Page 14 of The Princess and the Pack

Our betrothal has left little opportunity for courting in the traditional sense. Were we but members of the nobility, Cillian would have lavished me with gifts for weeks, among other avenues, to try and win my favor. But with our arrangement, he certainly wasn’t required to woo me. The outcome of our union has been assured for years.

Today, however, the king gave me small glimpses into his good nature and desire to make me feel special on such an important day. I still have the handkerchief tucked into the bodice of my dress—so I can keep it close to my heart— and the former queen’s tiara rests proudly atop my head.

Rather than the customary white gown a bride in my home country might wear, I’ve paid homage to my new homeland. Emerald silk lined with gold clings to my chest and waist before billowing into a full and flowing skirt. The sweetheart neckline isn’t scandalous by any means, but it accentuates the generous curves of my breasts in a way I hope will please the prince. The long sleeves cinching tightly at my wrists would prove too warm for this time of year in Lucernia, but spring takes its time to visit Namara, and I must acclimate.

Instead of a formal updo, my hair is pinned away from my face, while the rest falls freely past my shoulders in loose waves. Everything about my appearance is in line with the style of the Namarian court. Surprisingly, I feel more like myself—less restricted than I ever have amidst the frivolous pageantry of my home country.

My brother clears his throat and brings me back to the present moment. He nods, offering me a last, bittersweet smile before straightening his shoulders and raising his chin in a move I know all too well. The practiced mask he wears for the rest of the world slips into place, demanding deference and concealing the softer parts of his soul.

“Well, then.” He motions toward the guards at the door. “Shall we?”

The gleaming, dark wood standing between me and my destiny parts, opening my eyes to what lies ahead. The great hall of Castle Ancaire would be considered rustic in comparison to our palace at Evercrest, but I’m thoroughly enamored. Pale stone walls have been adorned with garlands of fresh flowers, lending a unique and charming feel to the celebration. It’s as though the outside has been brought to us, and I wonder if Cillian remembered how fond I was of his castle’s gardens from my letters. Truly, they are a wonder to behold.

As we amble closer to the dais, I finally lay eyes on the man I’ve dreamt of this last year.Thunderous; the beating of my heart is suddenly thunderous with the promise of his nearness. My memory has betrayed me, it seems, because Cillian is different than I recall.

His shoulders appear broader, his jawline sharper, and his arms are positively massive—large enough to wrap me up and hold me close against the hard press of his body. What remains from my memories are his dark, darling curls, and piercing blue eyes that are now trained on me with an unmissable hunger in their depths.

My skin tingles with a need so urgent, so instinctual I can’t ignore its presence. Paired with the consistent, quickened state of my heartbeat, I’m confident I’ll soon unravel if I’m not granted some reprieve from his appraisal.

Wildness.

It lives in my soul now, pushing me forward, beckoning me toward Cillian as if we are two halves of the same whole, destined to be one. But this must be some sort of dream.

The long journey to Namara and the restless nights spent waiting for this reunion have left me weary. My tired mind has conjured some floating fantasy where a delectable, feral-eyed vision of my king rushes from the dais to close this final distance between us.

Whipping winds and salt-kissed sea envelop me as Cillian’s hand wraps around my wrist. All at once I’m tugged free from Hawthorn’s side and toward the most enticing scent I’ve ever encountered.

But I must be dreaming, I remind myself. Only Dream Cillian would regard me with such heated yearning. Only in my imagination would he drop to his knees in front of his entire court and grasp my hand between his much larger palms.

“What is the meaning of this?” Hawthorn shouts from behind me. I’m certain his voice is not the only one amidst the racket but it’s much too loud. If I could wake myself, I would berate him for trying to ruin an otherwise perfect moment.

My kneeling king rubs his cheek against my wrist to mark me with his scent. He groans as he inhales lungfuls of my perfume, and I’m positive I’ve never dreamed of something this erotic in all my lonely nights of wanting him.

A whine slips from me when he touches his mouth to the heel of my palm. There, he stamps delicate kisses as if I’m special to him. Precious, doting promises to cherish me for all my days press into my skin with each meeting of his lips.

Glacial blue eyes peer up at me, burning me from within, despite their icy coloring. Where Cillian’s lips promise tenderness, his stare demands ownership. Like his scent, it tells me what my heart has known for a year.

“Mine,” Cillian growls, reinforcing my suspicions and drowning out the clamor raging around us. The gruff possessiveness of his voice sends chills skittering down my spine, and slick pools obscenely between my legs.

Our brazen display is so inappropriate I can hardly contain the laughter wanting to burst from my lungs. But Dream Ivy is daring and bold with her alpha’s eyes on her. She cares little for what others think about embracing her omega nature, and simply acts on the primal instincts that come easily.

Soon, I’ll wake from this trance, and all will be as it was. My pounding pulse will settle; the heat in my veins will cool. The strength in my legs will return, and this dream come true will vanish from memory.

“Cillian,” I say, calling upon this newfound boldness to beckon him closer. I draw my hand from his, tracing my fingertips along the sharp lines of his jaw and reveling at how he leans into my touch with a toe-curling moan.

As if only now realizing he remains on his knees, Cillian slowly rises to his full height. Heavier, more ragged breaths shudder from my lungs when I take in the full majesty of him before me. My king is all alpha with his hungry eyes, broad chest, and the wolfish grin playing upon his lips.

He enjoys how I must tilt my head to look at him. He seems to preen at my eager appraisal of him and my perfume blooming between us. Because I’m dreaming, he does as I have always wanted him to—pulling my pliant, weak-kneed body flush against his.

“Mate,” he whispers, bending low to brush the claim to my ear. “My darling omega. My sweet fate.”

Yes, mate.

My mate.

My alpha. The word echoes between us in an endless loop of unfettered, insatiable hunger. It has my heart beating heavy in my ears, pounding in time with the ache pulsing between my now slick thighs. I’ve never felt so consumed, so desperately lustful as I am at this moment. Heat creeps up my spine at the idea of our bodies, like our souls, becoming one.

The delirium drowns out the world around us. Our breath is shared—passing back and forth between us like some sacred secret—and I allow myself to get lost in this dizzying spell of push and pull.

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