Immersion therapy.
That’s what she’d recommended. Of course, she’d suggested I go to one of those mixers between packs and omegas where they try to sniff out an appropriate mate. But I’d balked at the idea of being in the vicinity of so many alphas all at once.
I am not ready for that.
But maybe just one pack, in an extremely controlled environment. Where countless people are watching every move and there’s the threat of cameras to keep everyone in line.
Maybe I could handle that.
Notimmersiontherapy—dip-your-toe-intherapy.
And maybe by the time I get back, I’ll have convinced that terrified, traumatized part of myself that not all alphas are bad, and I can overcome my fear enough to finally seek out a pack.Mypack.
I’ve almost convinced myself that this is the right move. But I’m still restless, still a little uncertain. So I climb out of my nest and pad into the living room of my little pool house, grabbing my laptop off the coffee table. I curl up on the couch under three blankets and do a quick internet search.
I, like most people in the world, am aware of the Ashbourne pack. I know that they exist, but I haven’t given them muchthought beyond that. Mostly because, well, I’m American and they are Bravonnian and so their existence has no bearing on me at all. Beyond the shirtless thirst traps that paparazzi sometimes snap of them and then sell to the highest bidder.
I am guilty of drinking those down.
But I don’t know much about the pack.
A quick search and I’m inundated with information and pictures, so many pictures. I just want the basics though. If this were a pack I was actually considering, I’d want to get to know them face to face. Plus, I don’t trust much of the information on the internet. People lie all the time through a screen.
Lie for their public persona.
Lie to keep fans and family and everyone happy.
I just want to knowsomething. Maybe try to figure out in their pictures if I would be safe with them.
So that’s what I do. I click into the first pack picture I can find and stare hard at their faces, trying to see beyond the polite public masks they’ve slipped on.
Forsythe Ashbourne, Duke of Fairhaven, and theactualprince by birth, stands in the center, tall and broad, shoulders back in that polished way that says ‘command’ more than ‘comfort.’ His hair is a deep reddish brown that catches light like burnished copper, the short beard framing his mouth flecked with brighter auburn strands. If he was smiling, I might believe he was kind. But in every photo, the smile never quite reaches his honey brown eyes. He looks exactly the way a prince should look, hands folded, expression reserved. Calm, but there’s something in his eyes that says he’s used to everyone watching and doesn’t trust any of us. Safe? Maybe. Predictable? Probably. Handsome beyond compare? Oh, definitely.
Next to him, Courtland Ashbourne glows against the stone backdrop—black hair, green eyes that flash even in a photograph, skin the warm gold of late summer. A hoop glintsin one ear; there’s ink curling up his forearm in another shot, half-hidden beneath a rolled cuff. The headlines call him ‘The Wild Lord.’In the picture he’s half-smiling, head turned as if something off to the side of the camera caught his attention. Unfairly pretty. Recklessness clings to him. I wonder if that’s the truth, or a role he’s decided to play.
Grieves stands slightly behind them, the one the eye catches last but can’t forget. Blond hair, sides cropped close, the top pulled back into a small knot that looks more practical than fashionable. Tattoos disappear under his collar—black lines that hint at something sharp. His jaw looks like it could cut glass, but his expression is… still. The caption under another picture calls him the pack’s security lead, which sounds safer than ‘former boxing champion’. His record still lives on a fan-page archive—The Ashbourne Thirst Collective. The videos of his fights make him look lethal, dangerous. A viciousness that makes my heart thunder with… notfear, but something close? In the group photos, his hands are always open, loose at his sides, not clenched, which makes me trust him a bit more.
Thayer’s on the other end of the line. Wavy brown hair that refuses perfect symmetry, wire-rimmed glasses catching the light, eyes such a clear blue they almost look fake. A few freckles dot the bridge of his nose—probably the price of sun on pale skin. The university’s website lists him as an adjunct lecturer in Classical Studies. He’s wearing one of those slutty little cardigans over a button up and tie. And I wonder if he knows that all the females in his classes imagine him naked frequently.
And then there’s a fifth person, Piers Harland, half out of frame. Listed simply as the personal assistant to the Ashbourne Pack. He’s big for a beta, broad shoulders filling out a dark suit, hair a soft brown somewhere between Thayer’s and Forsythe’s, expression calm, almost kind. In group shots he’s the one standing on the pack’s periphery, never quite in focus,but always watching. Not predatory—protective. As though he’s ready with whatever the pack might need at any time.
I scroll through image after image, trying to imagine what it would feel like to stand in the same room with them. Would my chest tighten? Would I hear that old echo of fear clawing its way up my throat?
The comment threads are all noise, no substance:so handsome, so powerful, perfect genes, perfect smiles.Utterly useless.
There are some first person accounts of interacting with the pack, customer service people, fans, etc. And all of them say the same thing. They are polite to a fault. Courtland flirts. Forsythe is reserved. Thayer is respectful. Grieves, aloof.
But the retellings of the interactions aren’t enough.
“Tell me something true,” I mutter to myself, clicking around to find something to help me come to a decision.
I stumble across a recording of one of Thayer’s lectures and spend the next twenty minutes watching as he talks about the tragedy of choice. “A tragic hero is not someone who doesn’t see the consequences of their actions. They see them perfectly. They simply choose to do them anyway. TakeAntigone,” he says. “She knows what burying her brother will cost her. She’s warned. She’s threatened. The rules are clear. And she still kneels in the dirt and does it. Because there are moments where obedience becomes a greater violence than rebellion.”
I click out of his lecture, feeling like I’ve been caught doing something naughty, but I have no idea why.
Still I feel more settled in my decision.
For a heartbeat I just stare at the first photo again—the four of them lined up against the blinding white of the palace. If they’re really looking for someone to love, they’ve been trained too well to hide it.
