivy left Namara, I told my brothers everything. Not just about the scent match Fate bestowed upon my packmates and me, but long held secrets from our past I’d been too ashamed to bring to light.
While shaken, they embraced me and my mission with open arms. For all the differences between my brothers and me, great love exists.
When my study is empty and I finally make my way to my quarters, the new lightness in my step is a welcome relief. If this evening has given me anything, it’s the comfort of certainty. When the sun rises, the omega of my dreams will be my wife.