The pack has split for the morning, probably at the urging of the production crew. We pass by Thayer, listening intently to Petal as she talks animatedly about something, her hands moving in a motion that looks like she’s mimicking knitting? Either that or she’s casting some kind of very earnest spell. A smile curls his mouth, small but there as he lifts his blue gaze to me, almost idly. Like he’d sensed me close by and he couldn’t resist looking in my direction.
Grieves is in the water swimming laps and pointedly ignoring the omegas shrieking in the water with him, likely trying to get his attention. He reaches the edge of the pool and glances up as we pass by, grey eyes catching mine for a moment.
Piers is notably still absent, despite Court’s reassurance that he just needed a minute. It's been almost an hour and he’s not back. Guilt gnaws at my stomach. I know I overstepped. I know I should have kept my mouth shut. It's what this pack expects from us.
Stand still, look pretty.
I just hate the idea of that being applied to Piers as well.
I don’t understand how any pack could treat a bonded member the way they do. And I understand even less how Piers is seemingly okay with it.
As we bypass the other members of the pack, I realize who Court is guiding me to, and nerves cramp my stomach. I want to dig my feet in and refuse to go a step further, but Court’s grip on my wrist tells me he foresaw that possibility and took precautions against it. I can't escape without making a scene.
Even still I consider it.
I’m not sure I’m ready to interact with a prime alpha—anyprime alpha—let alone a freaking prince and duke and earl. Yeah, he’s all of those things.
But then we’rethere, in front of him, stepping into the shade of the white fabric cabana, and the other omegas look up at us like I’m an intruder. Which I am. I don’t belong here. With him.
Forsythe looks up like he’s been expecting us. Like he knew Courtland would drag me over to him. Did they plan this?
Am I here at his request?
I don’t know why but that sends a warm fluttering behind my ribs.
The prince smiles up at me, warm and welcoming as a blanket, and it takes me by surprise. Utter surprise. He’s been standoffish, just like Piers says, coldly aloof. Polite.
But now he’s smiling at me like… He mightlikeme or something? Which is very strange, seeing as we haven’t spoken beyond the introduction ceremony and when he placed that crown on my head and murmured I looked perfect, like a princess should.
I shove that memory away. Hard.
I don’t need it rattling around my brain.
Making me hope for things I’ll never have.
Without taking his eyes off me, Forsythe says, “Please leave us.” He says please, but there’s a definite demand there, bordering on a bark, but not quite. A flex of his dominance. An alpha who is used to having his orders obeyed, and he’s more than happy to remind you why.
I stumble back, intending to leave as he’d asked. But Court just tsks, pulling me in front of him and guiding me to the open lounger, while the other omegas file out, glaring daggers at me. “He didn’t mean you. Sit down, pixie.”
I do. He settles next to me, a warm welcome weight at my side that I just barely manage not to lean into. “I realized that the two of you haven’t really spoken. I thought we should remedy that.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” the prince purrs and I… shiver? Goosebumps popping up over my skin, even in the heat of the day. Something blares in the back of my mind.
Danger. Danger. Danger.
But not the normal type of danger. Not the terrifying type. No, this feels exhilarating? Like my toes are hanging over the edge of a cliff I’m about to dive off into crystal blue water below. Heart pounding yes, but with the security of knowing I’ll be safe.
There’s a brief stretch of quiet after that. Not awkward exactly—more expectant. Courtland leans back, one arm draped over the back of the lounger like he belongs there, like he belongs with me. Forsythe mirrors the ease, resting his forearms on his knees, turning just enough that his attention is clearly, unmistakably on me.
Which makes my skin prickle.
I shift, tucking one leg under myself, fingers worrying at the fabric of my yoga pants. I can feel his gaze tracking the movement. Not possessive, not predatory. More curious. Like he’s finally allowing himself to look, and he wants to see everything I do.
“So,” he says, voice lower now, more conversational. “Florence.”
The way he says my name makes it feel heavier. Like it means something more than a line on a call sheet.
“Yes?” I answer, trying for casual and failing miserably.
