You’re going to form a royal pack.That’s the directive I’ve had since I presented as an alpha. I don’t get to pick my pack, that is chosen for me by others, so that only nobles and other royals fill those ranks.
I could have the largest pack in the world, but if Elliot isn’t in it, the pack will never be right.
“I used to think I’d get to live my own life,” I shoot back, but the heat’s gone out of it. “I was young.”
He leans against the counter. “Remember that time in secondary, when you signed us both up for the winter bake sale just so you could avoid fencing with your cousin?”
“Are you kidding? I still have flour in my shoes from that month.”
“I was just thinking about that,” Elliot says. “You made four hundred cookies, and only three of them survived the first hour. You cried when they broke.”
“I was twelve.”
“Yeah, but it mattered to you.” He looks away, suddenly intent on a spot on the marble. “You could barely see straight from exhaustion, but you finished every single batch. That’s all I’m saying. This is hardly the same sort of affair. It’s a single event, and if your parents truly find an omega there worth you courting, you still don’t have to say yes.”
The hard line of his jaws says I should say no.
I fall quiet. The room is too big, the lighting too warm for this conversation. “Thanks, Elliot.”
He shrugs, but his jaw is tight. “You should get going. I’ll drive.”
“Yeah.” My hand is on the door, but I don’t open it. Something’s crawling up my back, something I haven’t let myself feel for a long time. I turn, and Elliot’s just there—his face is very close, and I can smell the faint trace of his cologne, sandalwood and something sharp. His eyes are almost black in the light.
It would be so easy. To lean in, to close the last inch and finally admit what we both know. I’ve thought about it every day for years, and every day I’ve told myself: after the next event, after the next obligation, after the next “someday.”ThenI will tell my parents that Elliot and I have had feelings for each other since either of us can remember, and that while we’ve not acted on it in certain terms, there’s a bond here that feels like we’re already the start of a pack together.
But there is never a someday. Not while I’m a prince and Elliot’s a commoner.
No matter how much we might hope.
I do it anyway. I lean, and Elliot meets me halfway. Our noses bump before our lips finally align. His stubble scrapes my chinas I lean in too hard, too hungry. His hand trembles against my neck.Thisis all we’ve had over the years. A few stolen moments and short kisses that end before they ever truly begin.
When we break apart, Elliot’s breathing hard. “We can’t?—”
“I know.”
He looks wrecked. “Your parents would have my head on a spike.”
“I’d insist they mount it above the piano.” My voice breaks. Jokes have no place here. There’s no amount of deflecting I could do that Elliot couldn’t see straight through.
Elliot holds my face in one hand. I lean into it and kiss his palm. “I wish things were different, Kellen,” he says quietly. “That this bond would mean something to them.”
“Me too.” We stand there with our foreheads touching. There isoneway, of course. If Elliot always remains my bodyguard, then he could join any other pack I’m forced to also join.
A sharp knock sounds at the front door. Time to be a prince again.
Elliot pulls away first, face professional and his voice flat. “I’ll check the car.”
I nod and force my feet to move. I check myself one last time in the mirror before leaving the foyer. I wonder if anybody will notice, under the perfect grooming and practiced smile, that I’m falling apart inside. That if I could have anything in the world it would be no royal duties and a stocked kitchen to bake to my heart’s content.
Elliot’s waiting by the car when I finally make it outside. He’s already holding the back door open like a proper security detail. I slide in, and as the car pulls out, I glance back at the manor. I try to imagine it full of children and a real pack to support them. But I can’t picture their faces. I can’t even picture my own.
What Icanpicture, in excruciating detail, is the way Elliot’s hand felt on the back of my neck.
The palace’s main ballroom is an insult to subtlety. You can’t take five steps without tripping over a marble column or an expensive vase. The chandelier is so big it needs its own structural support, and every bulb is set to “blinding.”
I walk in to a chorus of press camera flashes. My mother, in her signature shade of lavender, stands near the entrance, with her arms folded and eyes already narrowed. “Smile,” she hisses, and I do.
“Darling, you look perfect,” she adds through her own frozen smile, then drifts away to greet the next most important guest.
