Forsythe. “Being too ambitious.”
Courtland’s smirk is all pleased self-assurance. “Jealousy. In small doses, of course. Makes the relationship spicy.”
Thayer’s answer has Florence looking down at the table in front of her, cheeks that pretty shade of pink. “Competitiveness.”
I don’t blink when I turn my board. “Stubbornness.” It's the truth. I love it when someone I’m into digs in their feet, straightens their spine and refuses to budge. It makes it all the sweeter when they finally give in.
Florence’s answer?
She flips her board, cheeks going even pinker. I think she’s going to blush her way through this entire challenge. “Brooding. I know it’s bad for me. I know. I can’t help it. There’s something about a Mr. Darcy or Mr. Rochester that just… hits different.”
Courtland immediately points at me. “Did you hear that? That’s literally you.”
I should laugh, good naturedly. Everyone else is. But I’m staring at her, at the way her face hides behind her hands, like she’s embarrassed to admit something normal and sweet and so painfully human.
Brooding.
Fuck.
More than half our pack could make a career out of brooding.
Does she understand what she’s doing to us?
“All right, everyone, next question. What’s your favorite smell?”
I uncap my marker and jot down my answer. Working off of instinct more than anything else.
Even if I’ve never once acknowledged it out loud. But I know what I like. The same way every alpha does. My alpha pushes up behind my ribs like he’s guiding my hand to make sure I give the right answer.
Forsythe reveals his first, his writing neat, controlled strokes. “Warm citrus. Like sun on an orange peel.”
Courtland glances at his board, decorated with a flower border that I have no clue how he finished in the time allotted for an answer. “Sweet florals. The kind that gets stuck in your nostrils in the best way.”
Thayer flips his board with a resigned little sigh. “Wild blooms in summer. Bright. Tart.”
My turn. “Something soft. Sweet. A little tropical. Comforting.”
It doesn’t describe any perfume I know. Doesn’t describe anything I’ve been around lately. But it feels right.
Too right.
It's only after we’ve all answered that I realize we should have written down Isadora’s scent if we want it to be believable that we’re into her at the end of all this. But I’ve never liked the omega scents that are cloyingly sweet. I’ve always leaned toward lighter, brighter scents. We all have, apparently.
Across the room, Florence shifts in her seat, rubbing at her arm through her oversized sweatshirt like she’s cold, eyes focused on our boards like she can’t really understand what she’s seeing. What we wrote.
Suddenly, every one of our answers feels like a description of her. Even though we’ve never once smelled her real scent.
Forsythe’s jaw ticks, just once. A dead giveaway to the emotions swirling inside him to anyone who knows him.
Courtland taps his board against the table, restless as always, but his green eyes keep flicking back to Ren.
Thayer narrows his eyes at Florence like he’s trying to solve an equation no one gave him or grade a paper with a complex thesis.
And me?
My alpha stands at full attention, eyes focused solely on our girl, all kinds of protective instincts flaring hot and bright in my chest, even as I fight to keep my expression unbothered.
We’re all affected by her. We’re all pretending we’re not. But every instinct I have whispers the same thing, we just described our omega’s scent.
