Page 112 of Psycho Pack

Everything I've ever been.

"Welcome home, Prince Hamsa."

My mother's words shatter the carefully constructed walls I've spent a decade building. The marble beneath my knees feels like it's spinning. Like I'm caught in one of those fever dreams that used to plague me after I fled, where I'd wake up gasping, convinced I was back in the hanging gardens with Adiir's blood on my hands.

But this is real. The cold stone under my knees, the whispers of silk and chiming of golden beads, the familiar scent of lotus and jasmine—it's all real.

The weight of the queen's gaze pins me in place as surely as any physical restraint. I can't look up. Can't bear to see the mix of emotions I know must be warring in those pale blue eyes so like my own. Eyes that used to look at me with such pride before I threw it all away.

Behind me, I hear Whiskey's sharp intake of breath. "Holy shit," he mutters. A dull thud follows—probably Thane elbowing him into silence.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the world to stop tilting on its axis. A decade of careful control threatens to crumble. The detached mask I crafted to hide behind—to keep everyone at arm's length—feels paper-thin.

My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.

But I can't hide anymore.

Not here.

Not now.

"Stand up, my son."

My mother's voice is softer now, though it still carries the weight of command. Her fingers remain gentle on my chin, thumb stroking my cheek like she used to do when I was small and scared of thunder. The familiar gesture nearly breaks me.

I force myself to rise on legs that feel like water, still unable to meet her gaze. The gilded beads on her veil chime softly as she moves closer. Her familiar scent—jasmine perfume and lotus—wraps around me, threatening to drag me back to that night in the gardens.

To everything I lost.

Everything I destroyed.

"Look at me, Hamsa."

I do.

And nearly drown in the love I see there, tempered by old hurt but no less fierce for it. The years have painted silver through her dark hair, added fine lines around her eyes that weren't there before. But she's still as regal as ever in her flowing white robes, still every inch the queen I remember.

How can she still look at me like that?

After what I did?

After I ran like a coward and let her think...

"Your Majesty." Thane's voice cuts through my spiral. The scrape of boots on marble tells me he's dropped into a formal bow. "We didn't know?—"

"Of course you didn't." My mother's tone carries a hint of steel now. She releases my chin but doesn't step back. "My son has always been...creativein his methods of hiding."

"That's putting it fucking mildly," Whiskey mutters.

A guard shifts, hand dropping to his sword hilt, but my mother raises one bejeweled hand. The guard freezes mid-motion.

I deserve her anger.

Her contempt.

Instead, she's looking at me like I'm still worth saving.

Does she not know what I did?