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CHAPTER ELEVEN

GRACE

I don’t know if a piggyback ride is the best way to make an entrance as a newly minted pack queen, but it’s what they’re going to get as we crest a hill, and the ruins of Providence come into full view.

Without the threat of death looming over my head and nestled between the tropical forest that now looks peaceful, lush, and green, the sight of the city doesn’t inspire terror.

It almost appears homely, quaint, in the way a rebuilt settlement in a zombie movie feels quaint.

As my pack walks through the street, and I ride Leo’s back, masked alphas and betas poke their heads out of windows and alleyways with huge grins.

Some wave or incline their head. But no matter what, Nakoa keeps his head straight and shoulders square silent like a stone, matching his stone face.

Raphael barely makes eye contact, and rarely speaks, only to black masked alphas when he does.

And Leo is the chatterbox towards the black masked alphas and red-masked betas alike.

Maybe something to do with the pack hierarchy on the island.

Not that I want to stick around long enough to find out.

There are clotheslines here and there, drying aged clothing that has all seen better days in the

“Why did you really bring me here?” I ask as Leo carefully places me on the plush chair.

It’s so big I sink back into it like an oversized bed.

My body is stiff and slightly achy still from the trip, despite being carried the entire way, so I’m grateful for it.

But I make a show of not showing even an iota of the pain I’m in.

If my observation of their pack has taught me anything, it is that they value a tough-as-nails attitude and not a hint of weakness.

And I’d be smart to at least play the part of a pack princess if I want to gain the pack’s prince’s trust.

Nakoa sucks in a sharp breath, looking at Raphael for support no doubt. They speak in a silent tongue, their eyes communicating with each other in a way that’s unnerving, as if they can read each other’s minds. Finally, the apex of the pack, my alpha, turns to me with a severe, stricken expression.

“I don’t want you to get your hopes up, omega,” he begins, and I don’t like that sound of that. Not at all.

I swallow the lump in my throat as he continues in a hushed voice, “When we went to search for your medicine, we received a report from Delta Pack of–”

“Who?” I ask, trying to delay the inevitable. I have a sinking feeling that is tearing my gut apart.

Nakoa sighs, glancing at the hole in the metal ceiling quickly before looking back at me.

“Both shores are divided into thirteen packs. Thirteen foxes and thirteen wolves. We’re Alpha Pack, and below us in order are Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, Hotel, India, Juliet, Kilo, Lima, and Mike. ”

“Mike? Hotel? Golf!?” I ask, wondering who has the misfortune to be Pack Mike, Pack Hotel, and Pack Golf among the foxes.

Leo snickers, and Raphael, despite not wanting to with every fiber in his being, smiles too.

“Look, I didn’t invent the radio or its alphabet. I’m just informing you that Delta Pack, the fourth strongest among us, was scouting the breach.”

I nod, ignoring the vast majority of what he’s saying because it’s not making any sense, but going along with it. No more stalling. I have to hear the truth.

“And?”

“And they found a shipwreck similar to the one you drew for us. A yaa-ch,” he says the word incorrectly.

My stomach drops to the floor, and I hold my head, dizzy as hell.

“You found…”

“No bodies. None we could recover, anyway, is what Delta said,” Raphael butts in, and I can’t mistake the look of relief on Nakoa’s face.

“O… kay…” I say, stretching out each part of the word as my world slows to a crawl.

“But they did recover someone valuable. Someone who might lead us to your sister. If we can figure out how to communicate with her.”

“What!?” I shout, leaping up way too fast with my ankle tied up.

Leo grabs my shoulders to keep me steady as I try to limp away.

Emilio is a tall, handsome, dark-skinning man with a short afro and a beard.

Beside him is another looker, Marquis, with a sauver aura, tan skin, and a goatee.

Aaron is shockingly blonde, almost bleach blonde, with a buzz cut and a stern face.

And on his knees, beaten, bitten by a large dog by the looks of the wound on his arm, and bruised, is a beta who looks like a younger version of Aaron, kneeling before one of the most beautiful omegas I’ve ever seen.

“Ohh?” I gasp, because the resemblance to Mother almost tricks me into thinking I’m seeing a ghost.

This new omega is taller than me, easily brushing six feet, and absolutely regal.

She oozes opulence and elegance, and seems almost dainty despite being a giant among female omegas.

Her dark brown skin glistens with a familiar sheen of sweat, pure black eyes dilated.

She’s dressed in tattered luxury fashion from head to toe.

Or, I assume she was because her feet are bare and scratched.

She removes her headscarf slowly, reluctantly, revealing a high bun of braids she slowly unravels.

She’s as stunning as a model because I realize she is a model.

I know I don’t have to ask, but I ask her anyway, reaching over to clasp her hand which she squeezes like she’s trying to infuse herself with strength.

“What is your name?” I ask, my mind already filling in the blank.

“Nadège Ha?dara,” she whispers, so softly that I can barely make out her words, clutching her veil to her chest.

She’s the face of Moreau, a new French-Italian luxury brand that went mega viral a few years ago and now rules many of the runways around the world.

I snort, laughing maniacally. I should know!

I was wearing custom heels designed by them before I was kidnapped by my Father’s goon.

I even did an influencer campaign when they expanded their target demographic from rich immigrant madam’s from Africa living in France and Italy, to the world.

“Nadège,” I repeat, and as if in response, Emilio, Aaron, and Marquis start rumbling so loudly and sounds like an engine backfiring. “My name is Grace Wilder.”

I guess they realize that’s her name. The omega they’ve staked their claim to.

“What happened to you?”

She doesn’t respond to me for so long, I’m not sure if she’s still there or fully dissociating from her body.

But then, suddenly, she starts rambling.

About a man she loved who cheated on her.

About a promise of a better life on a remote island.

About a yacht, a murderer, a fire, and a shipwreck.

And then, about a man who risked it all to save her from a pack of wolf masked alphas.

I nod along, trying to figure out what to tell the rest of them and what to leave out. Until my mind stumbles over three facts: she wasn’t on my sister yacht since she crashed quite recently, her dog, Félix, is missing, and most important…

“Pregnant?” I repeat, and she nods, her hand trembling in her lap.

“How far along?” I ask, as if that’s the important thing to ask right now.

“Four and a half months, almost five,” she says, and I can’t believe it. She doesn’t look it, but I suppose omegas have gone through entire pregnancies unaware that they were. It’s not that uncommon. Unusual, but not uncommon.

“So why sail to Foxcroft?” I ask, my rusty French fighting for syntax that makes sense.

“I was already disowned when I refused to marry my matchmaker’s selected mate,” she says as if that will make it all make sense.

And then, it does. Have I ever seen a pregnant supermodel? Would endorsements keep rolling in with a vengeful ex behind the scenes. A house for unwed omegas doesn’t imply not being pregnant or in a relationship their parents didn’t condone.

I’m so sorry

Don’t be. She says stroking her stomach help me.

She didn’t make it to shore?

It seemed unlikely. But if her engine stalled

“The delegation to Foxcroft did not only contain you or your sister’s yacht,”

As if she couldn’t be so sure

I can do that.

“Félix?”

“My pup,” she whispers, sniffling as she glances at Aaron’s torn up arm.

I think we have very different definition of puppies from the size of that bite wound, but I can’t imaghin

“Why not him?” I ask, trying to resist nodding to the beta hunter stalking back and forth beside us. But Aiden seems to know he’s the subject of our conversation. He halts in his tracks, and looks down at me, and then locks eyes with Nadège.

“I will be a strong mate, a good mate, to Nadège,” he says, and looks at me.

He keeps staring, so long that I get uncomfortable. And then it dawns on my as I slap my forehead, he’s waiting for me to translate that into French.

“Tell her…” he pauses, flicking his gaze to my pack no doubt, “Please, my queen!”

My queen? Shit. I did everything to escape my royal background only to wind up the queen of the fox pack, I think with a ragged sigh.

“He is a bêta,” she states, and it’s not a question. I can almost see the accent on her lips, ‘bê’ and ‘ta’ separated when in English, ‘bay’ is dragged out like the word for a curved inlet of the sea, like the bay I washed up in.

Unfortunately for Aiden, it seems the rest of the pack has caught wind of her rejection. The sneering chuckles almost make me feel bad for him, the twenty-something-year-old flushing bright red to match his fire engine red hair.

I clear my throat and lean in, whispering in French, “Yes, he’s a beta, but you know how loyal a beta will be in a pack compared to alphas. Without pheromones, he can’t control you. But you? You can control him.”