Episode 10 A Spell is Cast
I straighten when Florence enters the pool deck area wearing a pair of periwinkle yoga pants and a strappy sports bra that matches.
Her hair is braided back from her face. Where many of the girls have gone for full faces of makeup, complete with fake eyelashes, she looks fresh and bare faced, like she put on SPF and nothing else.
It makes my heart clench painfully.
Especially when she pauses as soon as her toes touch the tiles, wet from splashing omegas, and looks around uncertainly. Like she still can’t believe she’s here. Like she can’t believe Forsythe didn’t send her home last night.
I’m so grateful that my pack chose to keep her.
She’s just about the only thing so far that has made this bearable.
I watch as she looks toward where my pack is lounging out of the sun, surrounded by omegas who haven’t so much as glanced in my direction. Almost as if they don’t think I’m worth their time.
And why would that be, hmm? An insidious little voice whispers inside my head. Perhaps because your pack has led them to believe that.
I push that thought away. I knew what I was getting into with the Ashbourne pack.
I’d like to say my bonding was one of passion, where one of my alpha’s was feral with the need to have me that he bit me and bonded me, but the truth is before we got anywhere close to that, Forsythe sat me down with the others huddled around him and told me how it would be. How it would have to be.
That privately I would be a pack member.
Privately they would be able to treat me as their beta.
But publicly, we’d have to pretend to only have a working relationship, granted a very close working relationship.
So close that at least half the country knows I’m part of the pack, and the other half suspects it.
But as long as it's not confirmed by us, that’s okay.
His grandmother, the queen, disapproves of having a beta in the pack. She’s of the more traditional belief that a pack should be full of strong alphas, and a well-bred, quiet, demure omega. And betas should keep to themselves.
Honestly, that poll that showed that seventy-two percent of Bravonnians under the age of forty think the monarchy is out of touch, was one hundred percent correct. The queen is old fashioned—beyond old fashioned—and it's holding our country back.
It's holding my pack back too.
Her trying to prove she’s ‘hip’ or whatever is even worse.
That’s why we’re here, courting omegas on international television, letting the world get a good look at the Spare Heir’s royal pack. Showing the world that the royal family can change with the times.
Afterall, it used to be tradition to have all eligible noble bred omegas travel to Ashbourne Reach, the Ashbourne country estate, for a week or two so the pack could get to know them and then choose a suitable mate from the lot.
This is essentially the same thing, with the addition of cameras and viewership.
I watch as Florence takes one timid step toward my pack, then shakes her head and turns in the opposite direction, ignoring the glares the production staff is throwing her way and the way every member of my pack tracks her progress to the small gym area set up in a grassy spot on the opposite side of the pool from the pack she’s supposed to be getting to know.
My feet are moving before I know it, carrying me along the outer edge of the pool deck and to the gym area. I feel my pack’s eyes on my back, but not one of them asks where I’m going, what I’m doing.
She smiles when she sees me approaching, wide and beaming and bright. Like sunshine. It hits me right in the chest and behind my ribs warms. “Hi, Piers!”
“Little bird,” I murmur and her cheeks turn that pretty shade of pink, the one that is quickly becoming my favorite color in the whole world. “Starting off the day with some yoga?”
She gives me a cheeky little smile. “I started off the day with about a gallon of coffee, this is to help me work off the jitters before the forced interactions of the day.”
Forced. Just like I’d suspected, she’s not comfortable with speaking with alphas. I want to know why.
I think I need to know.
“Well,” I make a go ahead motion with my hand. “Don’t let me stop you. I just wanted to say hello.”
Somehow that beaming smile of hers gets even brighter. “I’m glad you did. And you don’t have to hurry off on my account, I’m pretty adept at talking and doing yoga at the same time. Comes with the territory of teaching.”
I already knew this. It's a part of her file for the show and I’ve read it at least twenty times since that first night. But it holds frustratingly little information. Just her stats. Name (Florence Karlin), age (23), birthday (July 12th), job (bank teller, yoga instructor).
There’s nothing of any real substance, beyond her GPA from AOA and her family members: Mother, Moira Karlin, and sister, Ginny Karlin.
“That’s right, you're a teacher. Any particular reason you got into that?”
She squints up at me. “You trying to get to know me, Piers?”
I shrug and don’t deny it. I’m hungry for any bit of herself she’s willing to share. I’ve never felt this ravenous before. Not for anything. Not even my pack. “So what if I am, sunshine?”
Her cheeks turn that pretty pink and she shakes her head, before she begins to move.
I know from experience—from watching her yesterday—that Ren doing yoga is one of the most erotic things I’ve ever witnessed in my life.
Not because of how flexible she is, not because of the positions she can bend herself into—though neither of those things help.
No, it's because of how strong she is, how fluid, how balanced.
The way her muscles flex and hold, the way she makes it look effortless.
I’d thought maybe it was a fluke. That my reaction yesterday was simple because it was my first time watching her do yoga. But no, today is just as much of a turn on, and now I’m sporting a semi that's in danger of becoming a full erection.
Two omegas wander by, wearing tiny bikinis and high heeled sandals. Make up fully done, hair in luscious curls. They have cocktail glasses in their hands, but I know there’s no alcohol in them.
They glance at the two of us, as they pass by, Florence on her hands and knees on a yoga mat, and me standing over her, because I can’t bring myself to walk away.
“Look at her,” one of the omegas—Catherine, I think—mutters to her friend.
“Does she really think thrusting her ass in the air is the way to snag a prince?” If I hear it I know Florence does too.
But she does an excellent job of ignoring them even when they go on to say.
“That might work with lower class alphas-”
“And betas,” her friend cuts in with a sneer, and that makes Florence look up sharply. Her tone makes it clear how they view betas.
“But this pack has more class than that.”
The move out of ear shot and I look down at Ren, still glaring after their retreating back. “Ignore them, sunshine. They don’t have a fucking clue what they’re talking about.”
Her smile now is a dim thing, barely there at the corners. And it makes me want to rip those other two omegas apart for taking her shine. “But they do. At least as far as I’m concerned. I know I’m not what your pack is looking for.” She peers up at me. “I’m more concerned about you.”
“Me?”
The corner of her mouth kicks up in a crooked smile. “Yep. Why do most of the omegas here think betas are second class citizens?” I flinch and she sees it, her hand flying out to grip mine and squeeze. “I’m sorry. That was way out of line. I should have-”
“No,” I sigh, squeezing her soft fingers back, and crouching in front of her so we’re closer to eye level.
I get a little thrill down my spine when she doesn’t let go of my hand.
“It’s not out of line. It's just an observation and a correct one at that. In Bravonne…” I hesitate flicking my gaze down to the microphone attached to her sports bra.
I don’t have one myself. Why would I need it?
But anything I say will still be recorded.
“In Bravonne, there’s a more traditional approach to packs.
Alphas and omegas only. The queen prefers it that way and many citizens do as well.
Betas are expected to stick to two-person matings or marriages. ”
Ren’s disconcerting eyes stare hard at me. So long that I shift uncomfortably. She blinks and looks over my shoulder at my pack. “But they bonded you anyway?”
I give a jerky nod. “They did.” Of course none of my bites are in places that anyone can see. Not unless I get fully naked, which I will never do with anyone but my pack.
Her nose wrinkles. “Don’t you think it's doing a disservice to just about everyone?” Her fingers are still gripping mine, but she motions with her other hand.
“The omegas who’ll be blindsided when they realize there’re five members of the Ashbourne pack and not four?
You? The pack itself. Wouldn’t it just be…
easier for everyone to know you’re bonded? ”
Easier? Yes. In this instance where we’re three thousand kilometers away from the queen and we’re choosing the next member of our pack. But it would be harder once we get home.
The queen would come down on Forsythe like a hammer, on our pack even harder.
I tighten my grip on her fingers. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
Her gaze slides to Isadora. “No, I suppose I don’t. She knows right?”
I nod. “She does.” Not that it makes her treat me any different than shit on the bottom of her shoe when no one else is around. She’s made it clear she’ll tolerate my presence, but I won’t be welcome in her bed, in her nest, for her heats.
Not that I want to fuck her. But it doesn’t feel good to be excluded from something like that when the rest of my pack will be welcomed with open arms. They’ll be expected to spend days tending to her. And I’ll be alone.
Always fucking separate.