Episode 20 The Clash of Omegas
“Fuck,” Grieves growls, voice going scary low.
I whip my head around to see what he’s looking at, and find Florence, cute as ever in a pair of yoga pants and matching sports bra, in a tie-dyed pink, her hair in a ponytail, those same ratty trainers she always wears on her feet.
But she’s not what caught my pack mate’s attention. No, that’s Isadora, running fast and hard right at our girl, who is turned away, eyes focused on Odette, one of Isadora’s lackeys, who is waving her flag in front of our girl like a matador in front of a bull.
Pixie is competitive, we all know this.
Production.
The other omegas.
My pack.
This is a clear distraction tactic. And my omega is falling for it.
I’m moving before I even have the conscious thought to. Sprinting toward Ren, knowing I’m not going to make it in time to stop the contact, the tackle. My heart lurches as Isadora slams into my omega’s legs and Ren crumples to the ground hard.
Grieves growls, keeping pace next to me as Isadora takes the opportunity to batter at Ren’s body, not even pretending to go for her flag. Ren’s arm is pinned awkwardly and she can’t buck the other omega off. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to.
We reach them at the same time, but Grieves is quick to pluck Isadora off, whirling her away from the prone form of the girl who has all but stolen my heart. I go to my knees next to her, hands hovering wanting to check her for injuries—that hit was too hard—but also not wanting to hurt her more.
“Ren. Hey, Pixie. Eyes on me.”
I take a full breath when she rolls over, blinking up at me and says, “Hi.” As if watching her go down wasn’t just about the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.
She struggles into a sitting position, my palms supporting her shoulders and back as she does. I want to protest as she pushes to her feet. Want to order the production crew to have a medic come and check her out, even more so when she winces as she straightens.
“You’re okay?” I ask instead.
A tight nod. “Yeah, that was just a harder hit than I expected from the daughter of a viscount.”
Yeah. It fucking was. I turn on Isadora with a snarl, “What the fuck were you thinking? Are you mad? You could have hurt her! You fucking did!” I motion angrily at Ren's face, at the bruises forming along her cheek.
“She attacked me!” Isadora wails, hands clutching at Grieves, while he looks uncomfortably angry. It only takes a second for him to have her wrists in his hands, keeping her from touching him, from stealing the flag still hanging out of the waistband of his shorts.
Ren barks out a harsh laugh. “I did no such thing. You freaking tackled me out of nowhere! This is a non-contact sport, Isadora.”
Grieves takes a few steps away, using his grip on Isadora to keep her where she is as he backs up until he’s next to Ren.
Only then does he release our betrothed's wrists and turn to our omega, those grey eyes of his taking in every scrape, every blooming bruise, and the tiny drop of blood on her split lip.
His thumb brushes against it gently, and then he growls.
“Going to fucking kill her.” And the pulse in my veins echoes that sentiment.
If Isadora was smart she would run, right fucking now.
Find the alphas on her team and hide behind them.
But she’s not smart, or at least she feels secure enough to think we won’t tear her apart for hurting Ren, that she has the crown's protection.
“Easy, bruiser,” Florence says, the name sounding far more affectionate than the word implies. “Violence isn’t the answer.”
His gaze latches again onto the slight swelling on her cheek, the red marring her skin, the split lip. “You sure about that, omega?”
Ren’s lips quirk into a smile that immediately turns into a wince when it pulls the cut on her mouth.
“I’m sure.” She presses up to her toes to bring her mouth closer to his ear, I lean in too, wanting to be a part of the conversation.
“You can’t eviscerate your betrothed. I believe the queen would have a problem with that. ”
Both of us jerk back. Staring at her wide eyed, which just makes her laugh. “Please, like it isn’t obvious.” She turns back around, eyeing Isadora, before she digs into the front of her sports bra. “Also, I have this.”
And then she’s waving the blue flag right in the other omega’s face, cackling as she takes off at a limping run, heading back to our side of the field and our chest. Isadora curses, slapping a hand at her waist, as if that will make her flag reappear. It doesn’t.
Grinning, I spin and chase after my omega, watching the honey blond hair of hers stream behind her like a flag. Grieves is right behind me, both of us flanking Ren, protecting her back, keeping everyone else from getting too close.
Thayer and Forsythe must see it though, must realize that she’s got a flag, because they change directions, heading straight for us.
I frown when Ren stumbles. She manages to keep her feet under her, but she slows down, places her feet a little more cautiously.
At that rate, the alphas of the other team will catch her well before she reaches our chest and can bank our points.
Grieves and I exchange a look and then pick up speed.
I reach her before he can. A little squeal of surprise rends the air as I scoop her into my arms, my stride not slowing in the slightest. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grieves shift his trajectory, heading toward Thayer and Forsythe, moving to head them off, willing to take a hit to keep them from getting their hands on Florence.
The omega in my arms makes a whining sound when I hear the bodies of my packmates collide, like thunder.
“They’re fine, Pix,” I pant to her, picking up my pace. The chest is right there. The time is ticking down. “Grieves will hold them off until we get that flag in the chest.”
And he does.
Or at least he does the best he can, but short of beating the shit out of our packmates on international television, I don’t think he’d be able to keep them away from Ren.
They reach us just a handful of feet from our chest, blocking our path.
I tighten my grip on Florence and try to dart around them, but Thayer’s there.
Grieves stalks up next to us, facing off against the prince, before he casts a look in my direction.
I give a tight nod, and bend to murmur into Florence’s ear.
“Gonna set you down and dive at Thayer. It’ll only distract him for a moment, so you move immediately.
Get that flag into the chest and then run like fuck to protect your own. Got it, Pix?”
“Got it, pretty boy,” she whispers back.
“Good girl.” I grin at the delicate shudder that moves through her body and the flush that colors her cheeks that has nothing to do with the physical exertion and everything to do with our girl having a praise kink.
Florence wobbles when I set her on her feet and that more than anything has Thayer and Forsythe hesitating, gazes scanning her from head to toe. Registering the bruise forming on her cheek, the split lip.
“You’re hurt?” Thayer growls, eyes running over her.
Ren smiles and waves a hand in front of her like the way Isadora tackled her is nothing. “I fell. It's not a big deal, but I would appreciate it if you didn’t, you know make it worse by trying to steal my flag.”
Forsythe glares. “You fell.”
I open my mouth to correct that statement, but Pixie flashes me a sharp look and my mouth snaps closed. I’ll tell them later.
“Yep.” She pops the ‘p’ in a way I know annoys Sythe. “You gonna manhandle an injured omega?” She asks, pure sass.
Forsythe scowls at her. “Of course not.”
“Hmm,” Florence takes one limping step forward and all four of us reach out like we want to help her, support her. I’m a breath away from scooping her into my arms again.
“Do you need medical?” Sythe asks.
A sharp shake of her head. “Nope.” Then she glances over her shoulder at me with a clear ‘what are you waiting for’ expression on her face.
Right. Our plan.
I don’t look at Grieves. I know he’ll move when I do and I don’t want to give the game away.
I lunge, hurtling straight toward Thayer.
Forsythe grunts as Grieves makes contact with him.
Florence darts between us, heading straight toward the chest. Thayer laughs, a low breathless chuckle as we grapple.
He’s not really fighting me. Just making it look good for the cameras, as he and Forsythe let our omega get past them.
“Booyah, bitches,” Florence shrieks as she slams Isadora’s flag into the chest, and then she takes off sprinting away from us, that glorious blond hair of hers a banner streaming in her wake, her laughter ringing clear as a bell over the field.
The four of us just stand there, watching, until our alpha instincts take over and we chase after her.
Our team wins. Not surprising when Thayer and Forsythe all but refused to let anyone on their team get too close to Florence once they realized she’d been injured.
They ended up protecting her just as much as we did, which means that Petal practically swept the field of the other omegas until it was just her and Ren’s flags left unclaimed.
That little pink haired omega is a fucking beast.
Since their team lost, we sent home one of their omegas at the elimination ceremony, where Florence wore more makeup than normal, no doubt trying to cover the bruises on her skin, but there was no hiding the swelling.
Even if we’d all hovered around her as soon as the game was over while some douchebag on the medical staff looked her over for injuries.
She’d stiffened when he’d tried to push up the hem of her pants to check her legs.
The growls that elicited from the four of us—five actually, since Piers was right there with us—had been menacing enough that the guy had paled, and his hands shook for the rest of the exam.
He’d pressed an ice pack to her cheek, told her to keep it on to make sure the swelling would go down, and then he’d scrambled away from us.