Of course the queen would want to slander her. Of course she would use the very same platform in which Ren gained her popularity to do it.
My hand curls into a fist on my thigh. The urge to throw something is strong, but I resist. Even when the article lists the ways in which Florence manipulated us into keeping her longer. Chief among them is her reaction to the alpha care challenge. The omegas interviewed all not so subtly say she was acting, that none of it was real, that she worked herself into the state just to get the reaction out of us that she wanted.
Odette even goes so far as to suggest that Florence didn’t take her suppressants as faithfully as the rest of the omegas did. That she used her scent to spark instincts in us that the others just couldn’t.
Almost every interview since she spoke out against the new laws, paints Florence as a villain.
My fucking fated mate.
My omega.
We need to do something about this. Need to stop it. Need to speak out against it. Against everything.
My mind spirals, flitting from one thing to another, needing to find a solution to… well, everything. To Isadora. To Florence. To the Omega Protection Act. I need to do something beyond just sitting here, burying myself in work that I’ll likely never actually need.
No, I definitely don’t need it.
I need my goddamn omega.
But more importantly, she needs us.
It's been less than twenty-four hours since I found out that my little killer was always meant to be mine, and my alpha can’t understand why we’re still here, in Bravonne, while she’s forty-eight hundred miles away from us, sick. Dying faster than any of us could have guessed.
It's unacceptable.
A knock sounds on the door, but I don’t look up from my tablet. My fingers have navigated to the video of Florence, the one where she calls the new law regressive trash. The volume isn’t on, my alpha just needs to see her, to watch her move and speak, with a fierce little scowl on her face.
She looks fucking gorgeous. A little flushed and messy from teaching her class, the late evening sun glinting off her honey blond hair. Those entrancing eyes of hers flashing with anger. Even with the dark circles under her eyes and the faint hollows under her cheeks that whisper of her sickness, she’s so beautiful it makes me ache.
Another knock, followed by the sound of my door opening. That does have my attention snapping away from my omega. I swear I locked that door. Piers has been good about leaving me be when I’m in here, so if he’s letting himself in, it must be important.
Florence.
I push to my feet, suddenly fully on alert. My alpha pushes forward, heart thundering as I consider all of the things that he might tell me about her, that has happened to her. Only to slump back in my chair when the too sickly sweet scent of a familiar omega seeps into my office.
I must not have locked that fucking door.
Isadora slips into the space, my space, and glances around, taking in the mess I’ve been living in. It's not as bad as it could be, seeing as I’ve not allowed any cleaning staff into it, or my bedroom for that matter.
I prop my chin on my palm, not greeting her, not giving her anything at all. Why would I? She is not mine. No matter how much she might wish for it to be different, no matter what the queen demands. I will never give them what they want.
My bite, my mate mark, is reserved for Ren and Ren alone. I may have been complicit in breaking her heart when we sent her away, but I will not disrespect my mate by bonding another omega.
I fucking refuse.
Isadora finishes her perusal of my space, and her gaze moves back to me with a sigh.
“You’ve been avoiding me, darling.” She strides up to my desk, bold as you please, perching on the arm of my chair and leaning into me. Her scent is all wrong, just like it’s always been. Too sweet. It clings to my nostrils and my clothes, like her omega is desperate to claim some part of me. “We haven’t spoken in ages.”
I lean away from her, sitting straighter in my chair, and reaching for the stack of papers that contain the most recent lecture I’m writing, staring at it as though it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. “We’ve spoken the same amount as we did before the betrothal.” Maybe less, but not by much.
“Yes, but we’re engaged now. Shouldn’t we speakmorethan we used to?”
“I don’t see the need for that,” I say placidly, jerking away when she reaches out as though to touch me, to run her fingers through my hair.
Her hand pauses in the air before curling into a fist. “I don’t understand you. Any of you. This is what we wanted, isn’tit? We’ve always known we were going to end up here. Before the show you were more open to me than this, more open to a relationship with me.”
Guilt filters through me, and not because of how I’m treating Isadora now. No. It's because I should never have even entertained the idea of being with Isadora. I used to imagine what it would be like, sharing her nest during her heat, finally sinking my knot into an omega cunt, and it didn’t seem so bad then.
