My pulse is racing.
“Please do not let this discourage you from pursuing a future in this industry,” he continues. “Being invited to participate in Tattoo Spectacle means that you are in the top tier of artists within this community.”
“Here we go,” Aksel mutters, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His hands are clasped so tightly hisknuckles blanch white.
Why don’t I feel scared?
I should be terrified. I could go home today, my future evaporating in front of me, but all I can think about is Aksel. About the way his hands feel on me. About how easy it is to laugh with him. About how much it would hurt if this ended and I never saw him again.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
My breath hitches, shallow and fast, and bile crawls up my throat. The room feels too bright, too loud, too full.
Eric must notice because he narrows his eyes, tilting his head slightly to study me. I meet his gaze, panic flashing openly across my face.
Does he know I’m not thinking about the competition right now? Does he know how close I am to losing it?
“I’ll be calling out names in alphabetical order. When you hear your name, please stand.”
The host starts listing names, each one hitting my chest like a dropped weight.
“Hale Aka.”
I stand on shaky legs.
More names. More standing bodies. The panic keeps building, coiling tighter and tighter until it feels like my ribs might crack from the pressure.
Eric’s name is called. He stands, relief flickering across his face.
Then, finally, “Aksel Winther.”
Aksel exhales sharply as he rises, and I barely register the lack of relief I should be feeling.
“If your name was called, you are safe from elimination,” the host concludes. “To everyone still seated, please pack yourthings and head home.”
Eric sinks back into his chair with a long breath. I don’t.
My brain feels… wrong. Hollow and overloaded at the same time.
I’m fucking broken. That’s the only explanation.
“Hey,” Aksel says softly, his voice low and careful, like he’s approaching a skittish animal. “You okay, Fylgja?”
I nod.
Shake my head. Then nod again.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice pitching higher than normal.
He rubs his hands up and down my arms, trying to soothe me. His touch is warm and solid. I hate how much it calms my omega. I hate how much I need it.
I can’t handle him touching me right now.
I pull his hands away gently, patting them before setting them at his sides, like I’m putting something fragile back where it belongs.
“I’m gonna go to the little boy’s room,” I squeak, already fleeing.
Gods, I’m dumb.
