Page 115 of Psycho Pack
"No," I say sharply.
The word echoes off the marble walls, harsher than I intended. Several nearby servants flinch.
Everyone stares at me.
"What are you hiding in there?" Whiskey presses.
He can never fucking stop, can he?
"Nothing," I hiss. "I just don't want your grubby paws all over my things."
Whiskey snorts. "You sure as hell wanted--"
I shoot him a lethal glare. Judging from the way he shuts his mouth for once, he's wondering if I'm going to spill his blood all over these pretty pristine floors.
Good.
"The guest wing will be fine," the queen says smoothly, seeming oblivious as she heads that way. Her robes whisper against the floor as she changes direction.
I walk after her without wasting another moment getting dragged into more bullshit with Whiskey. I still don't know what the fuck to make of everything going on between us, but havinghimhere when every hall feels haunted by the ghost of Adiir isn't doing my nerves any favors.
Not when I know what my father would think.
That's if he's even alive. It's strange that my mother is alone. Our society values and reveres omegas so much, it isn't entirely unusual for her to be away from the king, but if she knew we were coming...
Where is he?
Guilt lances through me when I realize I'm hopeful.
Especially now that I know how it feels to have a mate. The overwhelming terror that sets in at the thought of anything happening to her. My father is not a kind or loving parent in the slightest, but he is my mother's mate, and she loves him despite his shortcomings.
If something happened to him, it happened while I was gone.
Fuck.
My mind works overtime as we keep walking. Every step feels like I'm walking through molasses, my feet impossibly heavy against the polished marble floors. I focus on the steady rhythm of boots behind me. On Ivy's bare feet padding silently across the stone. On anything but the weight of memory pressing down on me.
My pack.
The thought still feels strange, foreign. Like putting on clothes that don't quite fit. I never meant to get attached. Never meant to let anyone close again.
But here we are.
And here I am, leading them straight into the heart of everything I ran from.
Chapter
Twenty
IVY
My mind spins as we follow the queen through yet another set of impossibly ornate archways. Every revelation about Plague—aboutHamsa—feels like another piece of a puzzle I've been wondering about for so long.
Plague is a prince.
A fuckingprince.
The guest wing unfolds before us in a symphony of white and gold. Delicate tapestries flutter against the walls, their threads catching the light like liquid metal. The warm glow from brass lanterns casts dancing prisms across intricate geometric patterns carved into the ceiling.