Louder this time.
My alpha surges forward so abruptly my vision tunnels, red filling in at the sides.
“That’s Florence,” I hear myself say. The certainty hits like lightning. There isn’t a shred of doubt in me. “That’s her.”
“Fuck,” Grieves snarls. “She’s proper terrified.”
Thayer presses a palm against the door, muscles vibrating with tension, one breath away from ripping it off its hinges to get to our girl.
Forsythe doesn’t pull him back. Doesn’t tell him no. Doesn’t remind him of the order or of our duty. Just stares at the door like it personally offends him by existing, by being a barrier between us and Ren.
The director calls, “Standby. We’ll open the doors on action-”
Another low whine, before it cuts off. Like Ren swallowed it down, forced herself to not make a noise.
“Action!”
The doors swing open.
And we storm in—not regally, not for the cameras. Like alphas who just heard their omega break.
Two rows of cages line the room, an omega seated and tied up in each one. The room is smoke filled and dark, lit up by only flashing red lights. It meant to look dramatic for the telly. Like a real emergency.
It feels like hell, knowing that this challenge has somehow terrified my omega.
My eyes land on Florence without fail, midway down on the right side. She’s wearing a pair of leggings and an oversized t-shirt, her toes are bare and her hair is in a messy braid. Like she was dragged out of bed and tossed in the cage.
Some of the other omegas are wearing lingerie, slinky silky little things meant to tempt, to seduce. They have lipstick on their mouths and sleek, styled hair.
Either production warned some of the omegas about this challenge, but not all, or some of these girls like to sleep in a full face of make-up.
A whine rips through the room, making my alpha press forward, making my instincts roar.Terrified.I hear some snickering, I don’t know if it's from the crew or the other omegas, but I don’t bother to find out.
Because that fear drenched sound? It came from Florence.
All of us snap to attention, surging forward a step. Her head is tipped toward her chest, her shoulders shaking and I can’t tell if it’s from fear or because she’s crying, but either way its fucking unacceptable.
“She’s not acting,” Thayer growls, like maybe he was holding out hope that this was some kind of a manipulation onher part. That she’s just that good of an actress. But she’s not. “Fuck. She’s proper scared.”
I feel that in my chest, the way the rest of my pack does, even Forsythe, who’s standing there staring at the line of omegas tied up in cages. We’re supposed to go to Isadora first, as a pack. Get her out, show the world that our instincts are driving us to her.
That’s what the queen wants.
But fuck, I’m not sure I can do that. Not with Florence breaking through her suppressants and the scent canceller they’re pumping through the AC. There are tears on her cheeks, soaking through the blindfold and her chest is moving in little jerky movements, like she’s having an actual panic attack.
Because she fucking is.
Why the fuck is production just letting her wallow in it?
Another whine has Forsythe lurching forward, his mouth opening in what I’m sure is going to be a bark for her to calm down so she doesn’t hurt herself. My alpha is all but roaring at me to do the same.
“Do not bark at her,” I snap out first, using every ounce of alpha dominance I have to keep him from opening his goddamn mouth. He shakes it off easily and whips his head toward me in outrage. But I’ve earned the time to say, “she asked me not to bark at her in the trust challenge. I can imagine she would like it even less now.”
“Fuck,” Grieves curses. “That first night Ibabybarked at her, more suggestion than command and she froze. Shut down on me.”
A warning growl from Forsythe. “What the fuck did you order her to do?”
My brows jump. Sythe never swears, but I suppose this situation calls for it, because I’m also about two seconds awayfrom throat punching Grieves and then having him hand me my ass, because I know I can’t beat him in a fight.
