Time to do our little song and dance. Time to put on a show.
A yawn splits my jaw, and I rub a hand over my face, trying like hell to wake up.
“Did you get any sleep?” Grieves asks.
I shake my head. “Nope. Was working all night.”
“You’re not supposed to be doing that here,” Forsythe says, that same weariness that I feel in my bones lacing his voice. Though I suspect our reasons for our weariness are entirely different.
“When the muse strikes and all that,” I shrug. And good lord, has the muse struck. It almost feels like it did when I first started painting. That same fire is burning under my skin, making my fingers itch and twitch to have a brush in my hands.
It had reached a fever pitch last night, until it couldn’t be ignored. Thankfully, the resort staff were more than happy to accommodate my requests, and I’ve got a beautiful new project started.
“It might be my best series yet,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else. It's the truth and a rather startling one, considering my other paintings have been wildly popular. And not because of who I am, who my pack is. No one knows I’m the artist. I release them anonymously. When I show up at the galleries or the charity auctions where my paintings are being sold, they just assume that I’m an avid collector.
No one even considers I might be the painter. Why would they when I’ve taken such great pains to hide it? It's something I don’t want tainted by the touch of royalty, by the rules and regulations the queen has put on us. On me.
Thayer arches a brow at me. “Your best?”
My mouth curls into a small smile, the canvas in my room in our suite coming to mind. “Yep. Undoubtedly my best.”
Because of the subject matter.
Because of the passion it stirs in my chest.
In my heart.
In my very soul.
The words shiver through me just as the production assistant lifts a hand and calls, “Places! Alphas on standby!”
We drift toward the heavy double doors that lead into the challenge room. Cameras line the hallway, red lights blinking. Boom mics hover overhead like vultures. The four of us arrange ourselves on the taped marks, our gear creaking faintly with each movement.
This challenge is supposed to show how “calm and steady” we are as alphas. To display our instincts. To test them really to see who we go to first. A sign of which omega our alphas are drawn to.
Right.
We’re standing outside a room where the omegas have already been placed into fake cages, waiting to pretend they’re in danger, that they’re scared. That they need us.
The omegas aren’t acting yet. They shouldn’t be. The challenge hasn’t started. No one’s called action. They should be sitting happily and relaxed waiting for us.
A sound slips through the closed door. Muffled by distance and metal and walls—but to an alpha? Tomyalpha?
It’s a goddamn siren.
A terrified omega-whine.
I go still so fast it feels like my heart stops mid-beat. Thayer’s head snaps toward the door like he’s clocked prey. Grieves stiffens, shoulders rolling forward like he’s about to take the hinges off. Even Forsythe’s composure fractures—nostrils flaring, knuckles whitening.
From behind the cameras, Piers edges closer to our backs, too close for a “personal assistant." Which means he heard it too. His eyes are huge, flicking between us and the door as if willing us to do something.
“Which omega was that?” Thayer growls. “Which fucking omega?”
I think he already knows. We all do.
Forsythe shakes his head once, jaw clenched so tight a vein bulges at his temple. “We won’t know until we’re inside. We follow the order. We go to Isadora first. That’s what we’re here to-”
Another whimper cuts him off.
