Page 114 of Psycho Pack
But the weight of my pack's presence behind me is undeniable. The heat of their bodies and the familiar mingling of their scents ground me somehow.
I've become reliant on them, it seems.
How terrifying.
"So," Whiskey drawls from somewhere to my left, his voice cutting through the fog in my head. His boots scuff against the polished floor as he sidles closer. "Should we be calling you 'Your Highness' now? Or 'Your Grace'? Or is that only for formal occasions?"
I shoot him a withering glare, but he just grins that insufferable grin of his. "I will dissect you in your sleep," Imutter, but the familiar banter helps, in a strange way. Makes this surreal situation feel slightly more normal.
"Kinky," Whiskey replies with a waggle of his eyebrows.
Valek's silvery laugh drifts from behind us. "It seems my nickname suits him even better than I thought. Princess Plague. It has a ring to it, no?"
Okay.
Thatfamiliar banter doesn't fucking help at all.
I clench my jaw, fighting back the urge to snap at them both. But then I catch Ivy watching me, a slight smile on her lips. A smile meant for me and no one else. I wish I could tell what she's thinking. Even after all this time, she's still a mystery to me.
But that warmth in her eyes…
She trusts me.
Even now.
Even after everything.
The thought sends an ache through my chest that has nothing to do with the suffocating pressure of being back in these halls.
A group of nobles passes us, their white robes rustling. They bow deeply, but I catch the flash of recognition in their eyes. The way they stare. One woman's hand flies to her mouth, stifling a gasp.
They remember me.
Remember the prince who fled in the night, leaving chaos in his wake.
The queen leads us deeper into the palace, past delicate archways and flowing fountains that haven't changed in the decade I've been gone. The same impossibly intricate carvings line the walls, telling ancient stories in gold and mother-of-pearl. The same sweet incense burns in ornate brass censers, filling the air with memories I've spent years trying to forget.
"We have much to discuss," my mother says, her voice carrying that careful neutrality I remember so well. "But first, your pack needs rest. The staff aboard the train informed me you all looked worse for wear, and I'm afraid that was an understatement." Her gaze sweeps over them critically. "Not to mention proper clothes."
Thane glances down at his bare chest, seeming to realize for the first time we're all half naked, our clothes long sacrificed to keep our omega warm.
"Hey, we're soldiers, not royalty," Whiskey mutters, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "We had other shit to worry about."
Thane elbows him in the side. "Show some respect," he growls.
But my mother's laugh just chimes like silver bells. "Oh, I like them very much, Hamsa. They're exactly what you needed."
The use of my real name sends another jolt through me. I haven't heard it spoken aloud in so long, I'd almost forgotten how it sounds. Almost convinced myself I really was just Plague. The cold Ghost I'd crafted myself into.
But here, in these white halls with their impossible beauty and crushing weight of memory, that careful facade is crumbling.
"Your chambers have been maintained," my mother continues as we approach a familiar corridor. The words hit me like a physical blow. "Though you may prefer to stay with your pack in the guest wing?—"
"The guest wing," I say quickly.
Too quickly.
"What's in your 'chambers'?" Whiskey asks immediately, perking up like a hound on a scent. He may be a dumbass, but not a single goddamn thing gets past him. "I wanna see?—"