Three Alpha Princes for an Unwanted Omega

Alistair’s jaw ached from clenching it so hard.

He stood at the worktable in the healing chambers, his fingers moving through the pile of moonroot he had been tasked with sorting, but his mind was elsewhere. Two days. He had two days to meet the border runner with whatever information he had gathered, and he had nothing. Not a single scrap of useful intelligence about the archive room, about the records of the purge, about what Alpha Kieran’s father had done to his king’s family all those years ago.

Instead, he had spent the past week playing nursemaid to a prince who barely looked at him.

Saving Cassian’s life had been a calculated risk and it had worked out perfectly.

Maybe too perfectly.

Now he was the hero apprentice healer, promoted from herb gatherer to assistant, and instead of gaining Cassian’s trust and access to the archive room, he had gained more work. More tedious, mind-numbing, soul-crushing work under Master Aldric’s droning supervision.

He separated another root from the bundle.

The door to the healing chambers creaked open, and Aldric shuffled in, his gray robes brushing the floor. He carried a mortar and pestle, steam rising from whatever concoction he had been brewing.

”Alistair, what are you doing?”

Alistair looked up, schooling his features into a mask of polite attention. ”Separating the moonroot as you instructed, Master Aldric.”

Aldric’s eyes drifted to the pile of roots on the worktable. His brow furrowed, and he crossed the room in quick, shuffling steps. His hand shot out, grabbing the bowl before Alistair could react.

”No, no, no.” Aldric’s voice rose in dismay. ”You cannot separate them. I need them together. The root and the stem work in tandem. Separating them ruins the potency.”

Alistair watched as Aldric sifted through the pile, his wrinkled fingers turning over the separated roots with growing horror.

”They are all ruined.” Aldric looked up at him, his expression a mixture of disappointment and exasperation. ”All of them, Alistair. You are going to have to gather them again.”

The rage that surged through Alistair was hot and swift like a wild animal clawing at the inside of his ribs. He imagined his hands closing around Aldric’s throat, the old man’s trachea collapsing beneath his grip, the light fading from his eyes in seconds.

It would be quick and would satisfy him greatly but he swallowed it down.

”I apologize, Master Aldric.” Alistair bowed his head. ”I will gather them again immediately.”

”See that you do.” Aldric shook his head, turning away. ”I need them by sundown so do not waste any time.”

Alistair grunted in response, picking up the empty bucket and walked out of the healing chambers.

The path to the herb garden wound behind the compound, past the drying sheds and the storage huts, until it opened into a walled plot of earth divided into neat rows of green. Alistair stepped through the gate and let it swing shut behind him.

He stood there for a moment, the bucket hanging from his hand, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. The rage was still there, coiled beneath his skin, but he had it under control now.

He crouched beside the moonroot patch and began to work, his fingers finding the base of each stem, pulling with the careful precision that Aldric had taught him. Root and stem together.

The work was monotonous, but it gave his hands something to do while his mind churned through possibilities. He could kill Aldric. He could kill the guards at the archive room. He could burn the whole compound down and sift through the ashes for what he needed but none of that would get him what he actually wanted and what his king needed.

Proof.

Proof that Alpha Kieran’s father had orchestrated the massacre of their family. Proof that the current Alpha was complicit in the cover-up. Proof that would justify the war his king was building toward, that would bring the other packs to their side, that would tear down this house of lies brick by brick.

A twig snapped behind him.

Alistair’s hand stilled on the root he was pulling, the hair on the back of his neck rising. He did not turn. He waited and listened, tracking the sound of breathing that was not his own.

The attack came from his blind spot.

Something hit him square in the face, a fist, maybe, or the butt of a weapon and sent him tumbling backward. Pain exploded through his skull and stars burst across his vision. He hit the ground hard, the bucket clattering away.

A figure lunged at him, and Alistair’s training kicked in. He rolled sideways, avoiding the downward strike, and scrambled to his feet. His attacker was already moving, a blade glinting in the afternoon light.

Alistair caught the wrist before the knife could find his throat.

They grappled, locked together, trading blows in the narrow space between the herb rows. Alistair took a hit to the ribs that sent a crack of pain through his side, but he answered with an elbow to the jaw that made his attacker’s head snap back.

They fell to the ground, rolling, fighting for dominance.

Alistair’s hand closed around a fistful of his attacker’s collar, and he drove his forehead into the bridge of the man’s nose. The man howled, his grip loosening, and Alistair reared back for another blow right before a body slammed into his attacker, tearing them apart.

Alistair blinked, scampering backwards his vision swimming, as a figure in white drove his assailant back. His attacker stumbled, turned, and fled, disappearing into the treeline before Alistair could even get a clear look at his face.

The figure that had saved him turned, revealing that it was the prince, Cassian.

He was breathing hard as he looked down at Alistair, still sprawled in the dirt, a smile spread across his face.

He extended a hand to him.

”Alistair, did I just save your life?”