There’s a program placed on my seat, kitschy and overly romantic, like everything about this show.
I flip through it, finding a list of the omegas names, and there she is, near the end.
Florence Karlin- dance
Forsythe curses, his eyes latched onto the same thing I’m staring at.
I swear to god, if she hurts herself for this goddamn show, there will be no stopping me from tearing down the entire Azure Bay Resort.
She already has, my alpha growls at me, remembering the way her knee buckled during the obstacle course. The way she winced when Court didn’t warn her fast enough during the blindfold challenge. How Isadora tackled her and she still got up and sprinted toward the chest to stow her flag. The welts on her wrists, and the overwhelming panic she’d felt.
This is what she does, I realize. Ignores the pain in her body, pushes herself to perform, to keep going.
Fuck, she’s so strong.
And foolish.
She needs to take better care of herself.
My alpha is screaming at me if she won’t do it, then we need to. That wewill.Because she is ours and that’s what alphas do, protect what’s ours, care for them.
But we also don’t know Ren’s limits, not the way she does. I can’t think she’d risk an actual permanent injury, just for a dating show.
Forsythe’s jaw locks. Grieves lets out a low, murderous rumble. Court mutters a curse that would make his etiquette tutors faint.
“She’ll be fine,” I mutter to them, to myself. “We have to trust that she knows what she’s doing.”
Omegas chatter nervously off to the side, wearing costumes that seem to range from sexy lounge singer to… sexy cowgirl? Their excited giggles float to us in the air. I wonder when Florence is joining them. Wonder if she’s nervous. If she’s peeking out from wherever she’s hidden to see us, the audience of four. I wonder if that’s something she used to do before every performance, watching the crowd, excitement buzzing through her veins.
The production crew calls for silence from all of us.
The lights warm, illuminating the stage.
Cleo slinks into the spotlight, her floor length gold sequined gown glittering like fire. I barely listen as she introduces the theme of the day’s show for the cameras, as she announces each act, as the other omegas take the stage, perform, and then leave again.
I’m too focused on one omega. On my little killer, even though I can’t see her. Why can’t I see her? Where the hell is she?
Finally, according to the program it's her turn. I straighten in my chair, as Cleo announces her and steps to the side.
The stage lights are too bright. The glare washes every color to silver, and for a moment I can’t see her, only the outline of motion.
Then Florence steps into center stage, wearing a simple black leotard that looks painted onto her curves, a flowy black skirt that hits below her knees and pointe shoes. Her honey blond hair is braided back from her face, then pulled into a curly ponytail. Her skin glows and glitters under the lights. Her lips painted a bright red.
There’s something off about what I’m seeing, and it takes too long for me to realize what it is.
Florence never wears black. She’s always in color. Always vibrant. And this feels… pointed. Like she’s making a statement.
I think back to the conversation we had yesterday, to the hurt in her eyes and her voice. The way she was certain we were sending her home. How she accused us of insulting and embarrassing her.
I think of her words last night.You did me a favor. I was getting attached and we all know that’s a bad idea.
“Pretty,” Court mutters next to me, just like the first time we saw her at the introduction ceremony. Like he can’t help but say it. I hum my agreement, even as I sit forward in my chair. So eager to see what she does, to watch the movement of that body I’ve dreamed about.
Music rises—Adagio from Giselle Act II—and she moves. It isn’t a performance for applause; it’s something quieter, almost private. For her and us only. Her hands sketch the haunting melody in the air, her body folding and unfurling with each beat. For a moment, everyone in the hall forgets to breathe. I forget to breathe. My chest aches. My eyes sting.
“Beautiful,” Forsythe grits out, like the admission pains him. “She’s so bloody beautiful.”
Her knee catches halfway through a turn. It’s tiny, but I see it—the flinch, the flash of pain across her face. My muscles tighten before I can stop them, the same instinct that makes the others sit forward in their seats. She steadies herself, finishes the turn, keeps moving. Not a stumble, just a heartbeat long break in rhythm that somehow makes the next movement stronger.
