I’m going to fix it. If it’s the last bloody thing I do.
And this is the first step.
With that thought I close the distance between us, crouching next to her and just taking her in for a moment. How pretty she looks limned in the streetlight, a contrast of shadows. My omega. Mine.
“Pixie,” I whisper to her, the tip of one finger tracing the delicate arch of her brow. “Come on, love, time to wake up.”
Her lids flutter and then open. The smile she gives me is soft and sweet and sleepy, and I want nothing more than to have her wake up and look at me just like this for the rest of our days. “Court,” she breathes, still in that half sleep state. Her face tips toward mine, lips brushing in a gentle kiss. Soft. Sweet. Sleepy. Just like her gaze.
I fist the sheets to keep from deepening it, from pushing her when she’s in this hazy state. I know she’s not there yet. Not ready to get physical with any of us. So as much as I want to press her into the mattress and take and take and take from her, while also giving and giving and giving. It's not the time.
I pull back and smile down at her. “You up for an outing? I want to show you something.”
She stretches, back arching deliciously, before blinking around at the still dark room. “What? What time is it?”
“Early. Come on, up you get, quietly. We don’t want to wake the others.”
Her frown deepens but she tosses her blankets off and climbs to her feet, the oversized shirt she’s wearing falling to her mid-thigh. I can’t resist reaching out to finger the hem, brushing against her smooth skin. “Forsythe?”
Her cheeks go pink, and she shakes her head a little self-consciously. “I sleep better when I can smell all of you. You all… you marked my pillows for me, but Forsythe…”
He didn’t because he’s being a prat. “How did you get your hands on this?”
She shrugs. “It was on the bed when I went to bed last night.”
Hmm… so even though he’s acting like a prat, Forsythe is still making sure our omega has what she needs. Though he could have just as easily marked her pillow for her. I suspect he likes the idea of her wearing his clothes more.
Hell, I like the idea of that more.
She tugs on a pair of leggings, socks, and shoes, and when she reaches for a sweater to pull on, I stop her, tugging my own hoodie over my head and then onto her much smaller frame.
Fuck. Yeah. I bloody like the look of her in my clothes too much.
A tiny omega dressed in only her packmates clothes isn’t exactly royal, or polite, but fuck me, I’m going to lobby for Florence only going about like this.
“Warm enough?”
Her nose brushes against the collar of the sweatshirt and she releases a happy sound, like my scent is the best thing. “I’mperfect.” She scans over my arms, left bare by my ripped t-shirt. “Will you be warm enough?”
“Yeah. We’re not going far.” I hold out a hand for her and feel like a fucking king when she slides her fingers into mine without hesitation. She blushes again when I lift our joined hands and press a kiss to her palm, before tugging her out of the room with a reminder to stay quiet.
It might be a bad idea to do this. To leave without telling anyone, sneak out and over a few blocks without a guard. But I don’t want anyone to try to stop me, and our destination requires the early hour and a fair amount of stealth if we don't want to get caught.
I definitely don’t want to get caught, not when it’s Florence who will bear the brunt of the consequences. So we slip out of the flat, out of the building and into the dark. The sun hasn’t even begun to touch the horizon.
Ren looks around a little uncertain as we hurry down the empty street, just the two of us, no guards, no pack. It almost feels like this is how it should be, how we should have met, just Ren and Court, together out in the world. But that’s not the case. It never has been.
We’ve always had this thing between us. Duty with a capital ‘D’. Always hovering. My duty to the pack. I don’t give a fuck about Bravonne, about the Ashbourne name, about what the citizens expect of us. But I do give a fuck about Forsythe. And he’s always been obsessed with the notion of duty.
I can’t really blame him. His parents died in a car accident when he was young, and he was raised by his grandmother whose only concern is preserving the Ashbourne line and their claim on the throne like a dog with a bone.
There was no hope for him really. The spare, the one who could never seem to get it right enough to make her happy. I’ve never fully understood why the queen has put so much pressureon him, while Elizabeth, who will rule, is given more leeway. But maybe that’s the key difference, Lizzie needs to learn how to take the lead, to make her own decisions, and Forsythe just needs to suck it up and be a good boy for grandmother.
Makes me furious to think about.
The longer we’re outside, the more uncertain I can feel Ren getting, her fingers are still wrapped in mine, but after a couple blocks her free hand wraps around my forearm too, clutching at me, like she’s afraid we’ll get separated on this empty street.
It's adorable.
