I would be too if our situations were reversed.
That was his mistake. Forsythe has made it clear that all of this is for show. We’ve known Isadora was going to be our omega for years. For so long that she tried to convince us to bite her when she was seventeen. But we weren’t ready then. We aren’t ready now.
Not for Isadora. Probably not for anyone but my little killer.
Ren was right that we panicked after she kissed each of us. So much so that Sythe had all but commanded us to create distance between us and her.
But seeing the hurt on her face that she tried so hard to hide from us once the blindfolds were off? That was enough to have all of us scrambling to fix it, in whatever way we could, while also trying to remember that we can’t have her.
This is something else he’s made clear.
We can’t get attached to Florence.
For her sake and ours.
Coming into the filming of this show, I hadn’t thought it would be a problem. I assumed, rightly, that the omegas they brought in would be the normal contenders. Females and maleswith inclinations of being a princess or prince, of being the Royal pack omega. The same types of omegas we’ve been dodging for years.
I felt certain we’d easily keep our distance from all of these as well, that not one of them would be sweet enough or down to earth enough to actually be a threat to our pack piece of mind.
But we hadn’t counted on Florence Karlin, with her kaleidoscope eyes and wariness of alphas. Her competitive spirit and her sweet nature. We weren’t counting on an omega who stands up to us and doesn’t take any of our bullshit.
We need someone like her. We need her.
But we won’t have her. We can’t.
My heart thunders in my chest drowning out the sounds of the resort around me, the crash of the ocean waves, the buzz of insects. Until all I can hear is this, the soft tread of my omega moving toward the door. Toward me.
Her brows jump when she sees it’s me. She’d likely thought it was production coming to take her to another challenge, if the scowl on her face when she’d first swung open the door is anything to go by.
“Thayer.” Why does it sound so good having her say my name inanytone? Surprised. Determined. Pissed off. All soft and sweet? Yeah, it's all good.
I could spend hours researching this phenomenon. Days. Weeks. Months. And I would still be no closer to an answer than this: she is my omega.Mine.
“What are you doing here?”
I glance over my shoulder furtively. “Can I come in?”
She mimics me, scanning over her little cabana like she’s checking to make sure there’s nothing out she doesn’t want me to see. And then she steps back with a sigh. “Yeah, sure. Come in.”
I almost chuckle at how reluctant she sounds. Any other omega would jump at the chance to have me alone in their room. But not Florence.
I follow her into the space and shut the door behind me. On instinct my nostrils flare, trying to get a whiff of her scent. But all that greets me is the slightly chemical tang of the descenter they’ve been pumping through the HVAC system.
She pauses in the middle of the room, turning to face me, and it's at this point that I realize Florence is wearing shorts. The shortest shorts. Tiny little things that barely cover the bottom curve of her ass. Her shirt is oversized, but cropped, hanging off one shoulder. So much of her golden skin is on display.
My brain short circuits and I realize, this omega never wears shorts or dresses with short skirts. No, she always keeps her legs covered and that's why this feels like a punch to my guts. Well, that and the mess of scars on her left knee. The sight of all that puckered and raised flesh makes my alpha roar.
Something hurt our omega and it's up to us to fix it.
“What the fuck happened to you?” the question slips out before I can think better of it. But I don’t regret asking. I need to know. My alpha nature needs to know so I can find whatever hurt her and rip it apart.
Whoa. Easy there, Thayer.
Ren shifts, putting all of her weight on one foot and uses the other to rub at her ankle uncomfortably. She hesitates to answer me and I hate that. I want her to feel comfortable to tell me anything. To tell my whole pack anything.
A wrinkle forms between her brows and she finally sighs. “I had an accident about two years ago. Shattered my knee and my hopes of being a professional dancer. They operated on it, hence the scarring, but it wasn’t enough.”
“You wanted to be a dancer?” my voice comes out hoarse, even though I already knew this. It’s in her dossier. The oneI’ve looked over more times than I care to admit, like there will suddenly be new information that will make what’s going on between us make sense.
