Thayer’s marker squeaks as he finishes writing. “Direct.” Also unsurprising. He goes after what he wants like he’s assigning a thesis topic.
Courtland flips his board next, grin already in place. “Illegal.”
Cleo laughs. Omegas shriek. Court pushes back from the table and bows like he’s just accepted an award.
I snort before I can stop myself and turn my board. “Blunt.” It earns a few chuckles, a few nods. Accurate enough. I don’t dance around things. Never have.
The omegas flip their boards as one.
But Florence hesitates for a half second longer than everyone else. She chews on her lip, glances sideways at Petallike she’s asking for backup, then finally flips her board with visible reluctance.
“Non-existent.”
Petal nods beside her. Hard. Like she’s agreeing with her whole soul.
Florence looks mortified. Not playful, not coy—genuinely embarrassed, like she’s just admitted to something deeply inappropriate in polite company.
Non-existent?
Does she not realize everything about her is one giant flirt? That every time she opens her mouth she lights us on fire? That half the time I’m fighting a hard-on from just being around her?
“It’s true.” She gives an embarrassed little shrug. “I have no style.”
“Oh, we’re well aware of that, darling,” Isadora purrs from the head of the line. “No style whatsoever.”
I growl at her. No wait, that’s…Forsythe. He chokes it off before it can fully form, but he apparently doesn’t like Isadora flinging insults at Ren any more than I do.
Rolling his eyes, Tristan turns his board around. “Illegal.”
Court squints at his answer. “Hey. That’s my thing.”
The male omega beams absolutely delighted. “I know! Twinsies! It’s about time I scored a point!”
I glance at Florence again.
She’s still pink-cheeked, still clearly wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole. I want to tell her not to be embarrassed, that there’s nothing wrong with being honest in a situation like this that breeds dishonesty.
“Okay,” Cleo cuts through the chatter. “Last question, and arguably the most important one. Love or Duty?”
The room goes stagnant. Even the lights feel heavier, hotter. Scorching my skin. Discomfort pressing on me.
Cleo purrs, “Answer honestly.”
I hate this. I hate this question. I hate what we’re expected to write.
Florence doesn’t write right away. She stares at her board like she’s reading the future in runic symbols.
Finally, her marker moves. I know what she’s written. It's the only answer she can give. The very root of her soul.
When she lifts the board her answer is written bigger than any answer she’s given before, her conviction clear in every stroke of the pen, in the tone of her voice as she reads it out loud, “Love. Always love.”
My lungs seize.
Tristan and Petal also write “Love,” both in bubble letters with hearts around it. Most others write “Duty,” eyes flicking shamelessly at Forsythe, at the rest of our pack, like they know the answer we’ll give.
Cleo calls for us to reveal our boards and we do.
Forsythe’s jaw clenches so hard I hear it pop as he flips his around.
