Never Yours Alpha

CH 12 - Lily

LILY POV

*Carnival - John Michael Howell*

The last inspection took longer than the preparations.

That was always the worst part.

The attendants had already finished with me—again. Apparently I had too much blush on my face and a couple of my curls were not cooperating enough for my mother’s taste. And I was officially starving to death. My stomach had grumbled loud enough to be noticed more than once, I may add—but my mother still stood there in the middle of my chambers like a general reviewing troops before sending them to war, stopping me from eating even a breadcrumb.

I was going to faint. Make a fool out of myself. Again.

Her gaze moved slowly from the top of my head to the hem of my gown.

Then back up again.

She didn’t touch me this time. That almost made it worse.

I looked like exactly what they needed me to be tonight.

Beautiful.

Fragile.

Convincing.

“You’re tense,” my mother observed.

I didn’t bother denying it.

“I’m about to be paraded in front of half the realm,” I said. “I feel like tense is appropriate.”

Her lips pressed together in that familiar thin line that meant she was deciding whether correcting me would be worth the effort.

“It is not a parade,” she said finally. “It is a celebration.”

Right.

A celebration of the court finally being proven right.

I kept that last thought to myself.

Instead, I reached for the small velvet box resting on the dressing table.

Inside, the mask waited. The eighteenth birthday of a member of the royal family was always celebrated with a masked ball. And I wasn’t going to be the exception.

I kinda liked it, even. The idea of being able to hide between faes until midnight and dance and eat.

Mostly eat.

My fingers hesitated for just a second before lifting it out.

It was delicate—white enamel shaped like the face of a kitten, the surface covered in tiny diamonds that caught the light every time I moved. The edges were lined with silver filigree, thin enough to look fragile but strong enough to hold its shape.

Elegant.

Innocent.

A little ridiculous.

“Do you like it?” my mother asked.

I turned it in my hands.

“I look like a cute little thing,” I said.

“You look like a princess,” she corrected.

I didn’t argue.

Arguing with her was like pushing against a wall that had been standing for centuries.

Instead, I lifted the mask and tied the thin ribbons behind my head.

And a tiny smile tugged at my lips. It was like I was stepping into a role that was easier to perform when part of my face was hidden.

In the mirror, a stranger looked back at me.

Gold silk.

Diamond kitten mask.

Perfect posture.

I barely recognized the girl under all of it.

“Beautiful,” my mother said again.

The word still landed flat.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice.

“I’m sure you’ll feel it at midnight,” she said, almost beaming.

There it was again.

Not enjoy the evening.

Not happy birthday.

Just the quiet urgency beneath every word she had spoken to me for the last eight years.

Power.

Manifestation.

Proof.

I nodded.

“Yes, Mother.”

She studied me for a moment longer, as if trying to read something beneath the mask, then stepped back.

“Samuel will be waiting outside the ballroom.”

My stomach tightened automatically.

My soon-to-be husband. My hot fiancé. The man who was probably going to stab me in the back and claim the throne for himself or f**k me senseless for the rest of my life.

Hopefully the second one.

“He is eager to see you.”

“I’m sure he is.” I was too, a bit. Okay, more than a bit.

That earned me a sharp look.

“Do not make this difficult.”

I forced a small smile.

“When have I ever?”

Her expression suggested she could think of several examples.

But she let it go.

“Come.”

The walk to the ballroom felt longer than the entire day had.

The palace corridors were already alive with movement—servants hurrying past with trays of drinks and glittering platters, nobles drifting toward the music echoing faintly through the halls, the sound of laughter and conversation building the closer we came to the main wing.

Masks everywhere.

Feathers.

Gold.

Silver.

Animals and abstract shapes and elaborate designs that made it impossible to tell who was watching who.

My mother stopped before the final set of doors.

Two guards stood at attention on either side, their armor gleaming in the torchlight.

The music from inside the ballroom was louder here. Strings and soft percussion, elegant and controlled, the kind of music designed to make people feel important while they talked about politics.

She turned to me.

For a second, just a second, the queen disappeared and something else flickered across her face.

Expectation.

Fear.

Hope.

“Remember,” she said quietly.

I nodded.

She gave the smallest signal to the guards.

The doors opened.

And Samuel Grint was waiting right in front of them.

He stood with his back straight, dark formal coat cut perfectly to his frame, a black mask shaped like the wings of some elegant bird covering the upper half of his face. Even behind the mask I could see the familiar curve of his mouth.

Dimples.

Of course.

When he saw me, his expression softened in a way that looked entirely genuine.

“Well,” he said quietly. “You clean up nicely.”

I huffed a breath that might have been a laugh.

“You look like you expected me to.”

“I did.”

He stepped closer and offered his arm.

“Ready?”

Was I?

Not even a little.

But the doors were open. The music was swelling. The entire court was probably already staring.

I slipped my hand lightly around his elbow.

“Let’s get this over with.”

He leaned slightly closer as we stepped forward together.

“Relax,” he murmured under his breath.

His voice was warm. Calm. Certain.

“I’ve got you.”

The ballroom opened around us like a jewel box.

Light spilled from a hundred crystal chandeliers suspended high above the polished floor. Gold and white banners hung between tall marble columns, and everywhere I looked there were masks—glittering, shifting, moving through the crowd like living artwork.

The room was enormous.

And silent.

For exactly two seconds.

That was how long it took for people to notice me.

Goddammit, the mask didn’t work. Or maybe having Samuel next to me was enough to give me away.

Hopefully the second.

Probably the first.

The music continued, but the conversations dimmed. Heads turned. Bodies angled slightly in our direction.

The broken princess had arrived.

I felt it like a physical thing, that collective attention.

Samuel’s arm remained steady beneath my hand.

“Breathe,” he murmured.

I realized I had stopped.

I inhaled slowly.

It smelled like expensive perfume and wine and polished wood and something faintly magical humming beneath it all.

We stepped down onto the ballroom floor together.

Immediately people began moving toward us.

Courtiers.

Nobles.

Advisors.

Every single one wearing a mask and a polite smile that hid whatever they were really thinking.

“Princess.”

“Happy birthday.”

“You look radiant tonight.”

The compliments washed over me in a polite blur.

Samuel handled most of the responses with effortless ease, greeting people by name, exchanging brief comments that sounded friendly while clearly steering the conversations away from anything too probing.

He was good at this.

Too good.

At one point someone said something that made him laugh, and the sound was warm and genuine and completely at odds with the image I had carried of him before we met.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye.

Confident.

Relaxed.

Like he belonged here.

Like he belonged beside me.

“You’re staring,” he said quietly without looking at me.

“Observing,” I corrected.

“That sounds less flattering.”

“It is.”

He chuckled.

“You’re doing fine, you know.”

“I’m standing still.”

“Exactly.”

That earned him a sideways glance.

He grinned.

The stupid dimples appeared again.

“I told you,” he said softly, leaning closer so only I could hear, “I’ve got you.”

And for a moment—just a moment—I believed him.

Then someone brushed past me.

Not Samuel.

Fingers grazing my back just enough to leave a trail of heat that shouldn’t have been there.

My breath caught.

Something shifted.

Not outside.

Inside.

A sharp, sudden awareness that had nothing to do with the crowd or the music or the eyes on me.

I froze for half a second.

Then it hit.

That feeling.

Not the polite curiosity of a ballroom full of nobles.

Something else.

Focused.

Intent.

Too aware.

My gaze drifted across the crowd automatically, scanning masks and silhouettes and glittering fabrics.

Feathered masks.

Fox masks.

Dragon masks.

Strangers everywhere.

And yet the feeling remained.

Stronger now.

Closer.

Like something had locked onto me.

Like someone had.

Not politely.

Not curiously.

Intently.

And then I saw him.

A black wolf mask.

Dark. Sharp. Out of place among all the gold and feathers and polished smiles.

And beneath it—

A pair of eyes I knew.

My heart didn’t just skip.

It stuttered.

Then slammed hard enough to hurt.

No.

No, that wasn’t possible.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

He wasn’t supposed to come back.

He wasn’t—

A shiver ran down my spine, sharp and uncontrollable.

Samuel noticed immediately.

“You okay?”

I forced my shoulders to relax.

“Yes.”

Lie.

A complete, obvious, useless lie.

Because he was there.

Not a memory.

Not a ghost.

Not something I had imagined one too many times over the years.

Real.

Watching me.

And if anyone else in this room realized who stood behind that mask—

This wouldn’t be a ball anymore.

It would be the beginning of a bloodbath.