He could have said something last night, after we retired to our rooms at the urging of the crew, but maybe he wanted to see how she handled herself today. And here she is, not near any of the alphas. Away from everyone, really.
I nod. “I’ll let them know not to use any alpha bullshit on her.” Not that we’re supposed to anyway. The public looks down on alphas who use their dominance on those of the weaker designations, so it's not like we go around doing that anyway.
Piers slides me a look and I want to… I don’t even know. Punch him? Hug him? Promise him something I can’t fucking deliver?
Because that look isn’t beta-calm or his usual dry amusement.
It’s worry.
Real worry.
For her.
And for us, if we mishandle her. He knows none of us would forgive ourselves if we caused any of these omegas lasting damage. Emotional or otherwise. But it seems even more important for Ren.
I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling hard. “Fuck. Alright,” I mutter. “I’ll be careful. I’ll tell the others.”
Piers nods once, sharp and grateful. “Thank you.”
He steps back, fading into the background the way he’s been trained to—honestly the way he’s been forced to—and something bitter rises in my throat. He shouldn’t have to hide. He shouldn’t have to worry that he’ll scare off an omega by existing too close to us.
He shouldn’t have to ask me to protect someone who isn’t ours… can’t be ours. He should be able to protect her himself. Step into the spotlight and soothe her, smooth the way for us to get to know her.
But he can’t.
And now I can’t unsee what he was trying to point out. Ren hasn’t looked at a single alpha directly since stepping out here.
Not once.
Not even a glance.
Until now.
Because her eyelashes flick open, sunlight catching the honey in them, and then—
she smiles.
Right.
At.
Me.
I tilt my head, caught off guard by how bright it is, how open, how fucking gorgeous. It hits me square in the chest, something warm and dangerous blooming behind my ribs.
And then…
Oh, holyfuck.
She rolls onto all fours and moves into a stretch that looks like an invitation from every fever dream I’ve ever had. Spine flexing and arching, ass fully on display.Presenting.My brain shuts down except for one throbbing, primal thought.
Mine.
I look away instinctively, snapping my gaze upward so I don’t crawl across the damn pool deck like an animal. But then she moves—arching, bending, flowing—and I have to look at her again. Out of the corner of my eye I see my pack members lean forward, as entranced as I am by the omega.
It only gets worse watching as her back bows and arches, hips rolling. And then she takes a deep breath and pushes her perfect round ass into the air, in a move that even I recognize as a downward facing dog.
Yoga. Florence is doing yoga on national television in skintight pink leggings and I’m torn between barking at her to fucking stop and joining her. There’s a strange possessiveness in my chest that is screaming at me to not let anyone else but my pack see the way her body can move, can bend and flex and fold.
