It’s such a simple thing, but coming from him, the words land harder than any of Raelynn’s pep talks.
I look down at the notepad filled with a mess of crossed-out lines and half-rhymes, and wonder if I really can conjure the old me from the attic. Or if that girl got left behind somewhere between the tour buses and the press junkets.
Whatever. The royals want a show, I’ll give them the best damn performance they’ve ever seen.
I rip off the page, crumple it into a ball, and toss it into the trash. “Let’s go,” I say to Nolan. “We have an appointment with spandex shapewear.”
He opens the door, bows like a medieval page, and gestures for me to go first. I can’t help but laugh, even if I’m walking straight into the maw of high society.
The last thing I hear before the door closes behind us is the softest possible, “You’ve got this, Piper.”
I wonder if I’m the only one who heard it.
Then we’re out in the hallway, and the next chapter of my not-so-fairy-tale life begins.
First step: find a dress that could stun a roomful of royalty, and maybe—just maybe—get Nolan politeness lessons so he doesn’t look like he’s two seconds from tackling someone into the punch bowl.
CHAPTER 2
Kellen
I always thought being banishedto a centuries-old manor on the edge of the royal compound would be a punishment. Turns out, I quite like the privacy. There’s no waking up to my mother’s shrieking voice, or my father’s stoic shadow crossing the breakfast nook, and the only footsteps I hear at night are my own. Well, and those of my assigned bodyguard, but Elliot’s been trailing me for so long he might as well be a second pulse. Most days I can forget about the reason I’m here—apart from the fact that my existence is a living, breathing ball of public obligation.
Tonight is not most days.
I drag the straight razor along my jaw with a trembling hand and debate whether I can get away with a little stubble. The answer, obviously, is no, because my mother has already texted me three times to make sure I am “prince presentable” for the event. I rinse the razor in the sink, splash cold water over my cheeks, and force myself to look at my reflection. I look exactly like my father did at twenty-seven, except with better taste in hair products and—if you asked Royals Anonymous before it closed down—sadder eyes.
The suit I’ll be wearing tonight is navy and tailored perfectly. I hate it. It makes my shoulders feel like they belong to a linebacker, not someone who spends his free time piping rosettes onto gluten-free wedding cakes for charity. I glance at the clock. Seventeen minutes until I’m meant to be at the palace’s main ballroom for the fundraiser, and already my throat feels like it’s been lined with tacks.
Footsteps echo outside the bathroom’s door.
“Kellen,” Elliot’s voice comes muffled through the wood of the bathroom door. “Your mother just called. She says if you’re not at the ballroom on time, she’ll disown you.”
“She says that every week.” I towel off my jaw and open the door. He’s standing there in his own version of evening wear: black suit and shoes so polished I can see the anxious twitch of my own foot reflected in them. His security earpiece radio curls around his ear.
Elliot looks me up and down. “You cleaned up well. Too bad you can’t show up in a baking apron, but you know.” His lips twitch in the faintest suggestion of a smile. “Royalty.”
“I’m convinced the dress code is some kind of population control,” I mutter, but my heart isn’t in it. Elliot’s presence is usually steadying, but today, even his sarcasm tastes bitter.
“You okay?” he asks, lowering his voice as he scans the hallway behind me. “You’re vibrating.”
“Am I?” I check my hands, but they’re steady now. “Just excited to make a six-figure donation to a charity and then have my family take credit for it.”
Elliot snorts. “Want to pregame with something stiffer than water? Kitchen’s clear.”
He knows me. Maybe too well.
The kitchen is my favorite room in the house, possibly because it’s the one place I can make a mess and nobody—except maybe the cleaning service, who I over-tip—will ever know. Buteven here I’m pacing as soon as we step across the threshold. I settle for a single shot of whiskey, then push the bottle toward Elliot, who raises his hands and shakes his head.
“Not on the clock.” Elliot’s silent for a beat. “You know, you used to be less… Cynical.”
I study him for a long moment. Elliot knows exactly why I hate these functions. And despite my earlier comment, it has little to actually do with money. “My parents are constantly looking for an omega, Elliot.”
He raises a carefully measured eyebrow that I know is more for show than anything else. “You don’t want one?”
He says it like that’s the only part of the package that matters. Alpha plus one omega, the end. But it’s not. Sure, some alpha princes get their own omega and that’s it. But oftentimes, it’s a whole pack.
I don’t have a full pack, but I do have Elliot. My best friend. We’ve never discussed the bond, but it’s there no matter how much my parents might rather prefer it’s not, given Elliot’s station.
