амега (peterick)

vingt-six.

The palace is like no abode I've ever seen. Decorated with blooming flowerpots and three-dimensional sculptures, its outer walls are built entirely from dry, sandy stone, with only the occasional drainpipe to keep it from crumbling as a hundred feet pitter-patter up the wide, red carpeted stairs. My parents could have lived in a place like this, though they chose not to. Any Alpha could, if they asked nicely enough, despite its lack of family friendliness. Dallon and I haven't even made it indoors yet, and my jaw has already become too slack to lift shut.

Inside isn't much different. It's exactly how you'd expect a royal palace to look, like the ones in all the fairytales, only the princess dresses don't bulk out like tea cosies, and every person has at least one drink in their hand.

Well-dressed doormen collect hats and coats as we swarm through the arched entryway into the enormous reception, where the main celebrations will be taking place later. Two symmetrical staircases, not so dissimilar from the one outside, curve up and around to the second floor; a low, currently empty stage sits between them, and a podium stands in its center. Both left and right, the reception stretches on through two extravagant ballrooms, one housing a shining, grand piano, while the other invites guests to lounge and relax on duchesse couches.

The ceiling is dome shaped and painted with centuries old landscapes. A few cracks jut out in places, especially close to the chandeliers that hang casually there, but other than that it looks extremely well kept. Reine Loups has a lot to live up to; it's barely half a decade old and already falling apart at every seam.

My stomach grumbles as Dallon leads me into the center of the reception area, weaving gracefully around small groups and couples. Nobody dances. Sweet and savoury smells fill the air; they come from a long table, set out with all kinds of food and drink. A buffet, if you will. I feel jealous for Patrick; if he's going to miss anything at all about not being here, it would have to be the unlimited supply of party food.

We come to a stop a few feet away from the bottom of one of the stairwells, in front of three people - two men and a woman - all Alphas. "Everyone, meet Peter," Dallon introduces formally. "Pete, this is my father; mother; and Harold, dad's entrepreneur and Leo's uncle." I greet them each in turn with a polite smile and a handshake. They smile, too, but the gestures don't quite crease their eyes. Dallon's parents look just like him, dark haired and sharp jawed, but older (terrifyingly, though, neither of them look a day over 30). Harold, on the other hand, is a short man with a bushy beard, and is slightly pudgy around the belly; he reminds me vaguely of Henry the Eighth. Dallon regards him first. "I thought Leo was coming along tonight?" he enquires.

"Something came up," Harold states gruffly. "He'll be celebrating with us another time."

"So, Peter," Dallon's mother chimes. "Do you have an Omega at home?"

I nod. "As a matter of fact, ma'am, I do. He's amazing. My world, if that's not too loose to say."

"That's lovely to hear," she gushes. "Although we wish we could hear it more often from our son."

Dallon's expression is tight. He surveys the room with an eagle's eye, looking out for his missing Beta, no doubt. Either that, or he's deliberately avoiding the topic of conversation. Which means his parents don't know about said Beta. I wonder if it's a gender phobic thing; an arranged marriage thing, maybe. Or he just hasn't bothered to share the news with them.

Upon hearing his mother talking about him, Dallon whips his head back in our direction. The smile he wears is forced. "Awesome," he clucks. "Now that we're all acquainted, how about a drink? Pete?"

"Lead the way," I concur. And he does so happily.

He drags me to the buffet table and beelines for one of the bulbous fish bowls filled with bright red, fruity liquid. He's absolutely thrilled to finally be away from his procreators. I am, too, but for a slightly different reason. Or person, I should say. Namely Harold; Leo's uncle. Come to think of it, where the hell has Leo been for the last fortnight?