Page 113 of Psycho Pack
She must know.
There's no way she doesn't.
"Mother, I?—"
"Shh. There will be time for you to explain later. For now..." Her gaze drifts to my pack—my pack, when did I start thinking of them that way?—lingering on Ivy. "Let us welcome you and yours properly."
"Well, that explains the fancy fucking train," Whiskey says. "And here I thought we were gonna get executed."
"The day's still young," Valek drawls from somewhere behind me.
Ivy.
Sweet, fierce Ivy who's staring at me with such open relief it makes my chest ache. No judgment in those sea-green eyes. Just acceptance. She stands between Wraith and Thane, her small frame dwarfed by their bulk, but she's watching me with that quiet intensity that always sees straight through my defenses.
Like always.
Even when I don't deserve it.
"I knew you were hiding something good," Ivy says. Then her lips curve into a teasing smile. "Though I have to admit, 'secret prince' wasn't on my list of theories."
A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it. The sound bounces off the marble columns, startling a nearby courtier who quickly bows and hurries away.
The sound is rusty, unfamiliar.
When was the last time I really laughed?
"Explains why he's such a prissy bitch," Whiskey mutters, but there's no real heat in it. His honey-brown eyes dance with barely suppressed mirth as he rocks back on his heels. "All that fancy vocabulary and obsessive hatred for germs—and everything hethinksis a germ—finally makes sense."
"Indeed." My mother's lips twitch beneath her veil, the gold threads catching the light. "Though he does take our religious disdain for filth further than anyone else here."
A servant scurries past, head bowed, white robes whispering against the marble. The movement draws Wraith's attention, his massive frame tensing as he tracks the potential threat. His borrowed white scarf shifts with the motion, revealing a flash of sharp teeth before he quickly adjusts it.
Whiskey snorts, dragging my attention back. "Of course dirt is against his goddamn religion."
I cringe. "Whiskey?—"
But the queen just laughs musically. "Oh, I like this one. You should keep him around," she says to me before heading deeper into the palace, her royal gown rustling as it brushes the marble atrium. The sound of tinkling beads follows in her wake.
If only she knew the truth about any of them.
About what we've done.
What we are.
The palace halls blur past in a haze of white marble and gold filigree as we follow my mother's graceful form. Every step feels like I'm walking through water, sounds muffled and distant. The soft whispers of fabric, the gentle chiming of beaded veils, the echo of boots on polished stone—it all seems to come from very far away.
Courtiers and servants press themselves against the walls as we pass, bowing deeply. Their whispers follow us like ghosts.
The prince has returned.
After all this time...
But where has he been?
What happened to him?
This can't be real.