And by Florence’s reaction we might have describedherscent.
The other omegas hold up generic answers. All alpha scents, allourscents—Vetiver, oakmoss, whiskey—each of them trying to look delicate and appealing. Isadora, unsurprisingly, describes Forsythe’s scent.
“Florence?” Cleo calls. And my omega jumps, drags her eyes off of us and over to the host of the show. “Your answer?”
“Right, sorry. I was just…” She visibly shakes herself and flips her board around. “Home.”
It hits like a slow punch, blooming low in my gut.
“And what does home smell like to you?” Cleo presses. I’m beginning to think that the host might have a favorite omega and it isn’t Isadora.
Ren flicks her gaze toward us and then back as she licks her lips. “I-I think it smells like all of the best things combined. And it changes over time. Like… for a long time it was clean laundryfresh from the dryer, my mom’s scent. And then my little sister who smells like lavender. And my best friend who smells like pineapple and chilis. More recently um, her pack too. They all smell like home to me because that’s what they are—my home.”
I am fucking dead.
And so is the pack of alphas that she thinks smells like home and isn’t us.
“We’re gonna kill them right?” Court growls low enough that I hope the mics don’t pick it up.
“Not kill,” Thayer mutters darkly. “Maim, though.”
A glance at my pack mates reveals them in similar states as I am, and I swear that Court is sporting an erection, like our omega saying her favorite scent is ‘home’ should have been his answer to the ultimate turn on question.
“Jesus, I think you just gave me a toothache, Ren,” Tristan mutters, then flips his board. “Gas station slushies at 2 a.m.” He nods solemnly, as if this is a spiritual experience, while I have no clue what the fuck it means.
“If you weren’t here today, where would you be?”
Another easy question, basically a soft ball to any of the omegas who have done the bare minimum of research.
“Alphas?” Cleo prompts.
“At the palace.”
“Teaching my seminar.”
“In bed.”
“The gym.” Again.
Other omegas give pageant-worthy answers like “volunteering” and “traveling the world.” Isadora gives the somewhat presumptuous answer of “The Palace.” Though she’s probably not wrong. The queen has all but extended an open invitation to her in hopes that proximity will breed… I don’t even know what. Affection, maybe?
“Florence?”
“Probably at my best friend’s pack house watching all of you go through this, throwing popcorn at the screen whenever Court saysanything. She’s a big fan of the show.” Then she looks right in the camera with a grin and waves. “Hi, Haven!”
I feel something in my ribcage give way. She’s just so damn adorable. So sweet and pure andJesus,I cannot take this.
“Why whenIsay anything?” Courtland asks.
“I think you know why, pretty boy,” she answers primly, shoulders squaring up like she expects an argument from him.
“You love it,” Court growls at her, and she grins back at him in response, like they’re sharing a secret.
Thayer mutters, “We’re so fucked,” and honestly? He’s right.
“Describe your flirting style in one word,” Cleo reads, already looking pleased. This is exactly the kind of question that lets the editors earn their paycheck.
Forsythe turns his board without hesitation. “Subtle.” Of course it is. The man flirts like a political maneuver — calculated, deniable, devastating if you notice it. If he does it at all.
