The silky fabric of her flag brushes against my forearm.
“They’re mine, bitch,” she hisses at me, pressing my face harder into the grass. “You’re nothing but lowborn American trash. Remember your place.”
Then her weight is gone, leaving me sprawled on the grass, chest heaving, vision swimming, the taste of dirt and copper in my mouth. My cheek throbs as blood rushes into it, and I take a full breath.
For a heartbeat, I just lie there, breathing. Then strong hands are hovering over me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel them.
“Ren,” Courtland says urgently. “Hey. Pixie. Eyes on me.”
I roll over and blink up at him. “Hi.”
Episode 20: The Clash of Omegas
“Fuck,” Grieves growls, voice going scary low.
I whip my head around to see what he’s looking at, and find Florence, cute as ever in a pair of yoga pants and matching sports bra, in a tie-dyed pink, her hair in a ponytail, those same ratty trainers she always wears on her feet.
But she’s not what caught my pack mate’s attention. No, that’s Isadora, running fast and hard right at our girl, who is turned away, eyes focused on Odette, one of Isadora’s lackeys, who is waving her flag in front of our girl like a matador in front of a bull.
Pixie is competitive, we all know this.
Production.
The other omegas.
My pack.
This is a clear distraction tactic. And my omega is falling for it.
I’m moving before I even have the conscious thought to. Sprinting toward Ren, knowing I’m not going to make it in time to stop the contact, the tackle. My heart lurches as Isadora slams into my omega’s legs and Ren crumples to the ground hard.
Grieves growls, keeping pace next to me as Isadora takes the opportunity to batter at Ren’s body, not even pretending to go for her flag. Ren’s arm is pinned awkwardly and she can’t buck the other omega off. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to.
We reach them at the same time, but Grieves is quick to pluck Isadora off, whirling her away from the prone form of the girl who has all but stolen my heart. I go to my knees next to her, hands hovering wanting to check her for injuries—that hit was too hard—but also not wanting to hurt her more.
“Ren. Hey, Pixie. Eyes on me.”
I take a full breath when she rolls over, blinking up at me and says, “Hi.” As if watching her go down wasn’t just about the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.
She struggles into a sitting position, my palms supporting her shoulders and back as she does. I want to protest as she pushes to her feet. Want to order the production crew to have a medic come and check her out, even more so when she winces as she straightens.
“You’re okay?” I ask instead.
A tight nod. “Yeah, that was just a harder hit than I expected from the daughter of a viscount.”
Yeah. It fucking was. I turn on Isadora with a snarl, “What the fuck were you thinking? Are you mad? You could have hurt her! You fucking did!” I motion angrily at Ren's face, at the bruises forming along her cheek.
“She attacked me!” Isadora wails, hands clutching at Grieves, while he looks uncomfortably angry. It only takes a second for him to have her wrists in his hands, keeping her from touching him, from stealing the flag still hanging out of the waistband of his shorts.
Ren barks out a harsh laugh. “I did no such thing. You freaking tackled me out of nowhere! This is a non-contact sport, Isadora.”
Grieves takes a few steps away, using his grip on Isadora to keep her where she is as he backs up until he’s next to Ren. Only then does he release our betrothed's wrists and turn to our omega, those grey eyes of his taking in every scrape, every blooming bruise, and the tiny drop of blood on her split lip.
His thumb brushes against it gently, and then he growls. “Going to fucking kill her.” And the pulse in my veins echoes that sentiment. If Isadora was smart she would run, right fucking now. Find the alphas on her team and hide behind them. But she’s not smart, or at least she feels secure enough to think we won’t tear her apart for hurting Ren, that she has the crown's protection.
“Easy, bruiser,” Florence says, the name sounding far more affectionate than the word implies. “Violence isn’t the answer.”
His gaze latches again onto the slight swelling on her cheek, the red marring her skin, the split lip. “You sure about that, omega?”
