Episode 5 Beauty and the Bruiser
“Grieves,” Florence breathes out my name, and goose bumps ripple over my skin.
I should correct her. Should gently remind her to call me by my title, as we were instructed to do anytime one of the omegas steps over the bounds of propriety. But I’m not particularly fond of my title, and I find that I am very fucking fond of hearing this omega say my name like that.
Breathless excitement. Maybe a tinge of… fear? No, not fear. Nerves. But the good kind, like butterflies in the stomach.
Anticipation.
Like a kid on Christmas morning.
I’m feeling it too, and god it's been a long time since I’ve felt that about anything.
“Sir Ashbourne,” the other omega says curtly. A reminder and a warning.
Florence glances over at her, and then back to me, mouth quirked up with self-deprecation. “Oh, sorry. I’m not used to needing to use formal titles.” She points one perfectly manicured finger at her face. “American.”
“I know.” The words come out more like a growl than a voice. Florence takes one uneasy step back. It's the smallest of movements, but I see it. And I hate myself for making her feel uncomfortable. Dammit.
I knew I should have kept my distance from her, from all of them. I’m definitely going to be the one to fuck this up. To scare them away.
Unlike the rest of my pack, I wasn’t born noble. My blood is as red as Florence’s. I only met my pack due to my talents with my fists, earning a spot at Bellmont via the boxing team.
“I’m Odette,” the omega next to us says, using that fake breathy voice that so many omegas do, and angling her body in front of the blond beauty.
A move that I find I really don’t like. I don’t want anything between the two of us.
Not propriety. Not this stupid show. Not clothes. And certainly not another omega.
This really doesn’t bode well for me… for us.
I grunt a reply. In the nearly ten years I’ve been a member of this pack, they haven’t managed to make me sociable, to make me good at small talk and pleasantries.
But for Florence, I think I’m willing to try.
Thankfully, she’s looking at me now with that same quirk to her lips that she had during the introduction ceremony, almost like we’re sharing a secret. If only I knew what the hell that was.
“I’m Florence.” She holds out her hand like I saw her do with Piers. Odette scoffs. I ignore her—and so does Florence—clasping her delicate fingers with my much larger, rougher hand.
“I remember.” Because how could I forget? The other omegas are all a blur, with the exception of the few we’ve met before, the ones the queen demanded be included in the cast. But Florence? She’s like a breath of fresh air in the stuffy monotony.
As soon as she’d set foot in that room, my alpha had sat up and paid attention. She’d looked so small and beautiful and delicate and real. I’d felt… unwieldy next to her. I still do.
“You can call me Ren, if you want.”
“You can call me-” Anything you fucking want. “Grieves. I’m not much for formality.”
The smile she gives me is… blinding. Fucking radiant. It nearly makes me stumble back a step. “Thank god,” she says, still grinning all that pretty at me. “I just know I’m gonna fuck-I mean, mess that up at some point, so it's good to have permission.’
Her eyes flick over to the crew for a quick moment, like she’s checking to make sure they heard me tell her it's okay.
The other omega pushes forward again, trying to catch my attention.
I know I should give it to her. It's part of the show, part of being in this pack. It’s just not something I’ve ever mastered.
I tend to become fixated on one thing at a time.
For the longest time it was boxing, until I met my pack, and they became my fixation.
Now it appears to have shifted to this pretty little omega who looks like a princess but swears like a sailor.
I only have eyes for her, and that won’t do.
“I wanted to ask,” Odette says, fingers running over her sternum to draw my attention to the swells of flesh there. “Do you still box? I mean… For fun? I find it so… manly.” With the last word she reaches out and squeezes my bicep, letting out a delicate shiver.
I watch as Ren’s lips twitch, like she’s fighting back a smile at how blatant she’s being, but she also jerks her chin at my knuckles, the red marks on them that will turn into bruises. “It looks like he might, Odi.”
I spent too long in the resort gym this afternoon, working off the pent up energy and nerves that always precede something like this, being the center of attention, the focus of so many eyes.
You’d think I’d be used to it. I’ve spent a good portion of my life in the public eye.
First as a student athlete, then a professional boxer and finally as a member of quite possibly the most famous pack in the world.
Second to only Forsythe’s sister’s pack, the Crown Ashbourne pack. The heirs to the throne.
But it hasn’t gotten easier.
I still feel wound too tight, anxious and fidgeting, if I’m unable to burn off some of my nerves beforehand.
I’m just grateful the resort put up a punching bag for us. I wouldn’t make it through this without beating the shit out of something.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake out the last of the tension, and when I glance back at Florence, she’s already watching me.
Really watching me, brow wrinkled, like she’s trying to assess me.
Her gaze flicks down to my hands again—my bruised knuckles—and when her eyes lift to mine this time, there’s no judgment there, no fear.
Just curiosity. And something warm enough to make my chest go tight.
She tips her head, that tentative half-smile tugging at her lips. “Well,” she murmurs, almost distractedly, like she can’t quite believe what she’s saying. “It suits you.”
My brows knit. “What does?”
“Boxing. Or, you know… the whole,” she waves a finger vaguely at my chest, “big, intimidating, punch-first-ask-questions-never vibe you have going on.”
A laugh almost escapes me. Almost. But I manage to bite it back.
“Very on brand for a bruiser,” she adds with that same air of disbelief at her own words, as though she expected me to be… different?
Bruiser. The word lands like a fist to the sternum.
If anyone else had called me that, I would take it as an insult.
How many times have people sniffed at me, scoffed behind my back, made comments about my violent nature?
But with Ren it feels affectionate in a way I don’t think she even realizes.
Bruiser, said without fear. Without hesitation.
Like she’s naming something she finds… endearing. And is shocked by it.
Odette stiffens beside her, likely reading the word as an insult.
Me?
I feel something warm unfurl under my ribs. Enticing. Dangerous.
Oh, yes, Florence Karlin is pure danger wrapped up in the prettiest of packages.
Odette makes a small, irritated noise in her throat. “Bruiser?” she repeats, with a sniff. “How charmingly… common.”
Florence doesn’t even look at her. “Mm,” she hums lightly. “Some things don’t need fancy names to work.”
Odette blinks, offended on my behalf. “Well, his title is Sir Ashbourne.” She emphasizes each syllable like Florence is slow. It makes me grit my teeth around words I know I shouldn’t say. Not here. Not ever. “We’re supposed to show them the proper respect.”
Florence just smiles, sweet, polite. “Oh, I know. But titles don’t make a person.” She pauses, a dimple appears in her cheek that I have the urge to lick. “Bruises do.” She says it with a smile, but I get the impression that she’s had a few bruises of her own.
I choke on a laugh. Odette’s jaw tightens. Florence beams.
The omega plants a hand on her hip, offended. And not on my behalf. “I was simply trying to show interest in your… career, Sir Ashbourne.”
Ren chokes on a laugh, the tips of her fingers flying to her lips as if that will help stop her giggle. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Odette huffs. I’m not sure why she’s still here, given how unpleasant she’s finding this whole conversation. We certainly don’t need her to be a part of it.
“Bruiser,” I echo slowly, tasting the nickname. “That what you see when you look at me?”
She shrugs, smile widening. “I see a lot of things. But mostly? Yeah. I think bruiser fits. But in the best way.”
“What way is that?”
Her brow wrinkles and she nibbles on her bottom lip.
“See? She can’t even come up with a reason to call you that.” Odette is still here. Why won’t she go away?
Ren shrugs. “Okay, don’t take this the wrong way, but it's like… a pit bull that looks all tough and people are scared of them because they look like doggy bodybuilders. So their owner calls them Bruiser, hoping to reinforce that thinking, but really they’re just the sweetest, most loving cuddliest little puppy. ”
“You think I’m a cuddly puppy?”
Another of those unladylike shrugs. “I think people look at you and see one thing and one thing only. And I think you’re so much more than that. Tough on the outside, a marshmallow on the inside. Bruiser.”
And I should correct her.
Should remind her that it’s Sir Ashbourne or Lord Grieves or whatever the hell my title is supposed to be tonight.
But she’s not wrong.
That is what people see when they look at me. A boxer. A fighter. Someone who earned their way with their fists. They don’t see what I’m like when I’m not in public, with my pack. Where I’m allowed to be something softer, gentler.
So, I hear myself say, “Call me whatever you want, Ren.”
Her smile brightens—fucking glows—and I have to look away for a second just to catch my breath, before I’m right back to staring at her, unable to look away.
The other omega looks between the two of us, her irritation building and building until she finally mutters something about getting a drink, or a snack or some other bullshit I don’t give a fuck about.
She huffs when she doesn’t get a reaction from me and leaves us alone.
Fucking finally.