Episode 11 Once Upon a Dream
I expected Courtland to be more flexible.
I don’t know why.
A person’s personality has very little to do with their ability to stretch their muscles, but he is decidedly tight. And very unbalanced.
So much so that I spend most of the “class” nudging him into position, supporting his form, helping him stretch just a little deeper.
It's natural for me. In the beginner classes I teach, it's something I have to do frequently. Making sure my students have the form right so they don’t learn bad habits.
Unfortunately, this means I spend a lot of time touching him, sliding my hands onto his hips to pull them back, pressing gently between his shoulder blades to help keep them straight.
And touching Courtland feels very different from touching other omegas.
Very different.
I try to keep it professional, I really do, but I’m only human and he’s an alpha.
One that my omega is very interested in despite my better judgement.
So by the time I’ve guided my small, impromptu class into savasana—corpse pose—I’m feeling more than a little warm and wet between my thighs.
Which would be embarrassing if not for the unmistakable bulge pressing against the flimsy fabric of Courtland’s basketball shorts, declaring he’d found our yoga session just as arousing as I did.
The other omegas, including the ones that had scoffed at my yoga practice, have shut up. If anything I felt their derision melt into jealousy as they watched me get up close and personal with Court.
Of course, it's only a matter of time before this too becomes twisted into some form of manipulation on my part. As if he didn’t approach me and ask that I teach him how to do yoga.
Court smiles up at me from his mat, hands resting on his stomach. “That was a lot harder than I thought it would be.”
I shrug and move to my empty mat, grabbing a cleaning spray and automatically going through the motions of wiping it down.
“Most people underestimate just how hard, especially for beginners. But if you stick with it, it’ll get easier, you’ll go a little deeper on the stretches, have more stability in the standing poses. ”
He rolls into a sitting position and holds out his hand for my cleaning supplies, which I hand over skeptically.
He laughs. “I’m perfectly capable of wiping down a yoga mat, pixie.”
And he is… kind of. I resist the urge to correct his method, and just let it be, mentally making a note of the mat so I can come back and do it later.
It's not that he’s doing it wrong, it's more that I’m very particular about cleaning yoga mats.
I have a specific way I like them to be done.
Which is not the haphazard swiping he’s currently employing.
I bite back a smile as Court continues his very earnest, very incorrect mat-cleaning technique. “You’re going to leave streaks,” I tell him, unable to help myself.
He looks up at me, green eyes bright with amusement. “You’re very bossy for someone who just spent the last forty-five minutes folding me into a human pretzel and urging me to let go of things that no longer serve me.”
“That was for your own good,” I counter primly, rolling up my own yoga mat and stowing it on the shelf. “You’d seize up like a rusted hinge otherwise. Besides, cleanliness serves everyone.”
He laughs, pushing to his feet with a groan that’s half exaggerated. “I feel excellent, thank you very much. Enlightened. Aligned. In tune with my body.” He rolls his shoulders, then winces. “Okay, maybe not in tune. But I’m working on it.”
I shake my head, reaching for my water bottle and taking a sip. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says lightly, stepping closer, voice dropping just a touch, “you didn’t seem to mind touching me.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I was correcting your posture.”
“Mm.” His gaze dips, unapologetic, to the swells of my breasts over the constricting sports bra, before dragging back up. “Very thoroughly.”
Before I can retort, his hand closes around my wrist—gentle, warm, utterly confident. Not pulling, exactly. More like guiding.
“Come on,” he says, already turning us both. “I promised myself I’d stop monopolizing you.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to that,” I mutter, but I follow anyway, my feet carrying me across the sun-warmed deck.
He grins over his shoulder. “You didn’t have to. I made the decision for both of us.”
The pack has split for the morning, probably at the urging of the production crew.
We pass by Thayer, listening intently to Petal as she talks animatedly about something, her hands moving in a motion that looks like she’s mimicking knitting?
Either that or she’s casting some kind of very earnest spell.
A smile curls his mouth, small but there as he lifts his blue gaze to me, almost idly.
Like he’d sensed me close by and he couldn’t resist looking in my direction.
Grieves is in the water swimming laps and pointedly ignoring the omegas shrieking in the water with him, likely trying to get his attention. He reaches the edge of the pool and glances up as we pass by, grey eyes catching mine for a moment.
Piers is notably still absent, despite Court’s reassurance that he just needed a minute. It's been almost an hour and he’s not back. Guilt gnaws at my stomach. I know I overstepped. I know I should have kept my mouth shut. It's what this pack expects from us.
Stand still, look pretty.
I just hate the idea of that being applied to Piers as well.
I don’t understand how any pack could treat a bonded member the way they do. And I understand even less how Piers is seemingly okay with it.
As we bypass the other members of the pack, I realize who Court is guiding me to, and nerves cramp my stomach.
I want to dig my feet in and refuse to go a step further, but Court’s grip on my wrist tells me he foresaw that possibility and took precautions against it. I can't escape without making a scene.
Even still I consider it.
I’m not sure I’m ready to interact with a prime alpha—any prime alpha—let alone a freaking prince and duke and earl. Yeah, he’s all of those things.
But then we’re there, in front of him, stepping into the shade of the white fabric cabana, and the other omegas look up at us like I’m an intruder. Which I am. I don’t belong here. With him.
Forsythe looks up like he’s been expecting us. Like he knew Courtland would drag me over to him. Did they plan this?
Am I here at his request?
I don’t know why but that sends a warm fluttering behind my ribs.
The prince smiles up at me, warm and welcoming as a blanket, and it takes me by surprise. Utter surprise. He’s been standoffish, just like Piers says, coldly aloof. Polite.
But now he’s smiling at me like… He might like me or something? Which is very strange, seeing as we haven’t spoken beyond the introduction ceremony and when he placed that crown on my head and murmured I looked perfect, like a princess should.
I shove that memory away. Hard.
I don’t need it rattling around my brain.
Making me hope for things I’ll never have.
Without taking his eyes off me, Forsythe says, “Please leave us.” He says please, but there’s a definite demand there, bordering on a bark, but not quite. A flex of his dominance. An alpha who is used to having his orders obeyed, and he’s more than happy to remind you why.
I stumble back, intending to leave as he’d asked. But Court just tsks, pulling me in front of him and guiding me to the open lounger, while the other omegas file out, glaring daggers at me. “He didn’t mean you. Sit down, pixie.”
I do. He settles next to me, a warm welcome weight at my side that I just barely manage not to lean into. “I realized that the two of you haven’t really spoken. I thought we should remedy that.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” the prince purrs and I… shiver? Goosebumps popping up over my skin, even in the heat of the day. Something blares in the back of my mind.
Danger. Danger. Danger.
But not the normal type of danger. Not the terrifying type. No, this feels exhilarating? Like my toes are hanging over the edge of a cliff I’m about to dive off into crystal blue water below. Heart pounding yes, but with the security of knowing I’ll be safe.
There’s a brief stretch of quiet after that.
Not awkward exactly—more expectant. Courtland leans back, one arm draped over the back of the lounger like he belongs there, like he belongs with me.
Forsythe mirrors the ease, resting his forearms on his knees, turning just enough that his attention is clearly, unmistakably on me.
Which makes my skin prickle.
I shift, tucking one leg under myself, fingers worrying at the fabric of my yoga pants. I can feel his gaze tracking the movement. Not possessive, not predatory. More curious. Like he’s finally allowing himself to look, and he wants to see everything I do.
“So,” he says, voice lower now, more conversational. “Florence.”
The way he says my name makes it feel heavier. Like it means something more than a line on a call sheet.
“Yes?” I answer, trying for casual and failing miserably.
“Tell me about yourself.” It's an order not a request, and I automatically bristle. Even his eyes flick briefly to my face, lingering, thoughtful, before he adds, so quietly, so naturally, I almost miss it. “Cor mea.”
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
“I’m sorry, did you just… did you call me cornea? Like that part of the eye?” It doesn’t make a lot of sense as far as nicknames go, but maybe it's because of my partial heterochromia? Though that affects my iris, not my cornea.
His full lips curve, white teeth flashing in his dark neatly trimmed beard, the sunshine catching on the red strands. “Something like that.”
My nose wrinkles as I squint at him. “But… why?”
He shrugs. “It's not cornea, Florence. Though your eyes are stunning-”
“Bewitching,” Cortland adds. “Like magic.”
“It's cor mea. It's Latin.”