But I’m fairly certain if I hadn’t shown up at her door last night and if she hadn’t been wearing sleep shorts we never would have found out.
“Why would she tell us anything when we’ve made it clear we can pursue a relationship with her?” I ask, rhetorically of course.
“She should have told us. There were so many times she winced or flinched. She could have hurt herself during any of the physical challenges,” Grieves growls.
“Well, we know now,” Forsythe says grimly. “We know and we can keep an eye on her, keep her from injuring herself further.”
A whistle blasts across the patio, sharp and metallic. One of the senior producers waves at us from behind a lighting rig, staring pointedly at my microphone.
“Someone must have told her,” I mutter, ignoring the producer and staying focused on what’s important. “Isadora.”
That has all of them straightening, realization dawning.
“We don’t know that for sure,” Sythe starts.
“How else would she know? Hell, Court spent the entire night with her and didn’t know about her knee. We’ve spentevery day here obsessively watching her and have never once even suspected something like this. I highly doubt she told any of the omegas, let alone Isadora. No, someone accessed her medical records and fed the information to Isadora as a weapon.”
And it makes my blood fucking boil.
Grieves lets out a rumbling growl. “He’s right.”
“Pixie has been so careful to keep it hidden from us, I doubt she’d hand that information over to her biggest competition here.”
I want to snarl that there is no competition. Florence is and always will be lightyears ahead of Isadora, but that’s not true in this one instance. We have to follow the edict given to us by the queen. Which means thereisno competition, but in an entirely different way.
“Your Highness! Gentlemen! You need to get your microphones back on. Now. You’re in danger of being in breach of your contract.”
We all freeze.
Shit.
Court mutters, “Guess we’re in trouble.”
“I’d like to see them try to sue us,” Grieves hisses.
Piers straightens, shoulders hardening with that subtle, quiet warning he uses when he’s shielding us from something we can’t see yet. “Let me talk to them,” he murmurs. “I’ll smooth it over.”
Of course he will. He always does.
And the world will keep pretending he’s just the assistant.
I hate it.
More so now than ever before, with Ren words ringing in my ears.
He’s already moving, slipping into his practiced persona, efficient, unobtrusive, the perfect professional beta.
When he’s out of earshot, Forsythe blows out a breath. “We’ll handle Isadora later. Right now…” His gaze slides toward Florence again. She’s finishing her yoga cooldown, laughing at something Petal said, completely unaware that four alphas are contemplating murder on her behalf.
“…right now we put on our fucking microphones,” he growls, standing, “and we find a way to watch her without terrifying every producer on set. Without terrifyingher.”
Grieves and Court trade looks. They know what he’s really saying.
We’re not letting her out of our sight, not during any of the challenges. Not while the group is together, one of us will always be near her. Even knowing she’s not totally comfortable with alphas, we’re going to do this. There is no other option.
We reattach the mics, fix our expressions into something palatable for cameras, and head inside to change into our outfits for the night—for the next challenge—while the omegas giggle and gush and retreat to their cabanas to do the same.
The sun is already shifting, shadows stretching long across the lawn as the crew sets up folding chairs and lighting rigs. A low stage sits in the center. Four chairs in front of it and two rows of four chairs off to the side, where the omegas will sit and watch while the others perform.
