I dart sideways just as an omega lunges for me, fingers grazing the waistband of my leggings but missing the flag. I laugh breathlessly, adrenaline buzzing in my veins, and pivot on my good leg to sprint back toward our side of the field. The grass is uneven, worn down by prior rounds, and I’m acutely aware of every step I take. Every twist. Every landing.
I keep my left knee slightly bent, careful, cautious. Muscle memory from years of injury drills kicks in without me thinking about it. Protect the weak point. Adjust your center of gravity. Don’t let them see you favor it.
Courtland shouts something I can’t quite make out over the noise—encouragement, probably—while Grieves lets out a sharp bark of laughter as he intercepts another omega and blocks her path with his broad shoulders. They aren’t allowed to touch us,not directly, but positioning? Distraction? That’s fair game. And they’re very good at it.
Most of the omegas are more than happy to engage with one of the alphas.
I weave past Petal as she sprints back toward our chest, hair flying, flag clutched triumphantly in her fist. “You’re doing great!” she yells at me, eyes bright.
I grin back at her, chest heaving, and turn just in time to see Isadora across the field.
I’m momentarily distracted by the memory of her sitting on Forsythe's lap this morning, but I push the image away and focus on the here and now. On the slow smirk that crawls across her face. Mean and mocking.
She isn’t laughing.
She isn’t scrambling or darting or shrieking like the others. No, she just stands still for half a second longer than necessary, eyes locked on me with unnerving focus. Her gaze drops, for the barest moment, to my legs.
My stomach tightens.
Don’t be paranoid, Ren. No one here knows about your injury.
I angle away, changing direction, trying to put distance between us. Another omega rushes me from the side, and I spin, ducking low, barely keeping my balance as her fingers snag fabric but not the flag. A burst of triumph floods me as I slip free again.
Only to run head first into Odette, who's got her flag at the front of her waistband and she’s swinging it around like an old timey cop swinging a baton. Or a man helicoptering his dick like it's attractive. Meant to catch my attention and hold it.
It’s foolish, I know that, to keep my eyes focused on her. But I want that flag.
I want to bring down everyone on Forsythe and Thayer’s team. With the exception of Tristan, they’ve managed to pick every ‘mean girl’ omega who’s ever scoffed or sneered at me or Petal.
Now that I think about it, this challenge is coming at the exact right time. A show approved way for us to get out our aggressions without going too overboard. Though technically, this should be a no contact sport.
But you know “accidents” and all that.
Odette smirks when I pause, gauging the best way to get that flag from her, staying still for a moment too long.
Movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. I jerk around just in time to see Isadora barreling toward me crouched far too low for her to be going for anything but my legs.
I try to get out of the way, but it's too little too late.
She hits my right knee and thank god for that. If it had been my left, I probably would be leaving this field on a stretcher. I let myself fall, don’t try to fight it, because that might result in a worse injury. But I do try to twist to keep my bad knee from thumping the ground, which means I land on my right side hard. My shoulder cries out, my breath leaves me in a wheeze.
I expect Isadora to grab my flag, dart up and run, but instead she scrambles up my body, all knees and elbows and pointy manicured nails digging into my flesh. One of her knees slams into my stomach, an elbow hits my mouth.
What is she doing?I think dazedly. My flag is right fucking—
Oh. This isn’t about the flag.
This is about causing as much damage to me as she can under the guise of wrestling for the flag.
Her palm slaps down onto my cheek and presses my head into the ground, grinding my face into moss and dirt.Smothering me. My ears ring. Grass scratches my skin. For a horrifying second, my chest locks up, instinct screaming, body remembering other moments of being pinned, unable to move.
No. No no no.
I try to shove her off me, to scramble out from under her body, but for all that she fits the ideal omega body type, she’s strong. Or maybe adrenaline is lending her strength. My right arm is trapped between my body and the earth, useless. I shove at her with my left hand, fingers slipping against the slick athletic fabric of her tight tank top.
“Get off,” I gasp, bucking, my voice thin and raw.
Around us, I hear shouting. Grieves’ voice is sharp with alarm. Courtland’s suddenly edged with something dark. But Isadora doesn’t let up. Her weight presses down harder, her nails biting into my skin. She isn’t even pretending to go for my flag.
