“Your Highness,” she purrs, dipping into a curtsy far deeper than necessary, giving us a view right down the front of her dress. She straightens with a self-satisfied smirk, eyes flitting over the cameras to make sure they captured it. “Looks like we finally get to show the world what we’ve all known since childhood.”
Courtland mutters under his breath. Thayer stiffens. Grieves’s nostrils flare.
I school my face into neutrality.
Isadora steps a little closer, brushing imaginary lint from my sleeve in a move that reeks of familiarity.
“Grandmother must be thrilled,” she says lightly, but her eyes gleam with triumph as they slide toward the nearest camera, like she wants to be sure it caught her calling the queen ‘Grandmother.’ “This season is practically ours already.”
I force a polite smile, the one taught to me in etiquette halls before I could tie my own shoes. The one that adorns my face seventy-five percent of the time.
“Isadora,” I say. “Good evening.”
She beams, already convinced the crown and cameras and country belong to her.
If only I could relieve her of that notion.
But I can’t.
She moves down the line, playing up our closeness for the cameras, smugly showing off how well she knows us. And I can do nothing but stand there politely and wait for the next omega to enter the room.
I hear the click of her heels retreat and the tight knot of frustration I’d been feeling in her presence eases.
A line of color sweeps into my periphery—silk, chiffon, nervous smiles, overly bright confidence. Omegas glide into the room one by one, curtsying, giggling, performing. Giving us coy looks from under lowered lashes.
We perform too. Greeting each new arrival with what the public has come to expect of us.
Courtland flashes dimples on command, making the omegas swoon.
Thayer inclines his head respectfully and greets them with soft focus.
Grieves glowers in his usual terrifying way, remaining silent but for a few sounds of acknowledgement.
I am politely detached, as I always am.
And then—
“Florence Karlin.”
She moves into our line of sight. My brain stutters, my heart skips, my lungs clench. My muscles tense, readying to go to her.
“Pretty,” Courtland breathes. Like he can’t stop himself.
Pretty doesn’t do the omega justice.
She is stunning.
Absolutely fucking stunning, and I am fucked.
Florence Karlin glides toward me, honey blond hair in loose waves around her shoulders. Her dress is a soft lavender grey chiffon gown with flutter sleeves, a heart shaped neckline. Similar to Isadora’s dress in style, but so much more elegant. The fabric layers flow like smoke when she moves. The waist is gathered with hand-sewn crystal beading that catches light like dew.
Next to me Thayer stiffens. His nostrils flare like he’s trying to catch her scent. Mine do too. It’s an alpha instinct. When we see someone we think might be ours, we seek to confirm with scent. Only as she gets closer, there is nothing more than the faint chemical smell all the omegas thus far have had clinging to them, and that makes my alpha… upset.
He wants to smell her, to bury his nose right in the crook of her neck and take deep gulping breaths until we can’t smell anything but her.
Outwardly, I remain stoic, calm, the very picture of royal discipline. Inside, I have the absurd, reckless urge to sabotage her scent blockers so we can catch a whiff. It's with some difficulty that I grab that instinct and shove it down, down, down.
Florence comes to a stop on the mark no doubt pointed out to her by the production team before her entrance, and bends into a deep perfect curtsy that shows off the long line of her spine, revealed by the deep v at the back of her dress. The graceful movement surprises me, given that she is American and not used to bowing to royalty.
