Hate that the omega in me reads this as a calming, soothing action from my alpha, when it's probably just his way of trying to get me to not make too much of a scene.
I try to move away from him, but Sythe tightens his grip, not letting me go anywhere. “Stop being stubborn,cor mea, and sit down. Actually listen to what we have to say, rather than making assumptions.” He seems to realize I will not respond well to commands, because his touch softens and so does his tone. “Please.”
It's thepleasethat does it. Makes me move to the empty space on the lounger next to Thayer and drop onto it, being careful not to brush against him. Or any of them.
None of them says anything.
Instead they’re busy staring at each other like they're waiting for someone else to start.
It won’t be me. They called for this little meeting. They can bloody well start it.
I fold my arms over my chest, keeping my back straight even though a large part of me wants to melt into the professor, who has somehow inched closer to me on the white cushion. So much so that his thigh presses into mine. I scoot in the other direction, needing space, but Forsythe settles there, almost as close as Thayer, and there’s nowhere for me to go.
“Thank you for giving us the chance to explain,” Grieves says softly.
I open my mouth to tell him there’s nothing to explain that I get it. It's my time. I’ve known this was coming from the beginning and I’m shocked that they kept me this long. But I’d started to think—started to believe—that there was something growing between us. Something big and important and life changing.
And that’s my fault.
Not theirs.
But that doesn’t give them the right to be unnecessarily cruel.
“You said you knew how this was going to go. Isn’t that what you told Piers?” Thayer asks, somehow managing to sound curious and not accusatory. “That you knew we wouldn’t choose you, but you wanted to stay as long as you could for financial reasons?”
I did.“I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with you treating me like garbage in the meantime. I’m not here for you to pile on because it makes good television or because it's a kneejerk reaction to actually-” I cut off the words before I can give them voice.To actually feeling something for me.That’s what I was going to say.
Because there is no doubt in my mind that is exactly what happened. Each one of them kissed me like it meant something, like I am precious to them, and they couldn’t let that stand. Not with the narrative they’re building.
I can already see the way production will cut my kisses. The way Thayer curled his hands over my shoulders to push me away from him before calling me overeager. Forsythe’s rigidity at the beginning, but not how he melted into me, into us. The way Grieves’ hands hung at his sides limp and unresponsive, but not how he eventually gripped me tight, like he never wanted to let me go.
They’ll show all the points where the alphas tried to keep their distance, and none of the good parts.
Because they’re selling some grand romance between the Ashbourne Pack and Isadora, while I’m just… fodder for drama.
If I’d managed to keep my distance, emotionally, if I’d managed to keep feelings out of it, I might be okay with them using me as a foil to Isadora. To being the low class, down to earth working girl to her blue blooded pedigreed perfection, but the problem is that a huge chunk of me, both omegaandFlorence, feels like this pack ismine.
And so when they make subtle digs about my life and my upbringing, where I’m from, it hurts. Badly.
Because that makes my omega think we’re not good enough for our pack. She reads it as a rejection, when really… there isn’t any type of relationship to reject. But omega and alpha instincts aren’t logical like that.
“You’re right, Pixie,” Court says, sliding off the lounger and onto his knees in front of me, hands pressing into the cushion on either side of my thighs. “Of course, you're right. What happened today was unacceptable. And it won’t happen again.”
“Because I’m going home.”
“You aren’t going home,” Grieves growls at me. “Stop saying that, bubbles.”
“You’d be foolish not to send me home,” I mutter, folding my arms over my chest. “People will question it, seeing as you scored me so low.”
“What can we do to make this right,cor mea?” The prince asks leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees, twisting his head to look at me. “Do you want us to have the production crew call everyone back so we can redo your scores? Give more honest answers?”
I frown at him. “What?”
Court nods. “Yeah. We should do that. It’ll take a bit to set up, but we can redo your scores.”
“No-”
“Piers, see if you can track down the producer.”
