Page 58 of The Princess and the Pack

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” I try my hand at civility, as opposed to familiarity, while I attempt to sort out my head.

Cillian obviously hates that, his shoulders sagging. “Ivy, please?—”

“Please, what?” I snap. “I’m upset with you.”

Sloan reaches out to me, grabbing my hand to settle me. “Why don’t you let him explain some things, petal? Then we can answer any questions you have and address your feelings.”

I sigh, nodding as I do my best not to do something childish like stick my tongue out at him. He’s so sensible, my Sloan, when all I want is to lash out.

It’s bizarre to be sitting with the three of them at once—so very different from anything I would have realistically expected for my life. I almost want to laugh. \

It’s as though I’ve been stolen away from my reality and plopped into a fairytale. Like here in the lush kingdom of Namara, magic exists and I can have every dream in my heart come true.

“Well, I’m listening,” I say, a little more curt than is probably necessary.

Cillian breathes in deeply, steeling himself when he looks me in the eye. “Did you know my mother was born a commoner?”

I blink and shake my head, certain I’ve never heard that before.

“Right, well…” Cillian says. “My mother worked in the castle, in the kitchen to be exact. She was very beautiful, you see. An omega. And so kind. She was well-loved and unfortunately for her, she caught my father’s eye. He became obsessed with her but she knew better than to expect a young king would throw away his prestige and marry her. So she spurned his advances time and time again. It drove him mad, knowing he couldn’t have her. So mad that he broke his betrothal and demanded my mother marry him.”

I listen on, intent. It sounds...unsettling, the way he’s describing it. Not like some whirlwind love.

“And what choice did she have?” Cillian continues. “He was the king. And handsome, and at the time not?—”

“A massive prick,” Sloan grumbles, inserting some levity into the tense.

“Exactly.” Cillian nods. “My mother agreed to marry him, and soon after, she fell pregnant with me and my brothers. With three heirs to the Namarian throne, my father was ecstatic. All was well—for a while.”

“But?” I ask, sensing this is where his story is meant to explain his odd behavior.

He hesitates, looking to Oran and Sloan and back to me with concern creasing his brow.

“My mother got very ill when Ciaran, Cal and I turned eight.”

I hum in understanding. It’s a similar story to my mother. And to many of the omegas at court. A tragedy really.

“She didn’t grow up as you and I did, so she was aware that this illness wasn’t... normal.”

I quirk a brow, confused. “How so?”

Oran clears his throat, his emerald eyes meeting mine. “Ivy, have you ever noticed that the staff here are much older than any alpha or omega you’ve seen at court? How their hair turns gray—their skin wrinkles. Can you think of the last time you saw a royal, or a noble for that matter, mature to such an age?”

I scoff. “Of course I can. Well, surely—” But as I wade through the recesses of my mind, I can’t find a single memory of any such person.

Sloan tightens his grip on my hand, as if preparing for some momentous realization to knock me down.

“My mother was so ill, Ivy,” Cillian chimes in. “Just as your mother was ill. And Oran’s. And every single person’s mother I’ve ever known. Besides Sloan’s and the common folk working in the palace.”

I don’t understand. I don’t like riddles and skirting around something that’s starting to feel more important than whatever reasoning I made up for Cillian’s deceit.

He goes on. “And our fathers too. They all died after their bonded mates passed. All driven mad. Slowly deteriorating. Oran’s father may still be alive, but it’s been five years. I imagine that things will take a turn for the worse soon. How long after you lost your mother did your father pass?”

“Not even a year.” I’d assumed the guilt of how he treated her drove him to an early grave. That for once in his life he realized his actions had consequences and he was overcome with grief.

Cillian nods, a frown forming. “It varies, but I’ve yet to see anyone live a decade after the death of their bonded mate.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” I ask, flustered over the direction this conversation is taking. Anxiousness is clawing at my chest, making my head swim with unpleasant thoughts of the unhappy home my parents made for us—of all the grief Hawthorn had to bear because of their deaths. He was too young to be king. Too young to become a parent to his siblings.

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