Episode 3 The Twenty Dancing Princesses #2
A line of color sweeps into my periphery—silk, chiffon, nervous smiles, overly bright confidence. Omegas glide into the room one by one, curtsying, giggling, performing. Giving us coy looks from under lowered lashes.
We perform too. Greeting each new arrival with what the public has come to expect of us.
Courtland flashes dimples on command, making the omegas swoon.
Thayer inclines his head respectfully and greets them with soft focus.
Grieves glowers in his usual terrifying way, remaining silent but for a few sounds of acknowledgement.
I am politely detached, as I always am.
And then—
“Florence Karlin.”
She moves into our line of sight. My brain stutters, my heart skips, my lungs clench. My muscles tense, readying to go to her.
“Pretty,” Courtland breathes. Like he can’t stop himself.
Pretty doesn’t do the omega justice.
She is stunning.
Absolutely fucking stunning, and I am fucked.
Florence Karlin glides toward me, honey blond hair in loose waves around her shoulders.
Her dress is a soft lavender grey chiffon gown with flutter sleeves, a heart shaped neckline.
Similar to Isadora’s dress in style, but so much more elegant.
The fabric layers flow like smoke when she moves.
The waist is gathered with hand-sewn crystal beading that catches light like dew.
Next to me Thayer stiffens. His nostrils flare like he’s trying to catch her scent.
Mine do too. It’s an alpha instinct. When we see someone we think might be ours, we seek to confirm with scent.
Only as she gets closer, there is nothing more than the faint chemical smell all the omegas thus far have had clinging to them, and that makes my alpha… upset.
He wants to smell her, to bury his nose right in the crook of her neck and take deep gulping breaths until we can’t smell anything but her.
Outwardly, I remain stoic, calm, the very picture of royal discipline. Inside, I have the absurd, reckless urge to sabotage her scent blockers so we can catch a whiff. It's with some difficulty that I grab that instinct and shove it down, down, down.
Florence comes to a stop on the mark no doubt pointed out to her by the production team before her entrance, and bends into a deep perfect curtsy that shows off the long line of her spine, revealed by the deep v at the back of her dress.
The graceful movement surprises me, given that she is American and not used to bowing to royalty.
Most people aren’t.
Still it’s clear she’s had some practice. Maybe once she heard we were going to be the pack this season, she took it upon herself to learn. If that is the case she must be an excellent student.
Not even Isadora is that elegant when she curtsies and she’s been raised right alongside us, attended comportment and etiquette classes to prepare her for this.
We wait for a moment, two, until she rises nimbly, and I inhale again when she’s facing us. Hands folded demurely in front of her like a lady, but her straightforward gaze gives her away. Most people we come across don’t stare us right in the eye.
Her eyes are… unusual. I see it as she gets closer to me, a combination of green and gold and brown. Bits of black and grey. And in her left eye, there’s a blue slice cutting through the swirl of color. Like a wedge of cake removed from the round.
Beautiful.
And a little off-putting when she gives you her full attention.
Or it could be that I’m feeling something else entirely.
I want to stare at her all day, just stand here for hours drinking in everything about her. Those big eyes, that pert little nose, the softly rounded chin. I suspect when she smiles those full pink lips, dimples pop on those sweet cheeks. An ache forms in my chest.
I want to see her smile more than I’ve wanted anything in my life.
And not the slightly strained, nervous one she’s giving to all of us now.
“Florence,” I say, holding out my hand. Eager to touch her, to soothe whatever anxiety she’s feeling. It's a huge part of being an alpha, the need to care for and protect what is ours. And for some reason, my alpha seems to feel that this omega is ours.
She hesitates, eyes moving over my pack and then flicking to the cameras before she takes a deep breath and forces her mouth wider. It still doesn’t reach her eyes, doesn’t make them crinkle or glint with humor.
“Your Highness,” she says, a crease forming in her brow as she slides her fingers into mine. A jolt travels along my spine, settles at the base, makes my cock ache in a way that it hasn’t in years.
Fuck.
Fuck.
This is worse than I thought it would be.
“Is that right?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, sending that honey blond hair sliding over her shoulder. “They gave us dossiers with some information and your title is… long.”
I smile at that. “It is a mouthful, yes.”
Her cheeks flush, and when Courtland snorts next to me, I realize how that might have sounded a lot like flirting. A lot like me talking about my cock being a mouthful, and suddenly, that’s all I can fucking think about. Sliding between those plush lips.
“You can call me Prince Forsythe,” I tell her. “Or Your Highness.” Even though I want nothing more than to hear her call me Sythe like my pack does.
She nods. “Right, yes, of course. Your Highness.” A dimple pops on her cheek. My heart skips a beat.
Next to me Court clears his throat, reaching for her hand to take it from me, and I have to swallow down a growl… at my own damn packmate. He gives her his best smile, a dimple forming as if in answer to hers. “I am Lord Courtland Ashbourne, and you are lovely.”
I expect her to giggle and flush under his attention, most do and I certainly wouldn’t think less of her for it.
But instead her eyes narrow the slightest bit, her head tilts like a bird sighting something and then she pulls her hand from his and wipes it on her skirt, surreptitiously but I spot it. My whole pack does.
Court’s smile dims but stays in place. He’s had years of practice smiling when he would rather not, and he is by far the most adept. “You can call me My Lord or Lord Courtland.”
“Hmm,” she considers him. “I think pretty boy is more apt, but I will bow to propriety, my lord. You can call me Ren. Or Lady Florence. Or lovely, which is such a wonderful word.”
Court gives her his most winning smile, her wiping her hand on her skirt forgotten at her compliment. “You think I’m pretty?”
An undignified snort blended with a laugh falls from her, and she shakes her head. “I should hardly think that’s news to you, my lord.”
“You might be surprised,” Court murmurs as she turns her attention to Thayer.
“Professor,” she dips her chin to him as well, the very picture of etiquette.
His lips twitch in return. “Little omega.”
Hearing him rumble that to her in such a soft, teasing tone makes that heat that had already been burning at the base of my spine, flash into an inferno. Florence’s cheeks flush the most intriguing shade of pink and I have the sudden urge to kiss it, to feel the heat of that flush against my lips.
Duty, I remind myself. Do your duty, Forsythe.
Florence Karlin may be the sweetest omega in the bunch, but she’s not the kind of omega my grandmother had in mind when she said I need to pick someone who lifts the crown. No, in my grandmother’s eye there can be only one choice.
I still don’t fully understand why we’re going through all this rigmarole when the outcome has already been decided, but it is not for me to question.
“I think it's far too early for you to be calling me omega. Don’t you, professor?”
The corner of Thayer’s mouth tips up. “Perhaps. What would you prefer I call you then?”
“As with his highness and Lord Courtland-”
“Pretty boy,” Court corrects her. Florence ignores him.
“You can call me Ren. Or Lady Florence.”
“Flo?”
Her brow wrinkles. “I’d really prefer not.”
Thayer just hums, taking her delicate hand in his and brushing his lips over her knuckles. A jolt of jealousy hits me. Why didn’t I think to do that? Why did I not bend and feel that soft skin with my lips?
She moves down the line to Grieves when Thayer releases her hand, looking up at him with a sort of considering air that most of the other omegas didn’t bother with.
He stares back at her with that same glower he’s regarded all of the omegas tonight.
As though he’s assessing a threat, rather than looking for a future mate.
They don’t exchange any words, which is normal for him. The only one he made any effort with is Isadora and that was likely more out of habit than anything else. It’ll play well with the narrative the crew is building for us though.
Florence’s mouth quirks into a little smile eventually. Then she laughs softly and shakes her head like she’s just had an amusing thought. I want to know what it was. What made that tiny giggle pull from her. See if I can replicate it. I want to make her laugh too.
“My lord,” she eventually murmurs, tipping her head at him, and then she turns, displaying the long line of her spine to us, that gorgeous curve that my fingers ache to trace. Her steps are measured as she follows the path laid out for her, retreating into the ballroom with the other omegas.
All four of us are still staring at the door she disappeared through when the faceless voice calls out the next omega’s name.