Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
MAYA
T he elevator doors have barely slid shut when Cillian tosses a wrapped package at me, scoffing when I almost drop it.
I unroll the paper to reveal a small handful of distinctly bi-colored pills.
“Take two,” he commands. “A double dose will make up for the delay in restarting.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s safe?”
Ice-chip eyes don’t blink as he studies me. “Are you suggesting I would put the prince’s prized Omega in any danger?”
Cradling the packet in my hand, I shift it slightly so the pills tumble against each other. “If I double up, then these won’t last more than a few days.”
He returns the pointed look. “If you’d rather go into an unexpected heat, that’s your choice. I really don’t give a fuck.”
I recognize these suppressants as a type I’ve taken before. They are commercially made, at least, but an older formulation so the pills themselves are as big as the tip of my pinkie finger.
My only choice is to relent. “Fine. I’ll take them as soon as I have some water.”
“Absolutely not. Swallow it down now or I’m taking them back.”
I gape at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m entirely serious.” He holds out a slim hand and gestures with elegantly tapered fingers. “The others might indulge your attitude, but I will not.”
For the love of…
I swallow the pills dry, silently cursing him for not giving these to me when I could have taken them with some sort of liquid. A pill-sized lump lingers in my throat, but I manage to get them both down.
He watches me the entire time, finally looking away when I let out a hacking cough that tastes like chalk and sawdust.
“Happy now?” I ask sarcastically.
“Exuberant,” he replies flatly.
His comment about my attitude is particularly ironic, I think, as Cillian turns his back on me to watch the floor numbers slowly countdown to the basement level.
“You really don’t like me very much, do you?”
His shoulders tense, but he doesn’t turn around or otherwise acknowledge the question. The silence lasts long enough that I assume he isn’t going to answer when he finally snaps. “My feelings are irrelevant.”
“Not to me.” I rub my throat, skirting the suddenly irritated gland in my neck that has to be a side effect of taking too large of a dose of suppressant. “You’re part of Logan’s pack. If you hate me, that’s going to be a problem.”
“I don’t hate you.”
I fight down a sudden urge to laugh, even though nothing about this situation is funny. “But you also don’t like me.”
The elevator chimes and the doors slide open to reveal the underground parking garage. Cillian strides out without waiting for me, his footsteps echoing off the concrete walls.
I hurry after him, cursing my shorter legs. “You’re not even going to answer me?”
“I don’t hate you.” His voice is clipped. “Now keep up or get left behind.”
“Yeah, I’m not sureI believe that.”
He stops so abruptly I nearly crash into his back. When he spins to face me, his pale hair swings across frozen eyes.
“Are you calling me a liar?” he demands, expression dangerous.
I resist the urge to back away from the anger in his gaze. “Not exactly.”
“I don’t hate you,” Cillian hisses through his teeth. He advances on me slowly, pure violence in his expression. “But that doesn’t mean I want you here. My only job, the only thing I do that matters at all, is protecting Prince Logan.”
“And you think I’m a threat?” I ask incredulously.
His lip curls. “Fucking right, you are.”
I study his expression for any hint of subterfuge and find none. Cillian really seems to believe that Logan needs protection from me. “I’m not exactly planning to assassinate the prince in his sleep. Pretty sure he could stop me, even if I tried.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Cillian grumbles. He rubs his chin with one hand and heavily sighs. For a moment, he looks absolutely exhausted. “You want honesty? Fine. Whether you like it or not, you bring a type of chaos that we just don’t need, especially now. It probably isn’t on purpose. You likely can’t help yourself. But the longer you stay here, the more at risk all of us are. Even for your own sake, you shouldn’t be here.”
Before I can respond, he turns and continues walking toward a row of sleek and identical black SUVs that are neatly parked in a row. The conversation is clearly over, but his words settle uncomfortably in my stomach alongside the dry-swallowed suppressants.
Cillian presses the button of a tiny fob in his hand and practically marches toward the vehicle with flashing lights. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence at all as he opens the driver’s side door and slams it shut behind him.
I slide into the passenger seat as he starts the engine. Unsurprisingly, the leather interior smells new and is absolutely pristine. I’m surprised that just the two of us are taking out one of the royal fleet of vehicles with no guards or other security. Then I notice bulletproof, thick-paned glass and a computer mounted on the dash, probably tracking our location to within a city block.
We pull out of the garage in tense silence. I want to defend myself, to explain that I don’t want to do anything more than what was agreed on with the mating contract. But something tells me Cillian isn’t interested in explanations .
If I were slightly smarter, I would let the subject go completely. Of all of them, Cillian seems to have the best control over his emotions, which means it’s impossible to predict what will make him lose control.
But I just can’t help myself.
“Is it just me that’s a problem, or would you feel this way about any Omega joining the pack?”
His hands clench on the steering wheel. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“That’s too bad,” he murmurs, a note of finality in his voice. “Unfortunately, even pretty little Omegas can’t always get what they want.”
I don’t understand why that almost sounds like sympathy.
T he SUV glides to a stop in front of a gleaming glass building that stretches toward the sky. Cillian exits without a word and tosses the keys to a skinny, teenage beta at the valet stand, leaving me to scramble after him through the golden revolving doors.
My steps falter as I take in the opulent interior of the Omega department store. Vines and flowers, planted along a half-wall in the entryway, spell out the words Capital Garden Center . Crystal chandeliers drip from a coffered ceiling several floors overhead, their light dancing across marble floors polished to a mirror shine.
The air is thick with expensive perfumes, an alternative to scent neutralizers for those who can afford them, and the soft murmur of cultured voices. I haven’t seen this many Omegas in one place since I left the Enclave and I’m not sure how to feel about this unexpected environment.
A heavily pregnant woman waddles past, her mate’s claiming mark proudly displayed above the collar of her silk dress. She isn’t alone — I spot several others in various stages of pregnancy browsing racks of designer clothing. Their rounded bellies are adorned with flowing fabrics that highlight rather than hide their condition.
Near a display of formal wear, an Omega juggles shopping bags while her two small children play peek-a-boo around a rack of dresses. Her tinkling laugh mingles with their squeals of delight. The sound both makes my chest ache with longing and also leaves nauseous feeling curdling in the pit of my stomach.
This is what society expects Omegas to be — claimed, bred, and perfectly content with their lot. These Omegas seem to have embraced it fully, their faces glowing with satisfaction as they shop and eat, while spending an eye-watering amount of money to do it.
But I’ve never felt more out of place. My modest dress borrowed from the harem closet suddenly feels like a flashing sign announcing my unclaimed status. That Cillian is here with me highlights this even more. Most of the Omegas seem to be here on their own. Even the salespeople, impeccably dressed in black uniforms, eye us with barely concealed curiosity.
The quiet whispers from some of the women start before I’m halfway across the floor. I wonder if they recognize me from a royal announcement as Prince Logan’s Omega, now here in harem rags. If the circumstances were reversed, I would probably be sickly fascinated, too. I lift my chin and straighten my spine, refusing to let their judgment affect me. Let them wonder. Let them whisper. I’m not here for their approval.
Cillian is already speaking with a sales associate, who solemnly nods at whatever he is saying. They abruptly head for the back of the store. I hurry to catch up with him before he has the chance to snap at me in public.
The sales associate leads us to a secluded alcove tucked away from the main shopping floor. Three full-length mirrors create a semi-circle around a small platform, with plush cream-colored chairs arranged nearby. The setup reminds me of the wedding dress fittings you see in holovids.
A different associate appears with two flutes of pale golden champagne balanced on a silver tray. She offers them with a practiced flourish before disappearing through a discrete door.
Cillian sinks into one chair, slim legs stretched out in front of him as he takes a sip of champagne. I remain standing, unsure if I should join him or step onto the platform.
“I’ve already informed them of the pack’s preferences for your wardrobe,” Cillian says, gaze fixed on the bubbles rising in his glass. “You can make the final selections from whatever they bring out.”
“Thank you.” I wrap my fingers around the delicate stem of my glass, almost touched by this unexpected consideration. “That’s very nice of you.”
His gaze flicks briefly to mine, expression sardonic. “Not really. I just don’t particularly care what you wear, as long as you don’t embarrass us in front of the court. ”
At this point, his total disdain for me is more humorous than it is insulting. “Good to know. What’s the embarrassment factor on a velour pantsuit?”
“No pants. The Alphas won’t like it.” Cillian gestures sardonically with his champagne flute, indicating the nearby racks filled with dresses. “Though I’ll be impressed if you manage to find a pair of pants made of any material around here.”
I don’t bother to confirm his assessment, because I’d already noticed something similar myself. Most of the clothing on display is of a very particular style — flowing dresses and skirts in pretty pastel colors for the Omega who spends most of her time barefoot and pregnant.
“I’ve also been instructed to only purchase undergarments in silken fabrics. No cotton or synthetics,” Cillian adds.
It shouldn’t surprise me that Logan simultaneously acts like he wants nothing to do with me while controlling me down to my damn panties. Balancing his whims is irritating, but at this point, I’m just tired of trying to guess at his motives.
I eye Cillian’s profile as he watches the attendant add items to the rack in front of us. The fact that he dislikes me so much inexplicably bothers me. I’ve always been someone who is easy to like, because I make a point of showing the world what it needs to see. Easily navigating social situations, regardless of my own feelings, has always been one of my superpowers. It doesn’t sit well thathe seems immune to my greatest strength.
I take a very unladylike gulp of my champagne. “It’s weird that there’s an entire department store just for Omegas. That’s practically discrimination against betas. How is that even legal?”
Cillian shifts slightly in his seat, but doesn’t look at me. His voice is bored, like he’s explaining basic math to a simpleton. “Technically, anyone can come here. But the sizing runs small and everything is overpriced because Alphas love to flex on each other by wasting money. Most betas would be wasting their time if they want to do anything more than window shop.”
“Oh, that’s interesting.” I cast around for another topic. “The staff here seemed to recognize you. Typical pack behavior making the beta do all their shopping.”
He drums long fingers on the chair arm. “It’s fine.”
Advocating for beta rights clearly isn’t my way into his good graces, either. If he feels any loyalty to his designation, I’m not seeing evidence of it.
Which is strange, I realize. Alpha posturing and Omega desirability typically make betas excessive in their displays of pride. In pretty much every one of the monthly phone calls allowed by the Enclave, my mother brought up how happy she was to be a beta. Though pride never stopped her from happily spending the stipend she received for me signing me over.
“You’d think Alphas would be more embarrassed about dressing their mates like overgrown baby dolls.”
He shrugs. “They appreciate easy access.”
“Maybe I can find some of those tear-away pants that basketball players wear. No easier access than that.”
Cillian chokes on a laugh, almost spitting out a mouthful of champagne. “That’s a creative compromise, but I doubt Logan would go for it. ”
I smirk, proud of myself for temporarily breaking his stiffly dignified mask. “Bonus point, they get the pleasure of ripping my pants off of me while in a rut without destroying them. That’s just fiscally responsible.”
He just shakes his head. “You are funny. I’ll give you that.”
“I aim to please.”
“How typically Omega of you.” He reaches across me for the champagne bottle tucked in an ice bucket stand next to my chair and refills both our glasses. “Keep it up and you might actually survive.”
A soft scent unexpectedly wafts over me, reminiscent of baby powder and lilies. Betas don’t produce pheromones, so it must be his cologne. But it’s not quite like any other fragrance I’ve encountered before, especially when men usually favor muskier notes. My nostrils flare as I instinctively inhale more deeply. The scent lingers in my nose even after he pulls away, leaving me with that feeling you get when you need to sneeze and the motion just won’t come.
Is it normal to taste cologne?
The attendant distracts me by pushing a pile of fabric into my arms and hustling me toward a curtained dressing room.
When I glance back, Cillian is watching me with an unblinking gaze.
C illian directs us back to the apartment when we return to the palace, despite how late it is. A servant will deliver the shopping bags filling up the back of the SUV, but Cillian insists the others will want to see the flowing pink sundress I wore out of the store.
As we approach Logan’s quarters, raucous laughter echoes down the hall.
“What the hell?” Cillian mutters.
We find Logan, Ares and Poe sprawled across the furniture in the sunken living room area, looking like they’ve made themselves entirely too comfortable. Logan has commandeered the largest leather couch, while Ares’s massive frame takes up an entire loveseat, leaving no room to spare. Poe perches on the arm of a chair like some watchful raven, his dark eyes tracking our entrance but without that unnerving intensity of his I’ve come to expect.
“Seven!” Logan slams down a card. “Everyone drinks!”
Ares tips back his glass while Poe groans. “That’s the fifth time you’ve played that card.”
“Maybe you’re just drunk enough to see double,” Logan snickers.
“Or you’re a damn cheater.”
“You say cheating, and I hear royal privileges.”
They sound more relaxed than I’ve ever heard, practically jovial. The empty liquor bottles and beer cans scattered across the coffee table make it clear why that is.
Ares gestures for me to come closer. “Show us the goods, love.”
They give me appropriate oohs and aahs as I give a little twirl, so the skirt flares up a few inches above my knees. The positive attention is gratifying, especially when it’s missing the sardonic edge that seems to color every interaction I have with them.
But drunken Alphas are even more potentially dangerous than sober ones. Sure, drinking enough liquor to kill a normal person makes them pleasant in the short-term, but there is no telling when the mood will turn.
I give them a coy smile. “Enjoy your evening, gentleman.”
“Wait!” Ares says with a manic grin, eyes lit up from. “Come play with us.”
I drift back toward the door. “It’s getting late?—“
“Sit.” Logan’s command freezes me mid-step. He pats the space next to him on the couch. “Right here.”
Cillian bows low. “Duty calls. I’ll leave you all to it.”
“Stay,” Logan orders. “You’re playing, too.”
I slowly approach the couch as Poe deals me in. The cards are worn smooth from use, decorated with intricate designs I don’t recognize.
“The rules are simple.” Ares hands me a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. “Each card has an action. Get it wrong and you drink.”
“And if I get it right?”
“Everyone else drinks.” Logan’s predatory grin makes my stomach flip. “Hope you can hold your liquor, little Omega.”
I eye the glass in my hand. The liquid burns my nose — definitely not watered-down at all. Getting drunk around these Alphas seems like a spectacularly bad idea.
Good thing I know something they don’t.
Logan’s thigh presses against mine as I settle into the seat next to him. His arm drapes across the back of the couch behind me, fingers teasing my bare shoulder.
I give him a small smile. “Deal me in.”
The next few rounds pass in a blur of laughter and increasingly outrageous challenges. They make no secret of their attempts to trap me into being the one who drinks with every turn. I take each shot without complaint, letting the burn ease down my throat and settle warmly in the pit of my stomach.
The Alphas get progressively more intoxicated.
“Jack!” Poe slaps down a card. “Truth or dare.”
“Truth,” I say, earning groans from the others.
“Boring.” Logan’s fingers trace patterns on my shoulder. “Make it good, Poe.”
Poe’s dark eyes glitter too brightly. He seems to struggle with focusing his gaze on my face. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
My eyes burn as dizzying spirals through my mind. Those memories don’t have any place here, especially not right now.
“Pass.” I lift my glass in a mock toast. “I’ll drink instead.”
“No fun at all,” Ares complains, swaying slightly as he pushes the deck toward me. “Your turn, princess.”
I draw a card and flip it over. A queen stares back at me with knowing eyes.
“How appropriate. Queen means questions,” Logan explains, his speech obviously slurred. “You ask someone a question. They have to answer with another question. First person who makes a statement or repeats a question drinks.”
I turn to Cillian, who’s been oddly subdued. Despite keeping the same pace, he seems noticeably less intoxicated than the others.
“Why do you smell like flowers today?” I ask him .
His ice-chip eyes narrow. “What makes you think you can ask me that?”
“Are you wearing perfume?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why does that matter to you?”
“Are you going to answer yes or no?”
“Will you give me a reason I should?”
The corner of my mouth lifts in a slight smile. “Should I be concerned about what the smell really is?”
Cillian’s jaw tightens. He lifts his glass and drinks deeply, ending the round.
Logan’s arm tenses behind me. He leans forward to refill our glasses, spilling several times before he accomplishes the task. “Who’s next?”
Ares is the first to pass out, his massive frame slumped over the chair arm like a felled tree. Two rounds later, Poe falls off his chair and then stomps off to bed before anyone can laugh at him.
Cillian drains his glass and sets it down with a decisive clink. “I think the party is over.”
Logan regards me with glassy eyes. For a terrifying moment, I think he is about to tell me to stay here for the night.
Instead, Logan lurches to his feet, swaying dangerously. “Time for bed.”
I practically leap up from the couch, eager to escape before he changes his mind. I’m almost at the door when Cillian’s hand closes around my arm. “I’ll escort you back.”
“I can find my own way,” I insist, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
“Palace rules. No Omega walks alone after dark.”
Logan waves a dismissive hand from where he is struggling to navigate around the furniture without tripping over it. “Make sure she gets there safely.”
The palace corridors are empty and silent because of the lateness of the hour. I get the feeling Cillian has something he wants to say, and he doesn’t disappoint me.
“You seem remarkably steady considering how much you drank.”
“I didn’t dump it all in a plant when no one was looking, if that’s what you’re implying.” I wave my hand at his own balanced stride as we walk. “You seemed to do okay yourself, considering.”
He frowns. “I’m bigger than you.”
I chuckle. “Ares is twice your size, and he’s sleeping under a table right now.”
“They were already wasted when we showed up.”
I worry at the edge of my nail with my teeth, choosing my next words carefully. “Omegas have a pretty high tolerance for alcohol. Nobody seems to know the biological reason for it, but it’s basically impossible for us to get drunk.”
He blanches. “I didn’t know that.”
“It’s not really common knowledge outside of the Enclave, I guess. The first time we managed to get a bottle of vodka smuggled in, it was gone in about ten minutes.”
The rest of our walk is made in silence, but Cillian grabs my arm to stop me short as we reach the doors of the harem. Two guards are posted, but they stare straight ahead without acknowledging us. He spares a glance for them, assessing.
“You’re very observant,” he says finally. “Probably too observant.”
“Should I pretend to be stupid instead?”
His fingers dig into my arm. “You should be careful what questions you ask. And who you ask them to.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A warning.” He releases my arm and rubs his palm against his slacks as if the touch of my skin left a residue behind. “It’s dangerous to involve yourself in things you don’t understand.”
I rub my arm where his grip left an aching sensation. “Everything that happens here concerns me now. I’m part of this pack, whether you like it or not.”
“You’re not pack.” His ice-blue eyes bore into mine. “You’re a temporary convenience. A political tool. Nothing more. It isn’t possible for you to be anything more.”
“Then why are you so worried about what I might discover?”
For a moment, something like fear flashes across his face. Then his expression hardens. “Goodnight, Maya.”
He abruptly strides away before I can respond, leaving behind air subtly perfumed with the scent of fresh laundry.