Marshall nods. “Right.”
I look at the cages again. “How long?” My voice is a wheeze. A croak.
Marshall shrugs. “Depends on when they decide to free you.”
Right. How long I spend tied to the chair depends on how much the pack values me as a contestant. Which given that they’ve already decided that I’m not their omega, can’t be all that much.
“Can I be put in last?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds, how thready and weak.
There’s a scoff from nearby. “Asking for favors, Karlin?”
Isadora.
I should ignore her, have all but conditioned myself to do that at this point in the game. But I’m feeling just brittle enough that the scorn in her voice has me lifting my eyes to hers. And hot damn, someone must have warned her this was coming because the girl is in full makeup, her hair is styled in perfect glossy waves and she’s wearing the tiniest, silkiest little slip of a nightie. She even has a pair of those feathered kitten heels on her feet.She looks gorgeous, and I know that I do not in my rattiest pair of leggings and my oversized t-shirt I stole from a beta ex years ago that is so worn out it has holes in the armpits, and the neck is stretched enough that it shows my clavicle.
A quick glance at the other omegas reveals about half of them knew about this early morning challenge, while the other half are dressed more like me, unprepared to face the cameras.
Tristan saunters over to us. He’s clearly in the second group. But he wears it well, in a pair of low slung grey sweats and nothing else. His already sleep mussed hair only gets worse when he runs his fingers through it, then rubs at his eyes. “Run along, Isadora, darling,” he yawns. “It’s too early for your bullshit.”
She glares at him, but does as he said, turning back to her friends and talking unnecessarily loud about the date the pack took her and Odette on.
“Morning, poblano.” Tristan kisses Petal on her cheek, then drops one on the top of my head. “Jalapeno.”
I scowl at him. “Please tell me those names aren’t sticking.”
He grins. “Oh, they’re sticking alright. It's a reminder to you to strive for more spice in your life, Flo.”
Another scowl. “Don’t call me Flo. That’s almost worse than jalapeno.” I’ve always hated it, hence why I ask people to call me Ren.
Tristan shrugs. “Tell me why you're freaking out and I’ll consider it.”
I blink at the change of topic.
“Telluswhy,” Petal amends.
I look back at the cages. The metal chair. The blind fold.
The fear that had been temporarily kept at bay by Tristan’s arrival swells. But I try my damnedest to hide it. “I just don’t relish the idea of being tied to a chair for hours while we wait for production and the Ashbourne pack to get their shit together.”
They both peer at me like they know I’m lying but can’t figure out why.
Probably because it's not a lie, per se, more like not the whole truth.
Thankfully, their attention is pulled from me when a producer I don’t recognize steps into the center of the room and lifts his voice. “Okay, we’re going to start getting you into the cages now. If you need to use the bathroom, drink some water, or grab a snack, now is the time to do it.”
For the first time I notice a table set up along the wall with a spread of pastries and fruit. Some of the omegas are already huddled around the food, snacking happily, because this isn’t their worst nightmare.
My stomach flips hard.
Petal’s hand brushes between my shoulder blades, making me jump. “Do you want to grab something real quick?”
A sharp shake of my head is just about all I can answer with, as production leads the first two omegas into their cages.
I don’t think I can stand here and watch them do it. I shake my head. “I’m-I’m going to run to use the bathroom real fast,” I manage to get out before hurrying away, ignoring my friends calling out my names, and the sniggers of the other omegas as I pass by.
“Where are you going, Ren?” Marshall steps into my path.
“Bathroom,” I choke out again, and let out a relieved breath when he nods and steps to the side.
