15. Oran
S loan’s earthy scent hits my nose before I witness the big oaf entering Cillian’s study. I’ve always had a keener sense of smell than my packmates. But while I can perceive their alpha signatures easily, they don’t call to mind the carnal urges that come with our omega’s apple-custard decadence.
Sloan believes we can better pick up on one another because we’re all Ivy’s alphas—says it makes sense we’d be able to recognize each other as a predestined pack. The fables we were told about Fate-blessed mates never spoke of this, but who’s to say those tales weren’t simply revisionist history?
Why would they tell Cillian or me stories about packs, when only the common folk engaged in such a “hedonistic” custom?
Never mind that most of the noble alphas I know have multiple bed partners outside of their marriages. How their deception and infidelity remain acceptable, while packs are looked down upon, is a mystery to me.
For ages, I attributed Sloan’s scent to the hours he spent rolling around in the dirt. I envied him in that sense—how he never had to worry about his image and could simply live as children are meant to do.
Despite my initial resentment of his freedom, and thus of him, Sloan has always taken special care to look after Cillian and me. Though only a year older, he took us under his wing and showed us all the ways we could find mischief inside the castle grounds.
My father never liked that the soil-covered son of the groundskeeper was allowed such access to us. But the former king saw no harm, so who was he to kick up a fuss?
Growing up with the triplets, Sloan, and Tiernan—another noble who ran wild with us—is likely the only reason I’m not a complete bastard like my father. They gave me hope that the world wasn’t full of pompous pricks who wouldn’t know familial love if it slapped them ’round the face.
I’m still a bit of a bastard, and Sloan should know better than to come looking for me on a night like this. “Not good company tonight,” I call out before draining my drink. If Cillian gets the privilege of our omega’s undivided attention for the night, I’m getting drunk off my arse on his good mead.
“When are you ever?” Sloan laughs, ever amused by his own foolery, and joins me by the fire.
“I want to be alone, O’Malley.”
“I’ve known you too long for you to be lying to me.” Another one of his chuckles at my expense, and I don’t blame him. It sounded like a load of shite as soon as it left my lips.
Rolling my eyes, I offer him the mead. I’d get him a glass, but what’s the use? He takes a long pull straight from the bottle, as I knew he would.
“Are you jealous?” I ask, trying my best not to betray my true feelings to the ever-steady alpha beside me.
“Are you ?”
Fuck’s sake. Should’ve guessed he’d turn this back on me. Sloan always thinks he’s slick when trying to get me to open up. But to be frank, of course I’m jealous—have been for a year, and I hate myself for it. Maybe if I could see her, speak to her, this covetous nonsense eating at my insides would settle.
Cillian and Sloan are my pack—my oldest and truest friends. But Ivy is my mate. I think, even if we all claim her, a part of me will yearn for her constant attention. I’m selfish, though—with her I always will be.
“Only a bit,” I lie, schooling my features in an attempt to save face. He won’t understand this gnawing, dishonorable ache in my heart.
Sloan is the prime alpha this pack needs, what with his unwavering confidence and the knowledge he brings. While Cillian may rule our kingdom, in our pack life, Sloan is the one we trust most to lead us. He’s the balanced hand we require in a situation as precarious as the one we’ve found ourselves in. He also possesses an uncanny ability to bring levity to most situations. With the king’s excitability and my pessimism, it most certainly helps in keeping spirits light.
Sloan just laughs that jovial fucking laugh of his, slapping my shoulder. “Goddess wept, you’re a terrible liar. You know that?”
“And you’re a right fucking eejit.” My sharp tongue has me sounding sour, but my packmate has long since learned to let it roll off his back.
“Aye, that I am. A jealous one, too,” he admits, shocking me. I can’t decipher if he’s only saying so to placate me. Gods know he’s better than the rest of us in that regard—always doing his best to tend to our wounds. I arch my brow, regarding him with open skepticism.
“ Oran . Of course I am,” Sloan sighs. “Our omega doesn’t even know my name and Cillian’s in bed with her. If I weren’t jealous, I’d be dead. Give yourself some grace, brother.”
With a long sigh, some of the tension in my shoulders eases. He’s right, as usual—though I’d never admit it to him. Until we all find our place with Ivy and claim her, this restlessness will only rage on.
“Besides, I thought you convinced yourself she didn’t want you,” he teases, the giant bastard. “Finally off that load of shite, are you?”
“Don’t know what you’re on about.” I can’t be giving Sloan even an inch when he’s trying to make a point. He’ll take the whole damn mile.
“You’re an impossible little twat, Rafferty. I was there that night, lest you fucking forget. I saw the two of you together with my own eyes. Get out of your own way and accept that Ivy won’t turn her back on any of us.”
I scoff, mildly incensed by Sloan’s perpetual optimism. It’s all easy enough for him to say when his family’s the picture of support. Hell, the moment he told his parents about Ivy, they were over the moon for us. Even with the countless obstacles in our way, they were firm in their surety that Fate would find her way.
Sloan never had to grow up with a distant mother whose sole joy in life was shoving her wealth down fellow courtiers’ throats. Nor does he understand how being born to a prick like Domhnall Rafferty could shatter one’s self-confidence.
The only interest my father’s ever taken in me is my breeding potential. To him, I’m good for one thing and one thing only: making alpha heirs to pass on the Rafferty name. When I turned twenty-one, I told him in no uncertain terms that I would marry for love or not at all. He nearly laughed his fucking head off, before laying into me like never before.
Since then he’s ignored my wishes—as he’s known to do—shoving countless matches under my nose in an attempt to sway me back into his good graces. Even after privately “disowning” me for disobeying him, he’s yet to give up. But my resolve remains unshaken.
He can take his approval and his title and shove it up his arse.
When my mother passed five years ago, sick as she was, I not-so-secretly wished the bastard would swiftly follow suit. That’s the way of things for us nobles, after all. But unlike the former king, his descent into death hasn’t progressed nearly as much.
A pity.
He’s a right twat who’s not likely to be missed by many beyond his mistresses. Were he not the head of one of the two most prominent noble houses in Namara, I doubt anyone would even speak to him.
“Seen your pa today? Is that why you’re hiding?” Sloan asks. He knows me too well to be so easily dissuaded by my lack of response to his earlier remarks.
I nod, stealing back the mead and taking a swig of my own. Glass be damned at this point. “Had Orla Fitzpatrick on his arm, ready to pawn her off on me. Tiernan and Fiona intercepted so I could escape.”
“What a cunt,” Sloan adds, grabbing for the mead.
“Too right you are, brother.”
We both laugh, a much-needed reprieve from the heaviness of the night. Regardless of our shared seething over our circumstances, Sloan and I are truly happy for Cillian. He deserves a night of joy for all he does to bring it to others. That man is as selfless as they come. A worrying fucking nag, to be sure, but as good-hearted as anyone can be.
“All will be right in the end, Oran. I swear it. I’m asking you not to give up before we’ve even had a chance to see this through.”
I wish more than anything I could be as certain as Sloan is in this. It’s not for lack of wanting Ivy. The problem is wanting her too much and having it all stolen from under me. I’m not sure I could survive the heartbreak that would come from her rejection—the one person in the world made especially for me.
If I’m not good enough for my own parents to love me, why would I be enough for her? Why would she give up everything she knows for the likes of me, when she has Cillian for a husband?
Scent match or not, I don’t stack up to a royal with the face carved by the gods.
She made it clear she was ashamed to be caught with me that night—though Cillian doesn’t believe it to be true. He’s explained time and time again that Sloan’s intrusion simply caught her off guard.
I suppose we’ll see, but I’m not ready to lay my heart on the line as easily as they are. Tonight, I don’t want to spend another second agonizing over what will or won’t be. I’m going to sit in this study and drink Cillian’s good mead so I can forget it all for a while.
“Enough,” I groan. “Quit your yapping and get pissed with me, or get the hell out.”
“All right, you grumpy bastard.” Sloan chuckles, clinking the bottle against my empty glass. “Cheers to happily ever after.”
Happily ever after. I surely fucking hope he’s right.