Episode 16 Damsels, Distress and Deceit
My alpha has been on alert ever since the second challenge.
Ever since Florence Karlin pushed up onto her little sand covered toes, pressed her mouth to my ear and asked me not to bark at her in a voice that told me someone had done it to her before.
Taken away her agency over her body, forced her to do something she didn’t want to do.
I’d done my best to reassure her that I would never do that to her, none of us would, not even Forsythe, but I’m not sure she believed me.
And that made me want to tear the entire world apart.
After filming stopped for the day, I’d had to spend hours in front of an easel working through that all-consuming rage. It had only calmed when Piers intervened, letting me take out my feelings on his body, fucking him hard and filthy. Making him come so hard, I swear he blacked out.
Needless to say, I’m already on high alert when it comes to Florence. And this challenge, if you want to call it that, is not going to help in the slightest.
Supposedly, this is meant to show what good alphas we’ll be. Able to keep our calm while our omega is in a dangerous situation, and that we can soothe away their worry and fear. And sure, under normal circumstances, that would be true, but this is all just for show.
The omegas aren’t actually in trouble and we can’t exactly send out a waft of calming alpheromones for them anyway.
So this is more for us to tell the audience who our top omegas are. Who we go to first.
Forsythe folds his arms over his broad chest. For this challenge they’ve dressed us in tac kit and I have to say we look fucking good.
Tight black long sleeved shirts, fitted cargo pants, combat boots.
They even gave us some shoulder holsters, though there aren’t any guns in them, much to Grieves’s dismay.
He looks the most comfortable in this gear.
But the world might be surprised by how familiar this kind of gear is for the rest of us too.
We spend a good portion of our very little spare time training.
Once a year we go on what amounts to a self-defense seminar, run by Grieves where he comes up with bizarre challenges for us to survive.
Grieves is in charge of security for the pack, but we all take part in it. We all work to keep ourselves safe. If some arsehole came at me, at any member of my pack, I’d be able to take him out with very little effort.
“Isadora first,” our prime reminds us, as though we might forget our monarchy mandates for this entire fucking show.
“We know,” Thayer says, sounding bored, but I can tell he’s actually pissed about the orders we’ve been given. If he’s feeling anything like I am, his alpha is pushing him in an entirely different direction than Isadora.
Florence.
Christ, even thinking her name is enough to send a delightful little shiver down my spine.
Get a grip, mate.
Time to do our little song and dance. Time to put on a show.
A yawn splits my jaw, and I rub a hand over my face, trying like hell to wake up.
“Did you get any sleep?” Grieves asks.
I shake my head. “Nope. Was working all night.”
“You’re not supposed to be doing that here,” Forsythe says, that same weariness that I feel in my bones lacing his voice. Though I suspect our reasons for our weariness are entirely different.
“When the muse strikes and all that,” I shrug. And good lord, has the muse struck. It almost feels like it did when I first started painting. That same fire is burning under my skin, making my fingers itch and twitch to have a brush in my hands.
It had reached a fever pitch last night, until it couldn’t be ignored. Thankfully, the resort staff were more than happy to accommodate my requests, and I’ve got a beautiful new project started.
“It might be my best series yet,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.
It's the truth and a rather startling one, considering my other paintings have been wildly popular. And not because of who I am, who my pack is. No one knows I’m the artist. I release them anonymously.
When I show up at the galleries or the charity auctions where my paintings are being sold, they just assume that I’m an avid collector.
No one even considers I might be the painter. Why would they when I’ve taken such great pains to hide it? It's something I don’t want tainted by the touch of royalty, by the rules and regulations the queen has put on us. On me.
Thayer arches a brow at me. “Your best?”
My mouth curls into a small smile, the canvas in my room in our suite coming to mind. “Yep. Undoubtedly my best.”
Because of the subject matter.
Because of the passion it stirs in my chest.
In my heart.
In my very soul.
The words shiver through me just as the production assistant lifts a hand and calls, “Places! Alphas on standby!”
We drift toward the heavy double doors that lead into the challenge room. Cameras line the hallway, red lights blinking. Boom mics hover overhead like vultures. The four of us arrange ourselves on the taped marks, our gear creaking faintly with each movement.
This challenge is supposed to show how “calm and steady” we are as alphas. To display our instincts. To test them really to see who we go to first. A sign of which omega our alphas are drawn to.
Right.
We’re standing outside a room where the omegas have already been placed into fake cages, waiting to pretend they’re in danger, that they’re scared. That they need us.
The omegas aren’t acting yet. They shouldn’t be. The challenge hasn’t started. No one’s called action. They should be sitting happily and relaxed waiting for us.
A sound slips through the closed door. Muffled by distance and metal and walls—but to an alpha? To my alpha?
It’s a goddamn siren.
A terrified omega-whine.
I go still so fast it feels like my heart stops mid-beat. Thayer’s head snaps toward the door like he’s clocked prey. Grieves stiffens, shoulders rolling forward like he’s about to take the hinges off. Even Forsythe’s composure fractures—nostrils flaring, knuckles whitening.
From behind the cameras, Piers edges closer to our backs, too close for a “personal assistant." Which means he heard it too. His eyes are huge, flicking between us and the door as if willing us to do something.
“Which omega was that?” Thayer growls. “Which fucking omega?”
I think he already knows. We all do.
Forsythe shakes his head once, jaw clenched so tight a vein bulges at his temple. “We won’t know until we’re inside. We follow the order. We go to Isadora first. That’s what we’re here to-”
Another whimper cuts him off.
Louder this time.
My alpha surges forward so abruptly my vision tunnels, red filling in at the sides.
“That’s Florence,” I hear myself say. The certainty hits like lightning. There isn’t a shred of doubt in me. “That’s her.”
“Fuck,” Grieves snarls. “She’s proper terrified.”
Thayer presses a palm against the door, muscles vibrating with tension, one breath away from ripping it off its hinges to get to our girl.
Forsythe doesn’t pull him back. Doesn’t tell him no. Doesn’t remind him of the order or of our duty. Just stares at the door like it personally offends him by existing, by being a barrier between us and Ren.
The director calls, “Standby. We’ll open the doors on action-”
Another low whine, before it cuts off. Like Ren swallowed it down, forced herself to not make a noise.
“Action!”
The doors swing open.
And we storm in—not regally, not for the cameras. Like alphas who just heard their omega break.
Two rows of cages line the room, an omega seated and tied up in each one. The room is smoke filled and dark, lit up by only flashing red lights. It meant to look dramatic for the telly. Like a real emergency.
It feels like hell, knowing that this challenge has somehow terrified my omega.
My eyes land on Florence without fail, midway down on the right side. She’s wearing a pair of leggings and an oversized t-shirt, her toes are bare and her hair is in a messy braid. Like she was dragged out of bed and tossed in the cage.
Some of the other omegas are wearing lingerie, slinky silky little things meant to tempt, to seduce. They have lipstick on their mouths and sleek, styled hair.
Either production warned some of the omegas about this challenge, but not all, or some of these girls like to sleep in a full face of make-up.
A whine rips through the room, making my alpha press forward, making my instincts roar. Terrified. I hear some snickering, I don’t know if it's from the crew or the other omegas, but I don’t bother to find out.
Because that fear drenched sound? It came from Florence.
All of us snap to attention, surging forward a step. Her head is tipped toward her chest, her shoulders shaking and I can’t tell if it’s from fear or because she’s crying, but either way its fucking unacceptable.
“She’s not acting,” Thayer growls, like maybe he was holding out hope that this was some kind of a manipulation on her part. That she’s just that good of an actress. But she’s not. “Fuck. She’s proper scared.”
I feel that in my chest, the way the rest of my pack does, even Forsythe, who’s standing there staring at the line of omegas tied up in cages. We’re supposed to go to Isadora first, as a pack. Get her out, show the world that our instincts are driving us to her.
That’s what the queen wants.
But fuck, I’m not sure I can do that. Not with Florence breaking through her suppressants and the scent canceller they’re pumping through the AC. There are tears on her cheeks, soaking through the blindfold and her chest is moving in little jerky movements, like she’s having an actual panic attack.
Because she fucking is.
Why the fuck is production just letting her wallow in it?
Another whine has Forsythe lurching forward, his mouth opening in what I’m sure is going to be a bark for her to calm down so she doesn’t hurt herself. My alpha is all but roaring at me to do the same.