Chapter Nineteen
Hale
It’s been a week since the embarrassing interview.
Two days since the competition was cut in half.
One hour since I locked myself in the shower and jerked off to the image of my sexy kraken grinding his hard cock against mine with a cocky smirk on his face in an attempt to keep the public arousal to a minimum.
Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.
When we aren’t doing shoots for the show, we’re hanging out with Eric.
He insists he isn’t cock-blocking us, but somehow, he is always there, materializing out of thin air like a judgmental fairy godmother.
Aksel and I haven’t had a single second alone since my minor emotional collapse at eliminations, and while it’s only been a few days, I’m starting to feel feral.
If I don’t get alone time with my husband soon, I might murder my best friend. I’ll miss him dearly, but I need relief dammit. What’s the point of being married if I can’t take advantage of the sex part of it?
Eric is waiting in the hallway when I step out of my room, already vibrating with excitement. The remaining contestants are gathering to watch the first episode. He gives me a smug little finger wave, then turns and slaps his palm flat against Aksel’s door.
The sound cracks through the hallway like a gunshot.
I flinch. Aksel’s door flies open, and he looks just as startled, hair still damp and skin flushed from the hot shower he must’ve taken.
“Let’s go, lovebirds,” Eric sing-songs. “Time’s a-wastin’.”
“Eric,” Aksel says dryly as we head toward the elevator, “It’s been so long.”
His tone sparks something low in my gut.
Maybe I’m projecting, but Aksel looks… tight. His shoulders are set, fists flexing at his sides like he’s holding himself back from something. His brow glistens faintly, and his jaw works as if he’s grinding his teeth.
An affection-starved alpha, maybe?
Or maybe I’m a horny omega seeing signs where I want them.
Still, a man can dream.
When the elevator dings, I grab Eric’s arm and tell Aksel to save us a couple of seats. He lifts a brow at me, curious, but doesn’t push. The doors slide shut, leaving me alone with my best friend and my rapidly unraveling patience.
I turn on Eric the second we’re alone.
“Don’t give me that look,” I snap, jabbing a finger at his chest.
“What look?” he asks, eyes wide in feigned innocence.
“You know exactly what look. Quit playing dumb and tell me why you’ve been glued to Aksel and me for days.”
He drops the act instantly.
“You told me you weren’t comfortable with how fast things were moving,” he says simply. “So, I made you slow down. Easy peasy.”
He presses the button to call the elevator back as I stare at him, dumbfounded.
“Huh?”
Eric sighs like I’m the dumbest person he’s ever met as we step onto the elevator. “I was giving you time with your husband without your pheromones running the show. You were worried you wouldn’t actually like each other, or that it was all hormones and repressed sexual tension.”
He pats my cheek patronizingly.
“And now,” he continues, “you’re five seconds away from begging me to disappear so you can climb him like a kraken attacking a yacht. So, you’re welcome.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Lean back against the mirrored wall.
Damn.
He’s not wrong.
All we’ve done this last week is talk. Late-night conversations, shared meals, jokes that no longer feel forced. Gentle touches that stop short of going further because Eric was right there, watching like a hawk. No pressure. No spirals. Just… connection.
“You’re an evil genius,” I marvel.
Eric flips his imaginary hair and curtsies. “At your service, babes.”
By the time we reach the convention area, he’s already launched a lengthy soliloquy about different tattooing techniques. We find our seats easily with Aksel in the back row, and slide into the chair beside him. Our thighs brush.
Just barely. It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
“I’m just saying,” Eric continues, oblivious to our obvious sexual tension, “stick-and-poke is not worth the pain for the aesthetic.”
I roll my eyes. “You’ve clearly never had one. It hurts less, heals faster, and it’s calming. I felt like I was meditating when I had mine done.”
“Okay, but how long did it take?” I hesitate to answer.
Eric grins. “Forever. I knew it.”
“It took a while,” I admit, “But that wasn’t the point.
I wanted it for the tradition. Not convenience.”
We continue back and forth for a while, with Aksel sitting unusually quiet next to me. We’re cut short when Nadine presses play on the first episode with zero fanfare. We all chuckle at the stoic hellhound who literally couldn’t give less of a fuck if she tried.
Eric squeals excitedly and pulls a bag of candy from… somewhere. I shake my head no when he offers me some. Aksel accepts a piece, not even noticing my stare as he pops a handful into his mouth.
The heavy bass of the intro music reverberates through the mostly empty convention space.
The sound vibrates up through the floor and into my bones.
Twenty-five of us remain. Twenty-five. By Wednesday, there will be fewer.
The realization sits heavily. It’s all happening too fast. I barely have time to process one moment before the next one slams into me.
Most of the episode focuses on the eliminated artists.
Their faces flash across the screen alongside their work, each clip a small eulogy to what could’ve been.
Everyone was talented, but some people were clearly not cut out for the next round.
Seeing how my work faired makes a warm, fragile pride bloom in my chest. I earned my spot.
Whenever someone’s tattoo appears on the big projection screen, they stand and take a bow while the rest of us hoot and holler praise. Eric’s cheers are, as expected, wildly inappropriate and borderline obscene, but no one seems to mind. The energy is high and positive.
Then the music abruptly shifts. A wedding march fills the room.
The catcalls start immediately as Aksel and I appear onscreen for the interview. My soul tries to leave my body. Aksel, traitor that he is, stands and waves like a queen greeting her citizens in a parade, grinning widely while I hide my face behind my hands.
Only about thirty seconds make the final cut. Thirty seconds too many if you ask me. Ten of those seconds are of me staring at Aksel like he personally hung the moon in the night sky for me.
Do I really look at him like that?
From the outside, it seems like we are stupidly in love. The kind of love that is soft but obvious. The kind that two mentally healthy people choose. Which is absurd, considering, considering that barely two weeks ago I was ranting to Eric about how much I despised Aksel.
Eric, the menace, produces a white veil from the same mysterious pocket dimension that supplied the candy earlier and plops it onto my head. I shove him away, laughing despite myself, and my shoulder bumps Aksel’s.
Before I can pull back, his arm comes up around me, drawing me in until my side is flush against his.
Butterflies absolutely explode in my stomach.
I melt into him without thinking, my body recognizing his like it’s always belonged there. It’s the most contact we’ve had in days, and the intensity of how much I missed it catches me off guard.
The room erupts in laughter as our ridiculous wedding photo shows up on screen. I groan and bury my face into the warm column of Aksel’s neck. “I can’t believe that’s the best photo we could find from that night,” I mutter.
“It’s better than the one of Eric trying to make out with Elvis while you puked into the fake potted plant,” he replies dryly.
I snort. “Okay. Fair.”
The episode rolls on. People cry on camera over tattoos they hate. Others trusted friends’ judgment and paid dearly for it. Typical dumbass behavior.
Everything is fine.
Right up until it’s not.
The footage of the stoned fae hits like a punch to the gut.
They turned a simple security escort into a dramatic
spectacle, interviewing him afterward. He’s red-faced, eyes glassy and unfocused as he spews venom at the camera. He rants about how I should have felt honored that he sat in my chair, how I thought I was better than him, even though omegas are inferior.
Aksel’s hand tightens on my shoulder, hard enough to border on painful, and a low, dangerous growl rumbles from deep in his chest. It vibrates through me, making me feel protected and sage. Sympathetic looks flick my way when it's mentioned that I’m the only omega to make it past week one.
I know I shouldn’t take it personally. I do anyway.
When it nears the end of the episode, they show the rankings for the week.
I’m in the bottom three.
The words cut through me. I know it’s all part of making the show interesting, but it still sucks. If I don’t get my shit together, I’m gone. Just like that.
I breathe deeply, not letting the rising anxiety show as the episode ends on an ominous teaser about the next shocking elimination.
I silently thank my lucky stars for Aksel.
If this week has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t fall apart nearly as easily when he’s nearby.
Whenever Eric dragged us together to “hang out”, Aksel found a way to turn it productive without making it feel like work.
Fake skin spread across the table, the sharp scent of disinfectant in the air, his broad shoulders hunched in concentration as he demonstrated small adjustments.
He pointed out how each detail makes a large difference in the overall work.
Needle angle, pressure, pacing. Simple things I already knew about, but somehow hearing them from him had made them click into place.
Each tiny correction had felt like a hand steadying my spine. Each quiet, thoughtful comment sank deep. This last round might actually be some of my best work yet. That realization settles the restlessness in my chest.
The room buzzes with excited energy from the remaining contestants when someone suggests a club. Then someone else agrees. Before I can properly object, it’s already been decided.
I try backing out, mumbling something about being tired, but Eric and Aksel exchange a look and immediately shut that down. They refuse to let me hunker down in my room and drown myself in more practice.
Absolute assholes.
We’re herded into the limo we’re apparently using as a rideshare, cameras still hovering like hungry insects as we leave the hotel. The club is… a lot. Loud pop music. Barely there clothing. A thick cloud of perfume permeates the entire club so much that I swear the air tastes like it.
The bass slams into my chest, vibrating through my ribs. Lights strobe across the massive warehouse-style space, illuminating half-naked bodies pressed together in every configuration imaginable. Skin glistens with sweat and glitter. Laughter and breathless moans blend seamlessly into the music.
Pheromones cling to the air, heavy and intoxicating, wrapping around my senses until everything feels cushioned and soft. Unreal.
Eric presses a neon green drink into my hand.
I don’t hesitate. I drain it in one go, the sugary burn coating my throat. I’ll need more if I’m going to survive this night without crawling out of my skin. I’m not a people person on my best days, and today has wrung me out completely.
By the time I lower the empty glass, Eric has another waiting. He gives me a knowing wink before vanishing into the thick mass of bodies, swallowed whole by the music.
“Am I going to have to babysit you tonight?” a deep voice murmurs right against my ear.
The sound alone sends a shiver skating down my spine, low and electric. His breath is warm, faintly scented with cinnamon and alcohol. It weaves through me, tangling deep in my groin.
“Depends,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel as I accept the shot Aksel offers. I don’t look away from him. I don’t think I could if I tried.
“On what?” he asks, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and amusement flickering in his eyes. Even here, surrounded by all the noise and bodies, his presence feels large and safe. Like something I can lean on without falling apart.
I toss the shot back, and it burns going down, leaving warmth blooming in its wake. Before I can second-guess myself, I grab his hand, threading my fingers through his and pulling him towards the dancefloor.
“On whether we can dance all this alcohol out of my system.”
I pull him into me, closing the last inch of space between us.
Heat blooms as his body fits against mine.
My hands slide up his shoulders, feeling the strength he keeps coiled beneath the surface.
Then they find his hair, and I fist the soft blond strands, grounding myself in the proof that this is real.
It doesn’t feel real. It feels like I’m watching someone else live my dream.
His grip lands on my hips, fingers digging in just enough to make my pulse spike. It’s possessive without being restrictive, a silent I’ve got you pressed into my skin.
We move together, bodies finding the rhythm beneath the pounding music. The bass thrums through the floor and up my legs, seemingly syncing with my heartbeat. Everything else fades until there’s only sensation.
The warmth of him.
The solid press of his chest against mine.
The way his breath ghosts over my temple when he leans in a little closer.
My worry and anxiety finally loosen their grip. The constant second-guessing and fear of the future fade like someone turned the volume down on my brain.
For the first time in a while, I can breathe.