“Did anything happen we need to know about?”
My cheeks flush a very bright pink, but I try my best to keep my expression nonchalant, my voice even. “Nope. We just stayed hunkered down and waited for production to tell us what to do.”
She frowns and leans forward. “Nothing happened?”
I shrug. “I mean, we talked some. It's not like we just sat there in silence waiting for the cameras to click back on.”
“What did you talk about?”
Why is she pushing this? Do they know something happened? Is it against the rules? But no. I’ve watched every season of Alpha Love Getaway, and there is always some kind of hookup between the pack and one or two of the omegas in the lead. It’s never been frowned upon. In fact, some might even say it's encouraged, given the existence of the Honey Pot room.
But this is the royal pack. Maybe the rules are different.
Or maybe they’re just upset that they didn’t get whatever happened on camera.
“Just… stuff.” That they’re going to keep me until the end at least and maybe longer. Courtland called me perfect after I came. Thayer said I taste delicious. Piers kissed me like I’m air. Grieves held me so tight against his chest… and Forsythe, he directed it all before coming in my mouth and ordering me to feed it to one of his pack mates.
Lulu and Marshall exchange a look, and then Lulu is staring at me hard. “I’m worried about you, Ren.”
The chair squeaks as I shift. “Why?”
The producer jerks her chin at Marshall who sighs and taps at something on his tablet. “We’ve warned you about how this is going to go,” he says. “Repeatedly.”
“I’m aware I’m not good enough for the royal pack,” I say, even as I think, Court called meperfect.
Lulu shakes her head. “That isn’t what this is about. Whether you're good enough or not is immaterial. Theywill notpick you at the end.”
Marshall’s lips purse hard enough that they bleach of color as he hands over the tablet. The screen is divided into four sections. Four different camera angles. A creeping sense of dread slicks over my skin. “This is what they did on Isadora’s date.”
It looks like an opera box? I briefly recall that she’d bragged about that, taking them to a theater. I’d thought it sounded boring as hell, and not a very good way to get to know each other. But then, I guess they’ve known one another for years, so that’s not the point of their date.
There are five chairs. Three in the front two behind them. Isadora is in the front, flanked by Forsythe and Thayer. Grieves and Courtland are behind them. Piers is nowhere to be seen. Forsythe has his arm draped over her shoulders, his thumb moving in circles on the exposed skin of her shoulder. Thayer’s hand is resting high on her thigh. Too high for my taste.
I watch as Courtland leans forward and murmurs something in her ear, nipping at it like he did me before he drags his lips down the curve of her neck. She shivers. Thayer’s hand moves, inching the silk of her skirt up, until he’s touching her bare thigh. His face looks almost bored as he does.
Court slumps back in his chair and Forsythe grips Isadora’s chin tilting her face to his so he can kiss her. Her eyes slip closed. His remain open.
I frown as I watch it. I might be wrong but all of this seemsrehearsed. Like they’re going through the motions. There’s none of the heat I felt with them, Thayer’s enraptured expression watching my pleasure. Forsythe’s intense stare. The tremble in Court’s hand as he touched my skin. Grieves’ groans of pleasure when I came. How they all seemed to lose themselves, lose control when they touched me.
All of that seems absent.
Like they’re playing a part. Which they absolutely are.
Everyone knows Isadora is the front runner. She’s nobility. Was raised with them. Before this television show, everyone suspected that a marriage between them was in the works. I know the queen prefers her to anyone else, is pushing the pack to get her way.
And it seems like it’s working. Like the royal pack is playing along, giving the queen, the world and Isadora what they expect. But they’re not getting what they need.
Lulu and Marshall are watching me with rapt expressions, likely hoping that I’ll throw some kind of a tantrum, give them some drama, but I just feel… a little numb.
The Ashbourne pack made me promises last night. Promises to keep me. Forsythe’s ragged, ‘Fuck,cor mea, I don’t think I’m going to be able to let you go,’ rings in my ears.
Maybe it's foolish of me, but I trust them.
I trust that they will keep their promise to me. That they want to keep me.
“I see.” I try to hand the tablet back. Marshall doesn't take it. Instead he clicks into another video, hovering over my shoulder as it begins to play.
There on the screen is the entire pack again, alone, no omegas present. And I realize this must be where the show records their deliberations. Where they figure out who is staying and who is going.
