I shake my head ruefully. “I know. It was awful. I'm not sure when I turned into a prat.”
That has her laughter dying somewhat, though she’s still giggling when she looks at me. “Not a prat. Just unexpected.”
The server returns, slipping the glass back into Florence’s hand and I watch as she takes a sip and then lets out a satisfied sigh.
“Better?”
“So much better. Thank you.”
My chest swells with pride at being able to provide this tiny omega with something she likes. Of giving her something. Even if that thing is as small as a bubbly drink.
Ren grins into her glass before lowering it, her tongue darting out to catch a bit of moisture on her lip. The movement is so small, so innocuous, and yet it punches low in my gut. My alpha stretches in my chest, pleased, wanting… too much.
I shift my weight, trying to get my instincts under control. “I’m glad,” I manage, rough and low. A growl. A demand. “Anytime you need something,tell me.” The slightest bit of unintentional alpha bark laces the words, not enough for it to take hold, but enough that she feels it before it releases.
Her smile falters. It’s quick. Barely a flicker. The light in her eyes dims, her breath catches in her throat, and for a split second her entire body goes still. Not like she’s thinking.
Like she’s bracing.
She takes one tiny step back. Not even a full step, just a half-shift of her heel. A retreat so practiced it looks natural. Instinctual.
A memory, not a reaction.
Fuck.
My stomach drops. “Ren?” I keep my voice soft, quiet enough I know the nearest cameras won’t catch it. “Hey… you alright, bubbles?”
She blinks rapidly, lashes fluttering like she’s trying to shove something back into a box in her head. “I-yes. Yes, I’m fine.” She forces a smile, but her pupils are blown wide and her throat bobs with a swallow. “Just… room’s a little warm.”
Lie.
Not a malicious one.
But a lie, nonetheless.
If I could scent her, I have no doubt that it would be sharp and bitter with fear.
Fear.Here. Surrounded by people.
I take a slow step back, putting distance between us without making it look like I’m retreating. Just giving her space so she can breathe. My chest aches with how badly I want to fix whatever made her look like that.
Whatever made her scared.
My hands flex at my sides, wanting to form into fists, prepare to beat the ever loving shit out of it, but I force them to stay loose, relaxed. Telling her with my actions that I am not a threat to her.
“Thank you for the drink,” she says, quieter now. The humor is gone, replaced by a brittleness I hate. “Really.”
“Of course,” I murmur. I keep my hands at my sides, open, unthreatening. “You tell me what makes you comfortable. I’ll stick to that.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, surprised. Vulnerable. Like I’ve offered her something she hasn’t been given before and isn’t sure how to handle it.
Then she looks away sharply, exhaling like she’s steadying herself.
Before either of us can say anything else, a voice booms over the speakers.
“Alright everyone!” a producer trills, clapping her hands as the production lights brighten in warning. Ren jerks at the noise, startled. The drink in her hand sloshing over the edge of the glass to splash on the floor and her fingers. “That’s a wrap for the mixer! Omegas, time to head back to your cabanas. Big day tomorrow!”
A wave of chatter breaks out as people begin filing out, producers swooping in to guide them.
