I suspect I might even try to break my bond to them.
Brittle as they are these days, I might be able to accomplish it.
Running a weary hand down my face, I pause just outside the door that leads to my pack’s suite of rooms. Basically an apartment within the palace, complete with our own kitchen, even though we almost never use it.
I wonder if that would have changed if we’d picked Florence. If she would have toiled away, making us dinner each night, if I would have helped. She’d said that her ideal date would be making dinner together, dancing barefoot in the kitchen. I imagine she would do that for us, even in a palace.
My forehead meets the wood of the door and my hand moves to rub against my chest and the ache that has taken up residence there. As though a simple massage will ever be enough to ease the feeling of losing my soulmate.
Steady, Piers. Steady.
I blink away the stinging in my eyes and take a deep breath before pushing into the one space in the palace that used to feel like a refuge, but now feels… wrong.
The suite is quiet.
Too quiet considering I can feel all of my pack mates are here. But this is how it’s been since we returned from the show… since they sent Ren home. We’re together while not being together.
A door opens, Grieves strides out dressed for the gym, his eyes focused on the cell phone in his hands. Peeking out of the neckline of his tank top there’s a fresh white bandage. I want to ask if he’s been hurt, if one of his sparring sessions ended in an injury. But common sense prevails. He doesn’t fight with a blade, so if he’s got a bandage it’s most likely a new tattoo. One he didn’t tell any of us he was getting.
He pauses when he sees me lingering in our sitting room, a flicker of guilt moving over his normally austere features. “Piers,” he grunts out before ducking his chin to once again stare at his phone, almost like he’s willing it to ring, willing it to be Ren on the other side.
Grieves spends hours at the gym now, taking out his frustration on the equipment there. He’s been irritable and even more taciturn than normal.
“Heading out?” I ask, even though it’s obvious he is. I want to fix what’s broken in our pack. I do. I’m just not sure if anyone else does. I’m also not entirely sure there’s a pack left to fix.
Grieves flicks his dark gray eyes up to me. “Yeah.”
I don’t have a reply for such a short answer, so I just nod. “Take a guard with you.”
He grunts again, a half snort that tells me he thinks my suggestion is ridiculous, that he doesn’t need protection. He’s probably right, but he’s also a member of a royal pack and he shouldn’t be going anywhere alone.
He pushes by me, pausing just long enough to brush a kiss on my shoulder, his thunderstorm scent leaning more toward lightning than rain, then he’s gone.
The silence stretches.
The need to do something itches. But I don’t know what.
No, I know what I want to do, but I also know it won’t accomplish anything.
Even knowing that, I pull out my phone and navigate to the familiar entry, just like I do at least ten times every day. A picture of Florence in the small bubble at the top, taken from her Instagram account. It didn’t take much to get her phone number from the production crew forRoyaLove Getaway. They were almost all too happy to pass it along to me.
My thumb hovers over the green call button, like it has countless times before. Sometimes I give into the impulse, pressing down and letting the call ring and ring, until her sweet voice informs me she can’t come to the phone right now.
She never picks up.
I don’t know if she knows it’s from me, from one of us. Afterall it would come through as a Bravonnian number, maybe she just avoids any calls from them.
With a curse I tuck my phone away and move to make a pot of tea. I spend the next few minutes putting together a tray of snacks, knowing it’s likely more than a few of my packmates haven’t eaten today.
Not Forsythe, of course. He’s right back on his regimented schedule. Up at five, workout in the palace gym, shower, breakfast, and then whatever appointments he has scheduled for the day. The only difference is that he normally stays away from our rooms until far later than normal, slipping in when he assumes we’ll all be in bed.
Of course, this also means I’m back to my normal schedule, trailing behind him, confirming appointments,fielding interview requests, and just generally being his gopher while pretending I’m not heart broken. He usually relieves me of my duty around dinner time, sending me back to our fractured pack, while he continues to stay away.
When the tea is ready I add it to the tray and then pick it up, sliding it onto one arm as I make my way down the hall.
Thayer is usually holed up in his study, buried under a mountain of books and lectures and papers, as if the Greek tragedies will somehow help him better understandours. I’m not sure what there is to understand, other than that we are the villains and Florence is our tragic heroine. Cast aside for power.
His coffee and parchment scent thickens in the air the closer I get, but it’s still faint enough for me to know he’s been locked in his study for hours.
