Page 34 of The Princess and the Pack

Ivy is my destiny, and I’m coming for her whether the world is ready or not.

Mate.

That mountain of an alpha is my scent-matched mate. Though he tried to keep me from the knowledge, my soul was tethered to him the moment his alpha signature enveloped me. It was the same fresh earth and rainwater scent that teased my senses last night at the wedding feast. He was watching me then, his hazel eyes hungry as they tracked each of my movements.

Every night for the past year, his heated stare has lived inside my dreams, waiting patiently for me to let him take his rightful place beside me.

I should have listened to my instincts that have long fantasized over his attention.

Sloan.

Even the sound of his name is smooth, sensual—inviting. The way he spoke it sent shivers dancing along my limbs in recognition of his claim on me.

The call of Cillian’s scent was like wild winds welcoming me home—the salt of his sea-kissed signature tasting of freedom and possibility. But Sloan’s rich earth and sweet rain scent is like an offering of fertile soil—a palace to plant roots and grow.

If Cillian is the wings allowing me to soar, Sloan is the soft ground on which I can land.

The moment I realized the truth, I was overcome, unable to speak or to meet his heated flirtation with any of my own bantering. His even-tempered behavior in the midst of such a life-changing discovery shook me. How could he stand to be so playful when I myself was ready to fall apart at the seams?

And when Sloan left, a silent part of me cried out for him to stay, to take me in his arms and let the primal magic of our bond sweep us both under. Still, it was good he went. With the rapid, lustful way longing crept over me, who’s to say I wouldn’t have presented for him right there on the garden grounds?

It wouldn’t be a hardship to offer him my body, regardless of the way his scent affects me. He is so handsome, my alpha,so ruggedin his appeal. Though my husband is already massive to me, Sloan has several inches on his height. His broad shoulders and sun-tanned skin—a contrast to Cillian and Oran’s fair complexions—speak to hours spent building his body through labor.

I can only imagine the feel of his work-worn hands against my soft skin, how his rough touch might satisfy some base omega need to be used by her alpha. Or how his thick beard might tickle my lips when he pulls me close to steal a taste of my tongue. How it might feel rubbing against my body, abrading the space between my thighs while he?—

Gods—no.

This isn’t right, thinking of another alpha. Comparing him to my husband the day after our wedding, no less. Cillian gave me the best night of my life. He poured so much pleasure and tender adoration into me as we pledged our hearts to each other. I know, even if the words weren’t spoken, love was forged there.

And still, I approached this stranger. I acted on the selfish instincts calling me closer to him and did not rebuke his seductive bantering.

What kind of omega does that make me?

Then, of course, there’s the matter of Lord Rafferty. As if two scent matches were not enough, I’m haunted by memories of his luscious red locks, kiss-swollen lips, and promises of pleasure untold. Am I greedy to think the phantom scent I perceived yesterday before falling unconscious—of sweet smoke and burning fire—is more than some hallucination? Why can’t I let good enough be, rather than hope for Oran to be like the others?

Surely Fate’s benevolence has her limitations.

Three scent-matched mates would be unheard of. At least, in my circles of company. Perhaps others out there aren’t limited by the bounds of their stations. But wishing for things beyond what is meant for me feels like a childish endeavor.

Besides, regardless of the truth of Sloan or the potential of Oran, I doubt Cillian would agree to share my heart. Nor would the rest of the western kingdoms support such a union. How could anyone respect me as a queen if I’m not able to master my own lustful whims? Could I really be so selfish as to bring dishonor upon Cillian’s throne? To the good name of my brother Hawthorn, who has given so much to me and all my siblings?

Still, I can’t help wondering how something so magical could be considered shameful. If Fate herself has bestowed this gift, how can anyone look upon it with distaste? It’s not as though I’ve chosen this path, though I don’t find it an abhorrent lifestyle in the slightest.

So many common people across our kingdoms happily live within packs. For all the work they do to make my life possible—for the character and culture they bring to Lucernia and Namara alike—I can’t in good conscience look upon the entire foundation of their families with anything but admiration.

If pack living is so easily accepted as the natural order amongst the common folk, why could the same not be applied to the nobility—to royalty? But I can hear the counterarguments cutting through my idealism. Am I so naïve as to think my selfish circumstances should warrant widespread societal change? My needs do not rise above the long-standing traditions of my station.

It’s my duty to bear Cillian heirs and ensure the McKenna royal line survives. My charge is to raise the next generation of Namarian royals in preparation to serve their people. I have no moral objection to this at surface level. I’ve so enjoyed my life with all my siblings, and would be glad to build a family of my own.

But children are precious, no matter who their sires may be. If my future children were to be fathered by Oran or Sloan, I could never view them as less worthy.

Surely Cillian, in all his good-hearted nature, would have to agree.

As if my head and heart weren’t already being pulled in too many dizzying directions, I’m also confronted with thoughts of my father and his deceptions. He carried on with so many men and women—alphas and omegas alike—and broke my mother’s heart time and time again. Wouldn’t desiring more than the love of my husband make me like him?

Gut-wrenching pangs of nausea tear through me at the very notion. I never want to behave in a manner resembling such a spineless, callous man. But this is different. This is Fate’s work, I remind myself as I stumble toward the safety of my bedchamber.

Shaking limbs and labored breathing have my knees knocking together, my vision tunneling as I fight to remain upright. I can’t recall when I became so dizzy. All I know is my body burns while my alpha’s soil-soaked scent is fresh in my nose.

---