Just like they want Ren, but not enough.
Duty over love. Always.
That should be the Ashbourne family motto.
Ren glances over her shoulder at the two of us. “Piers, can you get down the plates, please?”
I move to do what she’s asked, automatically, the day spent following her gentle requests making it a habit by this point. Plus, I wouldn’t deny her anything.
“Anything I can do?” Court asks, moving closer to the small kitchen.
She sets a bubbling cheese covered casserole onto the top of the stove and then turns to smile at him. “You could pour yourself a drink? Or-” there’s a knock at the door, and she flicks her gaze toward it. “Let in the others?”
She doesn’t turn when they enter the room, fidgeting with the food she spent hours making for us. Little snacks and nibbles, guilty pleasure foods that she convinced me to tell her about. Things that would horrify the queen if she knew my pack prefers to eat them.
I don’t have to be an alpha and I don’t have to scent her to feel Ren’s nerves, to feel them radiating out from her little body. My pack enters, and pauses on the other side of the door, watching as Ren almost pointedly avoids them.
I move into her side, pressing my palm into the small of her back. “Little bird?”
She takes a deep breath. “I’m okay. I’m just suddenly doubting every single thing I’ve done today. Why did I think this was a good idea?” she hisses at me. “Why didn’t you talk me into something fancier-”
I cut her off with my finger pressing into her lips. If she were mine, I would have kissed her to stop the flow of words, but she’s not, and she won’t ever be. Not while I’m a member of the Ashbourne pack.
I push the well of sadness aside and give her a soft smile. “I didn’t talk you into something else because this is perfect, Ren. They need this. We need this. You’re doing the right thing for us, omega.”
Thunder rolls outside, making the already twitchy omega even twitchier. But she still takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, centering herself in the way I’ve seen her do countless times over the last few weeks. Usually during her meditation or yoga practice, but other times as well.
By the time she’s turned around to greet the rest of my pack, she’s smiling, her expression warm and inviting, even if her fingers are still twisting in front of her. “Hi,” she says softly to the rest of the pack.
Then her eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, gosh. You’re soaked! Let me get towels.”
She rushes past all of us, into her bathroom coming back in moments with a stack of clean white towels. “Here.” She thrusts one at each of them, not Court, who beat most of the rain, but the others.
They must not move fast enough to catch the raindrops for her though, because with an annoyed huff she snaps the towel out of Forsythe's hands and presses up to her toes to run it over his hair and gently pats his face.
We all watch bemused as she does the same to Grieves and Thayer, who absolutely could have handled that themselves, but clearly wanted her to fuss over them too.
The entire time she mutters under her breath about how they need to learn to use an umbrella and how the world would never forgive her if they got sick and died because they walked in the rain to come to her date. Which is ridiculous, but maybe not entirely untrue.
People get a little feral over their celebrity crushes.
And my pack are definitely celebrities and very crush worthy.
Ren finally steps back, hands dropping to her sides as she surveys them, as if checking off an invisible list in her head.
“Okay,” she says, nodding to herself. “No one’s actively dripping. That’s good.”
Grieves snorts. Thayer’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. Even Forsythe looks… softer. Less carved from marble and more like a man who’s just been fussed over by an omega who gives a damn whether he catches a cold.
Ren seems to realize, all at once, that they’re staring at her.
Pink blooms on her cheeks. “Sorry. I’m just… nervous, I guess. It's not every day that a girl plans a date for royalty, you know?”
That earns her a low chuckle from Courtland, who drops onto the floor with his back against the couch like this is the most natural thing in the world. Thayer follows, perching on the arm of the sofa. Grieves leans against the wall, arms crossed but eyes intent.
Forsythe hesitates the longest.
I watch him take in the space.
