Princes’ Lover

Chapter 8

POV Eva

The gala is everything I expected and dreaded.

Crystal chandeliers scatter rainbow light across the ballroom, each facet throwing prismatic shards against the marble walls.

Champagne towers glitter like liquid gold, tended by servants who move like ghosts through the crowd.

Pack council and allied families mill about in their finest attire, diamonds and silk and centuries of breeding on display. They're all pretending they're not here to watch the wolfless princess be paraded before her potential mates.

They're not fooling anyone. Least of all me.

And through it all, my father's ice-white gaze follows my every movement, ensuring I perform.

I wear a gown of deep emerald that matches my eyes—his choice, not mine.

The fabric clings to my curves before flowing to the floor in a cascade of silk, elegant and modest and designed to make me look like the prize I'm supposed to be.

My hair is swept into an elaborate arrangement that took two maids an hour to perfect, every strand pinned into submission.

I look like a princess. I feel like a sacrifice.

The dances begin, and I'm passed from Alpha to Alpha like a jewel being evaluated by prospective buyers.

Sebastian claims me first. His hands are warm and steady as he guides me onto the floor, his amber eyes crinkling with a smile that feels disarmingly real.

He doesn't hold me too close or too far—just the perfect distance that speaks of respect rather than indifference.

"I have a confession," he says as we begin to move. "I've been dreading this all day."

I blink, caught off guard. "The gala?"

"The dancing." He grins, self-deprecating. "I'm terrible at it. My instructor back home threatened to quit at least four times."

A surprised laugh escapes me. "You seem to be managing."

"That's because I'm focusing very hard on not looking at my feet." His hand tightens slightly on my waist as he guides me through a turn. "And because my partner is far more graceful than I deserve."

There's no artifice in his words, no calculated charm. Just warmth, genuine and unexpected.

When he asks about my interests, my hobbies, the things I love beyond palace walls, I find myself answering honestly. He listens like my words matter. Like I matter—not my bloodline or my title, but me.

"You're not what I expected," Sebastian admits as the song winds down.

His golden eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flutter. "The rumors painted a tragedy. But you're not tragic at all, are you? You're just... trapped."

The observation cuts deeper than it should. Before I can respond, a pale hand appears at my elbow.

Soren claims me without asking.

The contrast is immediate. Where Sebastian was sunlight, Soren is a winter storm—beautiful and deadly and impossible to look away from.

His grip on my waist is precise, controlled, his movements sharp as cut glass. Those pale grey eyes bore into me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

We dance in silence for a long moment. His scent wraps around me—frost and pine, achingly familiar in ways I can't explain. Something about being in his arms feels like a memory I can't quite reach.

"You're staring," I manage.

"Yes." He doesn't apologize. Doesn't look away. "You're worth staring at."

The blunt honesty steals my breath. There's no charm in his words, no attempt to soften them. Just raw truth, delivered like a blade.

"Have we met before?" The question escapes before I can stop it.

Soren's jaw tightens. Something flickers in those frost-colored eyes—hunger, maybe, or pain. "I would remember."

It feels like a lie. But more than that, it feels like a confession. Like he's remembering something he shouldn't, something that burns behind all that ice.

The music ends. He releases me with visible reluctance, his fingers trailing across my palm in a touch that feels like a brand.

Khalil is next, and I exhale with shaky relief.

The gentle prince moves with quiet grace, his hands respectful, his presence soothing in a way that unknots something in my chest.

His wolf radiates calm like a hearth fire, and for the first time all evening, I feel myself relax.

"Better?" he asks softly, as if he can sense the tension bleeding from my shoulders.

"How did you know?"

His smile is gentle, knowing.

"Your heartbeat was racing. It's slower now." He guides me through a turn with effortless skill. "I have that effect on people. A gift from my bloodline—or a curse, depending on who you ask."

"It doesn't feel like a curse."

"No?" His dark eyes search my face. "Sometimes I wonder if people actually like me, or if they simply can't help feeling calm in my presence. It's hard to know what's real."

The vulnerability in his words catches me off guard. Here is an Alpha who doubts himself, who questions whether he's worthy of the affection he receives. The honesty is refreshing. Dangerous.

"This feels real," I whisper, and his answering smile makes my heart stutter.

Then Matteo cuts in.

His approach is predatory, possessive, unapologetic. He pulls me closer than propriety allows, one hand splayed across the small of my back, the other gripping my fingers with familiar heat.

His body moves against mine like we've done this before—because we have, I realize with sudden, terrifying clarity. I know the weight of these hands. The press of this chest.

The cedar and smoke scent that's flooding my senses.

"Finally," he murmurs, his breath warm against my temple. "I've been waiting all night."

"For what?" My voice comes out breathless.

"For you." His dark eyes burn into mine. "Only ever for you."

Then his nose brushes my throat, and he inhales deeply.

Matteo's brow furrows. His steps falter. "Your scent," he murmurs, confusion flickering across his features. "It's different. Sweeter than before."

I stiffen. "What do you mean, before?"

Something shutters in his expression. "Nothing. Forget it."

But I can't forget it. The words burrow into my mind as the song ends, as I'm swept into another dance, another performance.

Sweeter scent. Different than before.

Then the nausea hits.

I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm on my knees, retching into the toilet. When the sickness passes, I slump against the cold tile, mind racing.

Sweeter scent. Nausea. That night—two Alphas whose faces I never saw.

Wolves can scent pregnancy within days. And Matteo smelled something changing inside me.

Something growing.

Tears stream down my face. Four princes wait outside. My father expects me to choose. And I'm already carrying another wolf's child.

A soft knock sounds at the door. "Your Highness? Are you unwell?"

I force myself to stand. Force myself to look in the mirror at the wreckage staring back. I splash water on my face, smooth my hair, rebuild the mask piece by piece.

"I'm fine," I call back, voice steady despite my trembling hands. "I'll be out in a moment."

I meet my own eyes in the mirror—green and glassy with unshed tears.

I have no idea how I'm going to survive this.

But I have no choice but to try.