Episode 8 Knight in Shining Armor #2
There’s an itch under my skin to find a laptop or a tablet or mobile phone and do a deep dive on Florence Karlin.
Unfortunately that won’t be happening, seeing as its part of the rules to have no access to the outside world.
Which means no internet. No snooping on her socials.
No Googling her name and seeing what comes up.
I’m limited to the frustration of getting to know her face to face in front of countless cameras and for the viewing pleasure of millions.
“Someone has to go,” Forsythe repeats through gritted teeth.
“Dierdre,” I’m quick to offer someone from my team in place of Florence.
“She basically just stood around and posed for the cameras the entire time. She also complained about each of the tasks and asked me to do them for her.” I grit my teeth.
“She whined at me to try to get me to carry her on the balance beam.”
“She did what?”
I nod. It was manipulative as fuck since she wasn’t genuinely feeling scared or frustrated. I got the impression she just wanted to see if she could get me to do it. Isadora does the same thing, but we have to tolerate it from her.
Court nods slowly. “Now that I think about it, Darla did the same thing.”
Forsythe eyes the two of us for the longest time and then sighs, scrubbing a hand over his beard. “Deirdre and Darla, then. Are there any other omegas we need to discuss?”
“Isadora,” Court says. “Can’t we just get rid of her? Find someone we actually like? By the time the queen finds out, it’ll be too late. We’ll have rejected her on international television. There will be no coming back from that.”
“You know we can’t do that,” Sythe says, sounding weary as hell. This whole thing has been weighing on him.
“But why? Any of the other omegas here would be better than her. Literally. Why can’t we just pick one of the others? Someone who we know doesn’t smell like sweaty feet?”
I choke on a laugh. Isadora does not smell like sweaty feet. But she certainly doesn’t smell good. Never has. Her scent is too sweet, cloying and heavy, thick and unctuous. I’ve always preferred something lighter with a hint of tang.
What does Florence smell like? I wonder. Surely she must have something gorgeous. Something bright and sweet, maybe a lemon drizzle or champagne and strawberries. Yeah, something as bright and bubbly as she is.
“No,” is our prime’s only response. Which is fair. We’ve been over this particular subject repeatedly so often that I’ve started to think of it as “the Isadora problem”. And I’ve tried to come up with a solution that would work for everyone.
So far I’ve been unable to.
Leave it to Courtland to come up with something on the fly that would be as close as we can get.
Though I suppose the queen would be angry and Isadora would be pissed.
But I can’t really bring myself to care all that much about either of the females’ reactions.
If anything, imagining it brings a sense of relief.
Yes, so much relief.
And the Queen wouldn’t be able to force our hand once that decision has been made.
I know Forsythe is worried about her reaction to us picking an omega we like, but Courtland’s suggestion has merit. We might not be able to find our mate in this group of twenty omegas, but we can surely find someone better suited to us than Isadora.
They line the omegas up beneath strings of lanterns, the light soft and golden, as if production is trying to bring to mind a dream sequence.
A long table gleams behind us, stacked with eighteen gold coronets—delicate things shaped like laurel leaves.
A symbol of favor, of potential. Of continued hope.
Twenty omegas stand before us.
Eighteen tiaras.
Two will go home.
I try—fuck, I try—not to stare at Florence. But it’s impossible when she looks like that. So beautiful in her pale pink gown. Her make up is flawless, soft in peachy pinks. Her hair is down in silky honey waves, flowing to her mid back.
She’s gorgeous.
In a sea of noble omegas, of influencers and models, of glitz and glamour, she could be considered a little plain. A little simple. Even if her dress is exquisitely molded to her body like it was made for her.
So why can’t I stop looking at her? Why can’t I stop scouring her face, looking for a sign of those sweet faint freckles over her nose and cheeks that grabbed my attention while I held her on the obstacle course earlier.
She could be considered simple among the sea of brilliant, over-styled noble omegas… and yet I can’t look away.
Maybe it’s because she looks real.
Maybe it’s because she looks like mine.
Or rather, how I would want my omega to look. Simple, understated, letting her natural beauty shine through.
She’s not mine though. And I need to remember that.
The cameras are already rolling, the set quiet as Cleo gives us all a practiced smile, not too big in consideration for the two omegas going home. “You highness, Pack Ashbourne,” she tips her head to us. “Please make your first selection.”
Grieves shifts beside me, tension radiating off him in waves. Courtland, for once, isn’t smiling. Even Forsythe looks grim as he steps forward, lifting the first coronet.
He clears his throat. “When I call your name, please step forward.”
The omegas all hold their breath. Most of them look excited. Florence looks… bored.
“Isadora.”
She’s moving before he’s even started speaking, before the last syllable of her name has faded. She knew she would be first. We all did.
She glides forward like she’s floating, smiling the practiced fake smile for the cameras, for us, for anyone watching. Forsythe places the coronet on her head, and she bows—too low, too eager—and steps aside. Smugness drips from her pores, though she tries to hide it.
She’s just not that good of an actress.
Several more names follow.
Odette.
Joanie.
Tristan.
Petal with her pink hair and sweet smile, beams like sunshine when Forsythe places the crown on her head.
One by one, coronets disappear from the table.
We didn’t discuss the order. Not beyond who we would be sending home, but I can’t help but feel that Forsythe is being deliberate in his choices. In whom he picks and who he leaves waiting. Bravonnian nobles first. Bravonnian celebs second. Everyone else third.
When Forsythe reaches for the last coronet on the table, I know I’m right.
There are three omegas left without one: Darla. Deirdre. Florence.
Choosing her last is a message. To her. To the public who will watch this in a few days.
To us, his pack. By putting her last, he’s all but warning her not to get comfortable, reinforcing what she’s already been told.
Reminding us that no matter how much we might like her, she’s not the omega for us.
I’ve avoided looking at her, keeping my attention on whichever omega Forsythe has called forward. But now I can’t keep my gaze away.
She looks… resigned.
To going home.
Of course she does.
She’s been told we’re not the pack for her, that we will not pick her. Of course she thinks we’d send her home first. Why wouldn’t we when there’s a noble Bravonnian lady next to her?
Forsythe’s message has reached her loud and clear.
Her chin firms, her lips pursing into a tight little line, shoring herself up to keep her reaction to our inevitable rejection hidden from the cameras.
I hate everything about this. Truly.
Forsythe turns toward Darla first. “Darla, step forward.”
She brightens, clearly not as aware of the situation as Florence is. Stepping right up to Forsythe and fluttering her lashes coyly. Her smile falters when his expression shutters into the one I know he practices in the mirror. Royal aloofness. Polite respect. The prince who cares, but not too much.
“I’m sorry, Darla,” he says, not sounding sorry at all, but rather like a robot. “But you are not our omega.”
The words fall like an axe. Darla’s face crumples. She nods tightly, dignified even as tears gather, and production escorts her off to the side.
One down.
Deirdre lifts her chin, smoothing the front of her glittery blue dress.
She gives Florence a sideways glance dripping in smug certainty.
Florence doesn’t see it, staring straight ahead, at the wall behind us, her expression one of intense concentration, like she’s having a conversation with herself. A pep talk, perhaps?
What I wouldn’t give to know what she says to herself in the quiet corners of her own mind.
Forsythe gestures. “Lady Deirdre.”
She strides forward, hips swinging, already tilting her head to present her crown before she comes to a stop in front of him.
“You are not our omega. I’m sorry.”
She freezes, her head jerking up to stare at him in surprise.
The already safe omegas suck in sharp breaths before the silence descends.
Deirdre blinks twice, genuinely stunned.
I think for a moment she might argue. But she just tips her head graciously and murmurs a quiet, “Thank you for the opportunity, Your Highness” before she follows a crew member out of the shot.
And then there is only Florence.
Standing alone, looking utterly befuddled in her blush dress, eyes wide, lips parted. Her kaleidoscope eyes drop to the crown in Forsythe’s hands, then drag up to meet his, confusion clear.
A glance around her like she’s looking for any other remaining omegas for him to give it to, but she finds none, which seems to shock her all over again.
Forsythe lifts the final coronet. “Miss Karlin?”
My chest tightens painfully.
I should be the one giving it to her. The instinct hits me like a fucking truck, but the show demands our prime do it. So I stand there and burn silently as Forsythe steps toward her.
She notably doesn't move, as if her dainty heels are glued to the floor.
“Florence.”
Her shoulders jolt. She lifts her chin, eyes wide and flustered. “Y-yes, Forsy-Your Grace? Er, Your Highness?”
“Come here, please,” the prince says, sounding amused. I can’t see his face from where I’m standing, but I can imagine he’s got the beginnings of a smile on his lips.
Florence stumbles forward, the silk of her skirt moving like water around her legs.
“Will you accept this crown and stay?”
Florence stares at him, dazed, stunned, unbelieving.
“Are you sure?” She whispers like she doesn’t want the microphone pinned to her bodice to pick it up.
“I-I mean, I just thought…” She wants to ask why we’d keep her.
I can practically see the question dripping off the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it back.
Forsythe takes advantage of her hesitation to say, “Yes, we’re sure. It would serve you well to learn to not question a prince.”
From my prime that could come off as chiding, a rebuke, but when he says it to Florence, it sounds like gentle teasing.
She flashes a shy smile up at him. “Of course, apologies to Your Highness and your pack.” She drops into a sweet little curtsy, and then straightens. “I would be honored to accept this crown and stay.”
My lungs burn as he lifts the coronet, cheap plastic and nothing more, and places it carefully on her head, lingering perhaps a little longer than he did with any of the other omegas. God, what I wouldn’t give to see her with a real crown on her head, real gold and dripping in jewels.
“There,” my prime murmurs, adjusting the crown just so. “Perfect. Just like a princess.”
The word jolts through the rest of our pack, and I’m honestly not sure he even realizes he said it. He’s looking entranced by the little omega in front of him.
We all are.
Courtland exhales hard beside me. Grieves murmurs something that sounds like a prayer. And I… I feel something inside me crack open.
Florence reaches up, fingers brushing the coronet lightly, as if it might disappear.
“Oh,” she whispers, cheeks pink and eyes shining, like she’s not sure how to respond to the prince’s murmured words. “I… Thank you.”