Chapter 32
brYLEE
Standing in the marble foyer of my wing of the castle, wearing matching ballet flats, tights, and white dresses, Harper and I stare solemnly at each other before we slide aprons over our heads like we're donning bulletproof vests.
"Recipe book?" she asks.
"Check." I grab it off the side table and tuck it under my elbow.
"Spatula set?"
"Check." It goes into my long, wide apron pocket.
"Secret ingredient?"
"Check." I place the last item from the table into the pocket as my nerves rattle like the ball on a roulette wheel.
"Careful with that," she warns. "You don't want it to spill." Her nose crinkles as she adds, "I nearly puked the last time I added to it."
My hand goes to the apron and clutches at the sealed jar she gave me, verifying it's still upright.
"We've got this.” Harper winks at me as she hands me a set of car keys, which I also slide into the apron.
My throat goes dry. "Remember. Blame me."
"I will do no such thing. Accidents happen."
I rub my lips together nervously and nod. "Okay. Okay."
Once I do this, there's no going back.
I'll be on the battlefield. At the front lines.
But if my men and I die, at least we'll die together.
At this point, that's all I want.
To be with them until the end. To be with them at the end. Whenever the end might be, I want us to be together.
That truth thrums beneath my skin, as ever present and inevitable as gravity.
Inhaling, I brace myself.
Harper's head has gone in an entirely different direction because she smacks her lips together and says, "I feel like we should do a Charlie's Angels pose."
Instantly, her fingers rise, and her hip cocks to one side. Her brow waggle and flirty confidence elicit a shaky laugh from me as I mimic her, though my heart is racing a mile a minute.
"Look at us being sneaky omega badasses," she purrs with pride.
And then, unexpectedly, with a single motion that takes me by complete surprise, she swoops in to give me a long, firm hug. Her hands squeeze tight, and the jar in my hands gets squished up under my ribs, but the discomfort is secondary to the warmth spreading through my center.
When I started at Darling, I didn't expect to find a friend at all. Instead, I found a beautifully loyal soul whose energy matches my own.
I hug Harper back for all I'm worth, pouring my gratitude into the motion.
When we pull apart, we both have to swipe teardrops from our lower lashes.
"Well, shoot. I'm going to have to work on my secret-agent skills," she murmurs. "I don't think the Angels cry before every mission."
"We'll get it right next time." I try to reassure her as I pull open the door to the hall.
"Yes, next time," she chirps as she flits out after me.
The second we enter the main hallway, a guard straightens from his new post outside my door.
Apparently my mother doesn't trust me, since she made her pronouncement about the Stirling pack, and my reception was less than warm.
Or maybe she's expecting something to happen since Teddie's set to leave the castle today.
I hope it's not the latter.
The last thing I need is an entire slew of guards to slink past.
Yanking my phone from my dress pocket, I shoot a quick text to my brother.
brYLEE
Ready, Freddy?
It's Teddie.
Ugh. Can't he just answer? I glance behind me to see if the guard is following. Unfortunately he is. I send a quick:
brYLEE
Did Caran do the thing?
TEDDIE
The thing with his tongue that I like?
brYLEE
The barf emoji is not strong enough to convey how much I hate that message.
TEDDIE
brYLEE
Well?
TEDDIE
He did the thing.
My skin starts to buzz with anticipation. I hope that means Caran was able to successfully loop the security cameras around the palace so they replay the current image. But that’s only part of the plan.
brYLEE
And you?
The typing bubbles appear, but my brother must change his mind a million times because it takes a good while for his message to come through.
TEDDIE
This is the worst idea you've ever had.
I have to stifle a chuckle as I reply.
brYLEE
Or the best.
I dart my gaze around the halls, checking for armed men as we make our way down several stairwells and over to the castle kitchens. My chest unwinds when we reach the swinging doors and I've only counted two sets of guards on patrol within the castle.
That's good.
It means the queen is keeping an eye on me, but the entire place isn't on high alert. I send a warning text so he knows.
brYLEE
Heads-up, I've got a shadow. Are you ready?
I glance back down at my phone to text Teddie again but see he's already texting me. I pause in the hall, waiting to see what he says.
It's just a row of middle fingers.
Snorting, I put a heart on his message and glance at Harper. "He's ready."
Her eyebrows dance as I text him one last time.
brYLEE
Thirty.
When I push the door to the kitchen open, Harper swings inside with all the omega grace and poise that I don't possess.
"Oh my goodness! It's beautiful, Brylee. You're right. Best kitchen ever. All the girls at Darling would be so jealous."
The cooks and their assistants, who were turning toward us in irritation, soften their postures at the compliments.
The guard who's been following me glances around the kitchen and then sits himself down in a folding chair close to a fresh batch of lemon cookies.
Hopefully he'll stay distracted by those.
Meanwhile, Harper strides over to the nearest chef, who's working on decorating a four-tier cake with frosting flowers. "That looks amazing! Is that buttercream?"
While she engages in small talk, I look around for our head chef and smile when I see him—a nerdy-looking man with glasses, a side part, and a meticulously clean apron.
Shuffling forward meekly, I clasp my hands and cast my eyes down as I say, "Harper and I need to test out a recipe for our Culinary Arts class. Would you mind if we do it here? There's a small kitchen in my wing, but they don't have all the ingredients or tools there."
"Of course, of course, Princess!" The chef is so full of bubbly excitement that guilt punches my gut. His hands clap together, and then he rubs them in anticipation. "What are we making?"
"We need to try to make this soup." I pull the recipe book from where I had it tucked against my side and open it to a page that Harper tape-flagged.
It's a slow-cooking beef stew we selected because we need to be in here long enough that the sheen of our presence fades and workers start buzzing around us without paying attention.
The head chef clicks his tongue as he scans down the list.
"Yes, yes, we have all this." His arm rises to snap for an assistant. "Larry, come get—"
"Actually, sir, do you think we could do it ourselves?" I interrupt in a soft tone. "Mrs. Lotty says that cooking is an act of service and that alphas love when you make things specially for them. We could use the practice before the stakes are too high."
His hand traces down the page, and he nods firmly as he hands it back to me. "She is very wise. You and your friend can take over table four at the end."
I glance over to the table that he indicates with a sweeping gesture and am relieved to find it's close to an exterior door that leads out to a massive patio where my parents host parties.
Perfect.
Harper trots over a second later, and we slowly collect our bowls while keeping our conversation utterly mundane. Painfully mundane even, because Harper starts talking about the bunion relief creams her father has tried that haven't worked.
When I see a nearby assistant wrinkle her nose and scoot a little farther from our table, I know that our plan is succeeding. We need to blend into the background of the room.
The soup ingredients are gathered and chopped, unevenly, with a big heap of carrot tops left sloppily on the counter and a few potato peels scattered around on the floor in a way that I can tell makes Harper cringe.
But it's necessary to build up our incompetence.
Herbs are measured and set out. And then... we have to brown the meat.
Glancing from side to side, I slide the jar surreptitiously out of my apron pocket and across the counter to Harper. As she drops chunks of meat onto a cast-iron pan, I grab a pitcher and head to a nearby sink to fill it with water for the "broth" we're never going to get to make.
Slow breaths, Brylee. Slow breaths. Keep it casual.
I look furtively over at Harper and notice that there are now gleaming dollops all around the cooktop. If I sniff carefully, I can smell the foul scent of old grease, which Harper dutifully gathered after cooking classes the past several days.
I scan the rest of the kitchen to see if anyone has noticed.
The servants all appear bent over their own work.
Apparently we've been bland enough to lose their interest. Thank fuck.
I breathe out a sigh of relief just as water splashes across the back of my hand. I startle, realizing I've overfilled the pitcher.
Stay focused, Brylee, I scold.
My throat dries out as I turn the faucet off and spin, trying to walk casually and not slop everywhere.
Harper flicks on the burner, which has a lovely dollop of grease dribbled right down one side because she’s an artist.
The fire jumps and flares. And I "trip," stumbling forward and sending a wide arc of water right onto the grease.
BAH-HOOOM.
We both screech and duck as a fireball rolls up the sides of the pan, three feet high.
The heat flares across my face, and Harper and I go scrambling backwards as her little dollop sprinkles of grease also catch fire.
Tiny flames and columns of smoke pepper our workspace.
A conveniently placed paper towel roll also catches fire on the metal countertop.
Exclamations of surprise and irritation go up around us.
"Cover that with a lid!" someone yells.
Sliding to one side, I grab a metal lid and then, with all the grace of my preschool T-ball experience, I launch it in an arch that sends flaming grease flying.
"Ahhh!" Harper screams and clasps my hand, and I can't tell if her panic is real or not for a second as she yanks me toward the exterior door and slams through it.
She shoves the door closed and leans back against it with a wide grin. "I'd like to thank the Academy…"
Heaving out a shaky laugh, I yank Harper's car keys out of my apron and wrestle it off just as my twin, dressed in an identical white dress and wearing an absolutely stunning blond wig, slinks around the corner of the castle with an expression fit to kill.
His arms are crossed, he stands duck-footed, and his tone is the epitome of sulky as he says, "I'll never pass."
“Here.” Harper steps forward and smears a little grease down his cheek, masking his alpha scent. “That will help.”
I scan him up and down. His illness has stolen away a lot of his bulk, which rips me apart. But it also means my plan will work because our facial features have always been similar. And with that smear of pink lipstick he’s got going…
With a cringe and a chuckle, I throw the apron over him. "Sorry. But you definitely pass." I nearly gag as I smell the grease. “And no one will come close to you when you smell like that.”
"Fuck yo—"
"Omegas can't curse," Harper interjects in a sweet, sing-song tone as I start to sprint across the patio.
"Brylee!" Teddie's tone is pure alpha snarl.
"Thankyousomuch! You'rethebest! Nowgetinside!" My words slam together, not a wisp of breath between them as I bolt for the nearest tree, which I know for a fact—due to some youthful pranks—blocks the security cameras.
Once I'm underneath the branches, I shimmy out of the white dress, which is bright as a beacon. Underneath, my tights and short shorts and black tank are a little racier than I'd usually wear, but still less likely to draw the eye of any roaming guards as I book it beneath the tree line.
Harper exclaims loudly behind me, "We are so sorry! That was completely our fault, and we just…panicked!"
"Brylee" heads back inside, safe and sound, to make her way back up to her wing of the palace and lock herself in for days due to sheer embarrassment…while I sprint through the woods toward Harper's car and the bodysuit hidden in the trunk.