Episode 13 Fairest of Them All #2
But Florence shakes her head. “No. I think violence has its place. Violence can be a form of protection or self-defense. Violence can be entertainment if you look at things like sports: rugby, football… boxing.” Her eyes flick to me.
“But there’s never a reason for being cruel for cruelty’s sake. Ever.”
“Interesting,” Cleo hums, before moving on to the next question. “What’s your favorite way to spend a lazy Sunday?”
I almost choke on a laugh at the question because we don't have lazy Sundays. Never have. There’s always something we need to be doing, some connection that needs strengthening, a charity that needs visiting, an event that needs attending.
But that’s not what they want from us. They want to think they're getting to know us, see secret bits of our lives, so we write our answers down dutifully as the omegas do theirs and then reveal them when prompted.
“Reading or playing chess by the fire.”
“Crossword then lesson planning.”
“In bed.” With a suggestive eyebrow waggle toward the omegas that has many of them blushing, but Florence just scowls at him.
“Gym.”
The omega’s answers are not surprising. “Spa day,” “Brunch,” “Shopping spree.” Some of them have clearly done their research and have purposefully written answers that match ours, like Isadora.
Petal writes something about knitting tiny hats for animals. And then Florence. Sweet perfect fucking Florence.
She flips her board around with a shy little shrug, cheeks already flushing pink. “Building a blanket fort. Preferably with fairy lights. And uh… snacks, lots of snacks.”
I stare at the words “blanket fort”.
Who the hell says that with a straight face? Who admits something that innocent on national fucking television? On this show? She looks nervous, like she’s bracing for everyone to laugh. At her.
I hate how badly I want to tell her that if she asked, I’d build the biggest damn fort on earth. Right in the middle of the palace if I had to. I can see us all snuggled up in a small little fabric draped space, lounging on cushions, my omega curled up in my lap as I feed her snacks from my hand.
It should not be as much of a turn on as it is.
Petal squeals. “Can I change my answer? That sounds perfect. And I can knit in the fort once it's built.”
“Same,” Tristan says, flipping his board back toward him and scribbling so when it turns back around it says, ‘starting cults in a blanket fort.’
Christ. He is unhinged.
“What’s your biggest turn-on?”
The question sparks excitement in the omegas.
They straighten, shoulders back, chins lifted. Alphas roll their necks, adjust their stances, the air thickening with interest. Even the crew perks up, like they know this one’s going to give them something usable.
Forsythe flips his board first.
“Confidence,” he says calmly, like he’s answering a question about state policy instead of desire. “Someone who knows who they are. Who doesn’t bend themselves into shapes for approval.”
His gaze slides, just barely, toward Isadora and then Florence before he schools his expression again.
Thayer goes next, crisp as always.
“Competence.” He shrugs, unapologetic. “Watching someone do something well. Focused. Capable. In their element.” A corner of his mouth twitches. “That kind of mastery does things to me.”
Courtland’s grin is lazy when he turns his board. “Eye contact during a kiss.”
There’s a ripple of giggles from the omegas. Court doesn’t even pretend to be embarrassed. “When someone looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room.” His eyes lift—and damn him—they land on Florence before he can stop himself.
My jaw tightens.
My turn.
“Honesty,” I say. The word feels bare in my mouth. Important. I don’t dress it up, don’t soften it. After a second, I add, “Being true to yourself, not what you think someone wants to hear.”
The room quiets, just for a breath.
Then the omegas start answering, voices tumbling over one another.
“Dominance.”
“Kisses on the neck.”
“Being held down during sex.”
“A strong alpha bark.”
Expected. Easy. Performative.
Cleo’s eyes scan the boards again—and then snag. “Florence?” she says, eyebrows lifting. “Acts of service? What does that mean to you?”
Ren shifts, fingers curling around the edge of her board. I can see the hesitation, the way she debates whether it’s worth explaining herself.
“I mean…” She gives a small shake of her head, almost sheepish.
“It’s not big things. It’s little ones.” Her gaze drops, then lifts again, steady.
“Someone remembering how I take my coffee. Fixing something without being asked. Bringing an extra blanket because they know I get cold.” She shrugs.
“Asking the server to add club soda because they know I like bubbles.” Her eyes flick toward me.
Fuck.
“I don’t know,” she finishes softly. “Just things that tell me they see me. That they remember what I like. That they know what I need. That they’ll take care of me.”
Something tightens in my chest.
It’s so soft. So Florence.
So fucking perfect.
Any alpha’s wet dream. At our core that is what our instincts drive us toward when it comes to a mate, providing, protecting, knowing what they need before they do.
I picture myself handing her a mug of coffee first thing in the morning with the exact sugar to cream ratio she likes, the beaming smile she’d give me in response, and my chest gets tight. Too tight.
I want that more than fucking anything. That quiet soft moment of care.
Courtland makes a choked noise beside me, a half growl, half purr, that he cuts off with flaming cheeks. Like he’s imagining that with her too. Like he got caught up in the fantasy.
I get it. I’m right there with him.
If it was anyone else I’d say it was a calculated answer, something meant to show how good of an omega she is, but it's Florence, and so I know this is the truth.
Tristan is eyeing her like she’s too sweet to be real, and I get that too.
“What’s a red flag you ignore because it’s ‘kind of hot’?”
Everyone laughs, a bit uncomfortable, but game to answer, to use it as a flirting technique, to be specific about the red flags they see in us and how they’d be willing to overlook them for a chance to be our mate.
Forsythe. “Being too ambitious.”
Courtland’s smirk is all pleased self-assurance. “Jealousy. In small doses, of course. Makes the relationship spicy.”
Thayer’s answer has Florence looking down at the table in front of her, cheeks that pretty shade of pink. “Competitiveness.”
I don’t blink when I turn my board. “Stubbornness.” It's the truth. I love it when someone I’m into digs in their feet, straightens their spine and refuses to budge. It makes it all the sweeter when they finally give in.
Florence’s answer?
She flips her board, cheeks going even pinker. I think she’s going to blush her way through this entire challenge. “Brooding. I know it’s bad for me. I know. I can’t help it. There’s something about a Mr. Darcy or Mr. Rochester that just… hits different.”
Courtland immediately points at me. “Did you hear that? That’s literally you.”
I should laugh, good naturedly. Everyone else is. But I’m staring at her, at the way her face hides behind her hands, like she’s embarrassed to admit something normal and sweet and so painfully human.
Brooding.
Fuck.
More than half our pack could make a career out of brooding.
Does she understand what she’s doing to us?
“All right, everyone, next question. What’s your favorite smell?”
I uncap my marker and jot down my answer. Working off of instinct more than anything else.
Even if I’ve never once acknowledged it out loud. But I know what I like. The same way every alpha does. My alpha pushes up behind my ribs like he’s guiding my hand to make sure I give the right answer.
Forsythe reveals his first, his writing neat, controlled strokes. “Warm citrus. Like sun on an orange peel.”
Courtland glances at his board, decorated with a flower border that I have no clue how he finished in the time allotted for an answer. “Sweet florals. The kind that gets stuck in your nostrils in the best way.”
Thayer flips his board with a resigned little sigh. “Wild blooms in summer. Bright. Tart.”
My turn. “Something soft. Sweet. A little tropical. Comforting.”
It doesn’t describe any perfume I know. Doesn’t describe anything I’ve been around lately. But it feels right.
Too right.
It's only after we’ve all answered that I realize we should have written down Isadora’s scent if we want it to be believable that we’re into her at the end of all this.
But I’ve never liked the omega scents that are cloyingly sweet.
I’ve always leaned toward lighter, brighter scents. We all have, apparently.
Across the room, Florence shifts in her seat, rubbing at her arm through her oversized sweatshirt like she’s cold, eyes focused on our boards like she can’t really understand what she’s seeing. What we wrote.
Suddenly, every one of our answers feels like a description of her. Even though we’ve never once smelled her real scent.
Forsythe’s jaw ticks, just once. A dead giveaway to the emotions swirling inside him to anyone who knows him.
Courtland taps his board against the table, restless as always, but his green eyes keep flicking back to Ren.
Thayer narrows his eyes at Florence like he’s trying to solve an equation no one gave him or grade a paper with a complex thesis.
And me?
My alpha stands at full attention, eyes focused solely on our girl, all kinds of protective instincts flaring hot and bright in my chest, even as I fight to keep my expression unbothered.
We’re all affected by her. We’re all pretending we’re not. But every instinct I have whispers the same thing, we just described our omega’s scent.
And by Florence’s reaction we might have described her scent.
The other omegas hold up generic answers. All alpha scents, all our scents—Vetiver, oakmoss, whiskey—each of them trying to look delicate and appealing. Isadora, unsurprisingly, describes Forsythe’s scent.