I nod, and fold my hands behind me, resting my ass on them like a cushion. “Sure, big guy. But it's also in the way thattheylook atyou.”
He glances at me then, his eyes widening just the slightest bit like I just surprised him. “And how's that?”
I let out a gusty sigh, closing my eyes and tilting my head back as a dreamy smile crosses my lips. I’m a romantic at heart. “They look at you like my best friend's pack looks at her. Like the world begins and ends with you. It’s really fucking romantic.”
I feel him shift closer to me, his jacket brushes my bare arm, making goosebump ripple over my skin. When I open my eyes I find him looking at me. “Why aren’t you taking a part of this?” The question slips out before I can stop it. I immediately shake my head. “Nevermind. It's not any of my business.”
A furrow appears between his brows. “Why aren’t you?”
I frown. “Why aren’t I what?”
“Taking a part of this?” He jerks his chin at the swirl of omegas in the room, surrounding his pack. “Why are you over here talking to me, instead of over there talking to them? I can’t help you advance in the competition. I’m not a part of the decision process.”
My frown only deepens as I push away from the wall, turning to face him. “Shouldn’t you be though? If whoever they pick is going to also be your omega, shouldn’t you have a say?”
There’s a moment where his breath shudders, where his expression so clearly says that yes, he should be a part of it. There and then gone again. Forced away.
He runs his eyes over me again, a little smile curling his lips as he takes in my indignation on his behalf. He looks pointedly at my hand, curled into a fist at my side. “You’re cute when you’re upset.”
That melts the indignation, as an unexpected pang of hurt hits me. I push the feeling aside. I know I’m not as pretty as all of these other omegas. It's always been the case. I’m definitely no Haven or Hollis or Isadora. But surely I’m not only good looking when I’m upset.
Or maybe I am?
Maybe that’s where I’ve gone wrong in the past, trying to be pleasant and sweet and good tempered… to a point.
I need to ask Haven.
“You didn’t answer my question, though,” he leans closer and a waft of cut grass hits my nose. Interesting that he’s noton suppressants like the rest of us. Though I suppose none of the betas on set are. There’s not really a need. And since he’s pretending not to be a member of the pack why would he take suppressants?
He should though, because that waft of his beta scent has my thighs clenching, and if I wasn’t on enough suppressants to dose a small elephant, I’d probably perfume right about now. He smells that freaking good.
Which is really, really bad for me.
Because if the pack’s beta smells this good, I can only imagine what the alphas’ scents will do to my omega instincts.
“Ren, little bird,” he says, shocking me out of my thoughts by using a term of endearment, his fingers brushing my elbow gently. “Where’d you go?”
I shake my head, cheeks going pink. “I-I- Nowhere.”
He hums, head tilting slightly. “So why are you over here?”
“Oh, well, I was told in no uncertain terms that I will not be chosen as the royal omega because I’m American and lower class. Apparently I have nothing to offer this show but the entertainment of watching your pack reject me.”
He frowns. “You don’t know-”
I wave a hand. “No, don’t do that. I am well aware of who I am and who your pack is.” I wiggle my head back and forth and then decide to be honest. “I’m not even sure I would want to be chosen. God, can you imagine the pressure of being a royal omega?” I can’t suppress the shudder at the thought. Then feel bad, because, well, that’s his pack, isn’t it?
I turn with an apology on my tongue, ready to smooth over my blunder, but he’s got a small smile on his face, his expression soft. “You’re not great at censoring yourself.”
Another laugh from me. “No, I’m not. Got me into a lot of trouble at the academy. I’m usually better at it than this, though. Must be the nerves.”
He gives me a long considering look. “Is that why you're over here? Nerves?”
Among other things.But I can’t exactly tell him I’m a ball of anxiety about meeting alphas. Any alphas, not just his.
When I don’t answer right away, he reaches out, brushing the tips of his thick, calloused fingers over the back of my hand. “They’re good alphas, Ren. Very good. Even if they’re a bit formal and standoffish. You’ll be safe with them.”
I blink up at him. How could he tell? How can he read me so easily—after five minutes of conversation—when most people never bother to look closely at all?
