Episode 19 Games Girls Play
The sun is shining bright, making me squint even as I turn my face up to it, basking in its warmth.
One thing I can say about Port Azure Resort and Spa is that the weather is excellent. Even during the off season like it is now. We don’t get consistently sunny days like this in Granton, and I am loving it.
The constant dose of vitamin D has done wonders for my disposition.
Now if only I could get a dose of a different type of vitamin D…
God.
It's been so long since I’ve even thought about having sex, since I’ve had the urge, since I’ve found someone I want to do it with, that the thought takes me by surprise.
It shouldn’t though. I’m still weak kneed from Forsythe’s kiss, from his confession that if he could choose me he would.
Actually, now that I think about it… I’m a little mad at him because of that. I mean, really?
Who kisses someone like that, like they’re the best thing they’ve ever tasted and won’t stop until they’ve devoured every crumb, only to turn around and say, ‘I know I almost just made you come by touching my tongue to yours, but we can’t do this ever again.’
Obviously, he didn’t say those words, but it was implied.
And what I’m actually mad about is not the kiss so much, but what he said after.
Who gives that kind of hope, that dull, aching kind?
Because even though he made it clear he and his pack won’t be picking me at the end of this thing, I have this fluttering feeling in my stomach like maybe they might.
“Morning, bubbles,” Grieves’ voice slithers down my spine, making goosebumps pop up and my smile to grow even bigger than it was. “Sleep alright?”
I open my eyes and grin at him. His lips curl up at the corners in an almost smile as his dark grey gaze meets mine.
“I did, thanks. It's so peaceful here, you know? Quiet.” There’s a shriek from one of the other omegas and he chuckles as I correct, “well, once we’ve all gone our separate ways for the night. ”
He nods, sunlight glinting off his blond hair. “Yeah, it's nice. Though I’m sharing a suite with my pack, and Courtland snores so maybe it's not that quiet for me. Here.” He holds out a mug to me. And I blink down at it in surprise.
“For me?” I take it hesitantly, our fingers brushing on the warm ceramic.
“For you, bubbles.”
Its coffee. Almost the exact right shade of creamy light brown. I take a sip and moan. “Perfect.” And it really is. He used the creamer that I like—maple brown sugar oat milk—and I can tell he diluted it with just regular oat milk, to keep it from getting too sweet. Just like I make every morning.
He noticed.
But more importantly, he remembered.
Like I said was a turn on in the compatibility quiz.
“You flirting with me, bruiser?” my mouth says before I can think better of it.
He smiles and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, rough fingers brushing the shell, before they scrape down my neck. “Wouldn’t dream of stopping.”
Goddamit.
These fucking alphas.
This fucking pack.
With their perfect smiles and perfect bodies and perfect fucking words.
They’re going to eviscerate me when they send me home.
I can already tell it's going to happen. Already feel my heart fracture a little every time they pick Isadora over me, every time they touch her, or lean over to murmur something in her ear. When they send me home it's going to shatter, just like Forsythe was worried about.
I’m supposed to be keeping my distance to stop that from happening, but they seem determined to keep engaging me. To seek me out, get to know me. Do sweet things like make me the perfect cup of coffee in the morning, practice yoga with me, laugh at my stupid jokes.
They have the freaking audacity to look at me like I’m beautiful, adorable, something precious. And I really, really need to stop this.
But I don’t really want to.
For the first time in a long time, I’m… happy.
Really happy. Not just faking it.
And the Ashbourne Pack is a huge part of that.
“Bubbles?” Grieves inches closer, eyes scanning over my face with a hint of worry. I’ve taken too long to respond. “You okay?”
I blow out a soft breath and take another sip of the perfect cup of coffee to buy myself time.
“Did I overstep?”
“No!” I blurt out so fast, I choke on my coffee and then cough and cough and cough. Grieves takes the cup from me as I bend over, trying to dislodge the liquid from my trachea, one hand rubbing soothing circles between my shoulder blades.
When I can breathe normally again, I straighten. I’m sure my face is bright red and I must look like a mess, but the alpha in front of me doesn’t seem to care. His grey eyes are warm and soft and sweet as he hands me back the cup and urges me to take a small sip. It helps.
“You didn’t overstep,” I say, finally. “But I… I know how this is going to go. It's been clear from the start and I don’t think-” I bite into my lower lip as I consider my words. “I need to have some boundaries. I know how this is going to go, but my omega… she thinks-”
I cut off the thought abruptly, because he doesn’t need to know she thinks of this pack as hers, that a part of me has claimed them as mine.
Grieves cups the side of my head, his hand so big he all but spans the entire thing. “What does your omega think, bubbles?”
I grit my teeth and tilt my chin up, refusing to say it.
But as it turns out, I don’t need to, because he shifts the tiniest bit closer, until there’s the barest amount of space between our bodies and he’s hunched over me, bringing our faces close together.
“Does she think of me as hers? Of the Ashbourne Pack as hers? Does she want to claim us?”
My throat bobs with a swallow and I have the insane urge to cry.
Grieves sees it and somehow his gaze goes even softer. “It's okay, Ren,” He murmurs, thumb stroking my temple. “It's okay, because my alpha sees you as mine, too.”
The air punches out of my lungs in a sharp exhale. And those tears I’d been fighting off? They swell and hover along my bottom lashes. “Shh, baby, it's okay. Don’t cry.”
I blink rapidly, trying hard to make the moisture disappear. “You can’t say things like that to me,” I croak. “You can’t. It's not- It's not fair.”
“I know. I’m sorry, bubbles.” The soft press of his lips on my forehead makes the mug still clutched in my hand wobble dangerously.
His nose presses against my hairline and he takes a deep inhale like he’s trying to catch my scent, before he sighs and steps back, his hand dropping from my head to hang loose at his side. . “You’re on my team today.”
I almost stumble while I’m standing still at the abrupt change in subject. “What?”
“You haven’t been on my team yet. That changes today.”
It's true. “I also haven’t been on Forsythe’s team.”
He shrugs like that’s not a problem. And when I glance in the prince’s direction I find Isadora perched on his lap like she belongs there.
So maybe it's not.
The challenges on this show are designed to bring out the worst in people, I swear to god.
On the surface they aren’t. On the surface it's all about teamwork, and pack dynamics and learning more about each other. But really, what are they expecting when they pit twenty omegas against each other, battling out for the affection of one pack?
This pack in particular.
The Ashbourne pack.
Jesus.
I’m competitive. I always have been, but this is just insanity.
Omegas are hurtling around the field of play, yelling out war cries and tackling each other to the ground, snapping up flags left and right from the waistbands of other omegas’ shorts.
Grieves and Courtland are hovering closer to me than any of the other omegas. Watching all of this unfold with an amusement that bleeds over into me.
I laugh when Petal all but eviscerates Tristan, snatching his flag and waving it in victory as she darts back to lock it safely in our treasure chest. It's a strange combination of capture the flag and flag football. Each player has at least one flag tucked into their pants. And each flag is worth a varying number of points. We won’t know the points assigned to the flags by the other team until the end.
Which means strategy matters almost as much as speed.
I dart sideways just as an omega lunges for me, fingers grazing the waistband of my leggings but missing the flag.
I laugh breathlessly, adrenaline buzzing in my veins, and pivot on my good leg to sprint back toward our side of the field.
The grass is uneven, worn down by prior rounds, and I’m acutely aware of every step I take. Every twist. Every landing.
I keep my left knee slightly bent, careful, cautious. Muscle memory from years of injury drills kicks in without me thinking about it. Protect the weak point. Adjust your center of gravity. Don’t let them see you favor it.
Courtland shouts something I can’t quite make out over the noise—encouragement, probably—while Grieves lets out a sharp bark of laughter as he intercepts another omega and blocks her path with his broad shoulders.
They aren’t allowed to touch us, not directly, but positioning?
Distraction? That’s fair game. And they’re very good at it.
Most of the omegas are more than happy to engage with one of the alphas.
I weave past Petal as she sprints back toward our chest, hair flying, flag clutched triumphantly in her fist. “You’re doing great!” she yells at me, eyes bright.
I grin back at her, chest heaving, and turn just in time to see Isadora across the field.
I’m momentarily distracted by the memory of her sitting on Forsythe's lap this morning, but I push the image away and focus on the here and now. On the slow smirk that crawls across her face. Mean and mocking.
She isn’t laughing.
She isn’t scrambling or darting or shrieking like the others. No, she just stands still for half a second longer than necessary, eyes locked on me with unnerving focus. Her gaze drops, for the barest moment, to my legs.
My stomach tightens.
Don’t be paranoid, Ren. No one here knows about your injury.
I angle away, changing direction, trying to put distance between us. Another omega rushes me from the side, and I spin, ducking low, barely keeping my balance as her fingers snag fabric but not the flag. A burst of triumph floods me as I slip free again.
Only to run head first into Odette, who's got her flag at the front of her waistband and she’s swinging it around like an old timey cop swinging a baton. Or a man helicoptering his dick like it's attractive. Meant to catch my attention and hold it.
It’s foolish, I know that, to keep my eyes focused on her. But I want that flag.
I want to bring down everyone on Forsythe and Thayer’s team. With the exception of Tristan, they’ve managed to pick every ‘mean girl’ omega who’s ever scoffed or sneered at me or Petal.
Now that I think about it, this challenge is coming at the exact right time. A show approved way for us to get out our aggressions without going too overboard. Though technically, this should be a no contact sport.
But you know “accidents” and all that.
Odette smirks when I pause, gauging the best way to get that flag from her, staying still for a moment too long.
Movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. I jerk around just in time to see Isadora barreling toward me crouched far too low for her to be going for anything but my legs.
I try to get out of the way, but it's too little too late.
She hits my right knee and thank god for that.
If it had been my left, I probably would be leaving this field on a stretcher.
I let myself fall, don’t try to fight it, because that might result in a worse injury.
But I do try to twist to keep my bad knee from thumping the ground, which means I land on my right side hard.
My shoulder cries out, my breath leaves me in a wheeze.
I expect Isadora to grab my flag, dart up and run, but instead she scrambles up my body, all knees and elbows and pointy manicured nails digging into my flesh. One of her knees slams into my stomach, an elbow hits my mouth.
What is she doing? I think dazedly. My flag is right fucking—
Oh. This isn’t about the flag.
This is about causing as much damage to me as she can under the guise of wrestling for the flag.
Her palm slaps down onto my cheek and presses my head into the ground, grinding my face into moss and dirt. Smothering me. My ears ring. Grass scratches my skin. For a horrifying second, my chest locks up, instinct screaming, body remembering other moments of being pinned, unable to move.
No. No no no.
I try to shove her off me, to scramble out from under her body, but for all that she fits the ideal omega body type, she’s strong.
Or maybe adrenaline is lending her strength.
My right arm is trapped between my body and the earth, useless.
I shove at her with my left hand, fingers slipping against the slick athletic fabric of her tight tank top.
“Get off,” I gasp, bucking, my voice thin and raw.
Around us, I hear shouting. Grieves’ voice is sharp with alarm. Courtland’s suddenly edged with something dark. But Isadora doesn’t let up. Her weight presses down harder, her nails biting into my skin. She isn’t even pretending to go for my flag.
The silky fabric of her flag brushes against my forearm.
“They’re mine, bitch,” she hisses at me, pressing my face harder into the grass. “You’re nothing but lowborn American trash. Remember your place.”
Then her weight is gone, leaving me sprawled on the grass, chest heaving, vision swimming, the taste of dirt and copper in my mouth. My cheek throbs as blood rushes into it, and I take a full breath.
For a heartbeat, I just lie there, breathing. Then strong hands are hovering over me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel them.
“Ren,” Courtland says urgently. “Hey. Pixie. Eyes on me.”
I roll over and blink up at him. “Hi.”