Page 160 of Psycho Pack

Her pointed question hangs in the air as Whiskey's usual cocky grin falters for a moment, uncertainty flashing across his features.

"I, uh..." He glances at Plague, who's gone very still beside the queen. "I'm his packmate. We're all packmates here."

The queen's lips curve into a knowing smile. "Yes, that much is clear. And you're certainly one of Ivy's alphas. But is that where it ends?"

I hold my breath, watching the interplay between them. Whiskey's face flushes red, a stark contrast to his usual bravado. Plague looks like he wants the marble floor to open up and swallow him whole.

"Mother," Plague says, his voice strained. "I don't think?—"

"Hush, Hamsa," she interrupts gently. "I'm not blind, nor am I a fool. I see the way you look at each other."

Oh, shit.

Whiskey clears his throat, squaring his broad shoulders. "Your Majesty," he says, his voice rougher than usual. "I... care for your son. More than I probably should, since we're, uh… both alphas. But I wouldn't put too much stock into it. I'm not really his type," he adds with a sly grin, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

The queen's face is unreadable as she listens to Whiskey, then looks to Plague. His eyes widen and he opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out.

"I see," the queen says quietly. "And is that true, Hamsa? Is his affection one-sided?"

I watch Plague carefully, noting the way his fingers drum an agitated rhythm against his thigh. That nervous tic again. He's silent for a long time, trauma boiling to the surface. Years of conditioning, of hiding a huge part of who he truly is, battling against the raw honesty of the moment.

And Whiskey just gave him a clear path to escape.

"I..." Plague starts, then falters. He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. "No," he says finally, his voice growing stronger. "It isn't."

Whiskey stares at him in shock. I've never actually seen him stunned into silence, but I guess there's a first time for everything.

Plague gives him a faint smile, but braces immediately for rejection.

Instead, the queen just nods, a soft smile playing at her lips.

"Good," she says simply.

Plague blinks, clearly thrown off balance. "Good?" he echoes.

The queen reaches out, placing her hand over his. "My son, did you really think I would condemn you for this? After everything that's happened? After I thought I'd lost you forever?"

I watch as something in Plague seems to crumble. The careful walls he's built around himself, the mask of cold detachment he's worn for so long—it all falls away in that moment. He looks young suddenly, vulnerable in a way I've never seen before.

"But... the laws," he says weakly. "The traditions?—"

"Have changed," the queen finishes for him.

Plague stares at her for another small eternity, his fingers frozen mid-tap against the tablecloth. "Have changed," he echoes, his voice barely above a whisper. "What do you mean?"

I want to reach out to him, to offer some kind of comfort, but I'm rooted to my seat. This feels too intimate, too raw. Like I'm intruding on a moment I was never meant to witness.

"I know about Adiir," the queen says gently.

Plague's sharp intake of breath is audible even from where I'm sitting. He blanches, and for a moment, I'm afraid he might pass out.

"You do?" he chokes out.

"Adiir's father was the one orchestrating everything that happened that night," she explains, her voice taking on a harder edge. "He wanted to record your confession—that you enjoy the company of both omegas and alphas—to blackmail your father. To force him to repay the favor of keeping it secret."

A low growl builds in Plague's chest, his hands clenching into fists on the table. "That bastard," he snarls. "He's the one who put Adiir up to it, isn't he? Made him record... made him..." He trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

The cruelty of it makes my stomach churn.