Episode 24 Wish Upon a Star #3
It says she’s been hiding her pain for a long time. That she’s used to it. And that she somehow feels we’d think less of her if we knew her weakness. Or maybe she thinks we’d exploit it. If not us, maybe production.
God, I can just imagine the questions they’d ask her in the confessionals, trying to probe about her sad story, to add even more drama.
“Why wouldn’t she tell us?” Court sounds hurt. Like he thought she should have trusted us enough with this secret of hers.
But I’m fairly certain if I hadn’t shown up at her door last night and if she hadn’t been wearing sleep shorts we never would have found out.
“Why would she tell us anything when we’ve made it clear we can pursue a relationship with her?” I ask, rhetorically of course.
“She should have told us. There were so many times she winced or flinched. She could have hurt herself during any of the physical challenges,” Grieves growls.
“Well, we know now,” Forsythe says grimly. “We know and we can keep an eye on her, keep her from injuring herself further.”
A whistle blasts across the patio, sharp and metallic. One of the senior producers waves at us from behind a lighting rig, staring pointedly at my microphone.
“Someone must have told her,” I mutter, ignoring the producer and staying focused on what’s important. “Isadora.”
That has all of them straightening, realization dawning.
“We don’t know that for sure,” Sythe starts.
“How else would she know? Hell, Court spent the entire night with her and didn’t know about her knee.
We’ve spent every day here obsessively watching her and have never once even suspected something like this.
I highly doubt she told any of the omegas, let alone Isadora.
No, someone accessed her medical records and fed the information to Isadora as a weapon. ”
And it makes my blood fucking boil.
Grieves lets out a rumbling growl. “He’s right.”
“Pixie has been so careful to keep it hidden from us, I doubt she’d hand that information over to her biggest competition here.”
I want to snarl that there is no competition. Florence is and always will be lightyears ahead of Isadora, but that’s not true in this one instance. We have to follow the edict given to us by the queen. Which means there is no competition, but in an entirely different way.
“Your Highness! Gentlemen! You need to get your microphones back on. Now. You’re in danger of being in breach of your contract.”
We all freeze.
Shit.
Court mutters, “Guess we’re in trouble.”
“I’d like to see them try to sue us,” Grieves hisses.
Piers straightens, shoulders hardening with that subtle, quiet warning he uses when he’s shielding us from something we can’t see yet. “Let me talk to them,” he murmurs. “I’ll smooth it over.”
Of course he will. He always does.
And the world will keep pretending he’s just the assistant.
I hate it.
More so now than ever before, with Ren words ringing in my ears.
He’s already moving, slipping into his practiced persona, efficient, unobtrusive, the perfect professional beta.
When he’s out of earshot, Forsythe blows out a breath. “We’ll handle Isadora later. Right now…” His gaze slides toward Florence again. She’s finishing her yoga cooldown, laughing at something Petal said, completely unaware that four alphas are contemplating murder on her behalf.
“…right now we put on our fucking microphones,” he growls, standing, “and we find a way to watch her without terrifying every producer on set. Without terrifying her.”
Grieves and Court trade looks. They know what he’s really saying.
We’re not letting her out of our sight, not during any of the challenges. Not while the group is together, one of us will always be near her. Even knowing she’s not totally comfortable with alphas, we’re going to do this. There is no other option.
We reattach the mics, fix our expressions into something palatable for cameras, and head inside to change into our outfits for the night—for the next challenge—while the omegas giggle and gush and retreat to their cabanas to do the same.
The sun is already shifting, shadows stretching long across the lawn as the crew sets up folding chairs and lighting rigs. A low stage sits in the center. Four chairs in front of it and two rows of four chairs off to the side, where the omegas will sit and watch while the others perform.
There’s a program placed on my seat, kitschy and overly romantic, like everything about this show.
I flip through it, finding a list of the omegas names, and there she is, near the end.
Florence Karlin- dance
Forsythe curses, his eyes latched onto the same thing I’m staring at.
I swear to god, if she hurts herself for this goddamn show, there will be no stopping me from tearing down the entire Azure Bay Resort.
She already has, my alpha growls at me, remembering the way her knee buckled during the obstacle course.
The way she winced when Court didn’t warn her fast enough during the blindfold challenge.
How Isadora tackled her and she still got up and sprinted toward the chest to stow her flag.
The welts on her wrists, and the overwhelming panic she’d felt.
This is what she does, I realize. Ignores the pain in her body, pushes herself to perform, to keep going.
Fuck, she’s so strong.
And foolish.
She needs to take better care of herself.
My alpha is screaming at me if she won’t do it, then we need to. That we will. Because she is ours and that’s what alphas do, protect what’s ours, care for them.
But we also don’t know Ren’s limits, not the way she does. I can’t think she’d risk an actual permanent injury, just for a dating show.
Forsythe’s jaw locks. Grieves lets out a low, murderous rumble. Court mutters a curse that would make his etiquette tutors faint.
“She’ll be fine,” I mutter to them, to myself. “We have to trust that she knows what she’s doing.”
Omegas chatter nervously off to the side, wearing costumes that seem to range from sexy lounge singer to…
sexy cowgirl? Their excited giggles float to us in the air.
I wonder when Florence is joining them. Wonder if she’s nervous.
If she’s peeking out from wherever she’s hidden to see us, the audience of four.
I wonder if that’s something she used to do before every performance, watching the crowd, excitement buzzing through her veins.
The production crew calls for silence from all of us.
The lights warm, illuminating the stage.
Cleo slinks into the spotlight, her floor length gold sequined gown glittering like fire. I barely listen as she introduces the theme of the day’s show for the cameras, as she announces each act, as the other omegas take the stage, perform, and then leave again.
I’m too focused on one omega. On my little killer, even though I can’t see her. Why can’t I see her? Where the hell is she?
Finally, according to the program it's her turn. I straighten in my chair, as Cleo announces her and steps to the side.
The stage lights are too bright. The glare washes every color to silver, and for a moment I can’t see her, only the outline of motion.
Then Florence steps into center stage, wearing a simple black leotard that looks painted onto her curves, a flowy black skirt that hits below her knees and pointe shoes.
Her honey blond hair is braided back from her face, then pulled into a curly ponytail.
Her skin glows and glitters under the lights. Her lips painted a bright red.
There’s something off about what I’m seeing, and it takes too long for me to realize what it is.
Florence never wears black. She’s always in color. Always vibrant. And this feels… pointed. Like she’s making a statement.
I think back to the conversation we had yesterday, to the hurt in her eyes and her voice. The way she was certain we were sending her home. How she accused us of insulting and embarrassing her.
I think of her words last night. You did me a favor. I was getting attached and we all know that’s a bad idea.
“Pretty,” Court mutters next to me, just like the first time we saw her at the introduction ceremony. Like he can’t help but say it. I hum my agreement, even as I sit forward in my chair. So eager to see what she does, to watch the movement of that body I’ve dreamed about.
Music rises—Adagio from Giselle Act II—and she moves.
It isn’t a performance for applause; it’s something quieter, almost private.
For her and us only. Her hands sketch the haunting melody in the air, her body folding and unfurling with each beat.
For a moment, everyone in the hall forgets to breathe.
I forget to breathe. My chest aches. My eyes sting.
“Beautiful,” Forsythe grits out, like the admission pains him. “She’s so bloody beautiful.”
Her knee catches halfway through a turn.
It’s tiny, but I see it—the flinch, the flash of pain across her face.
My muscles tighten before I can stop them, the same instinct that makes the others sit forward in their seats.
She steadies herself, finishes the turn, keeps moving.
Not a stumble, just a heartbeat long break in rhythm that somehow makes the next movement stronger.
“Shit,” Grieves mutters, sounding torn.
On stage Florence’s expression cracks. The barest hint of emotion coming through, and it's at this point, I realize what this is. For her and for us.
A dance meant to be a pas de deux, performed instead by a lone ballerina. Choreography that speaks of betrayal and forgiveness. Of goodbye.
This is her goodbye.
This is her letting us go.
This is her grieving what could have been if we were able to pick love over duty.
This is her saying ‘I forgive you for not picking me,’ in a language that is entirely Florence.
She lifts her arms and sinks to the ground, in a controlled descent, one leg folded under her. As the last notes fade, she drapes herself gracefully over her straightened leg, and goes still.
Silence stretches, then the room bursts with applause. Members of the crew clapping and whistling for her. She stays where she is for a moment longer, shoulders moving with each inhale. When she lifts her head, there’s moisture on her cheeks, but her expression is calm.
I unclench my fists, aware I’ve been holding them tight on my knees. She limps as she leaves the stage, barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it. I am. We are.
When she reaches the edge, she glances back once. Just a brief look toward us—toward me—and the strangest feeling settles in my chest: not pride, not pity, something closer to awe, and a sharp dose of guilt combined with grief.
And a deep gnawing possessiveness that makes my alpha demand I go to her. Claim her. Knot her. Make her mine by sinking my teeth in her pretty, graceful neck. That I take away the hurt she’s feeling, the pain. That I make all of this right, by just taking her. Taking what is mine.
But I can’t do that.
I knew there would be limitations, strings and duties attached to being in this pack. For some reason it didn’t occur to me that this would be one. Not until it was too damn late.
The rest of the talent show passes in a blur. I hardly note what the other omegas do, my mind too focused on the problem of my omega. Of my happiness and hers. Of my pack's happiness.
I have no doubt that Florence is the key to it. I can feel it in my bones. Surely there’s some way, some chance for us to actually have her. To keep her. Surely, if we all put our heads together, we can figure it out. I can figure it out.
But by the time we’re judging the omegas, giving out scores, I’m no closer to having a solution. I don’t have one when we settle to eat dinner. Or when we have a chat session after. I don’t see a way through for us, by the time I retire to my room in the pack suite.
All I know is I want her. I need her.
But I don’t think I’ll be able to have her.
Not the way I crave.
Writhing under me, taking my knot, letting me fill her up with my cum as I sink my teeth into her pretty little neck.
Yes, my alpha hisses. That.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
It’s so fucking wrong. But my dick has been hard since Florence took the stage, since I watched her lithe body bend and arch, since I couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to have that same body under me, arching as I thrust into her tight heat.
Gritting my teeth, I grab my phone and pull up a browser. A quick search later and I have a selection of videos to choose from. All of them are of my girl. I click on the first one, and there she is, body leaner, muscles tighter, breasts and ass smaller, but still fucking beautiful.
I watch as she dances on the screen, even more fluidly than she did earlier today. Beautiful.
My hand finds its way to my aching cock, my eyes never leaving the screen as she dances across it. My mind imagining her under me, over me, around me.
Her eyes are determined, her smile positively beaming. My killer. Sunshine.
I stroke myself harder, faster, breath coming more ragged. Ever step, ever leap my girl makes across the stage serves to ratchet up my pleasure, a litany of filthy fucking things I want to do to her running through my head.
Fuck her. Knot her. Choke her on my dick. Come all over those tits, that sunshiny smile, mark her as fucking mine. Wrap that honey gold hair around my fist while she’s on her hands and knees, presenting for me. For us. Her alphas. Lick up all her slick and make her gush in my mouth.
Watching her on the screen I can see how well she’d be able to handle us, how she’d bend and twist into impossible positions to accommodate us, to give us what we need.
“Fuck yes,” I moan, hips moving involuntarily, thrusting into the tight squeeze of my fist. “Oh, fuck. Oh, god.” My orgasm coils tight at the base of my spine, my knot tingles, my balls drawing up readying to release.
Some part of me protests it, spilling my seed over my hand, my stomach, when every drop of it belongs inside my omega—inside Florence—locked inside her tight cunt with my knot.
But I’m too far gone now, there is no stopping it.
“Florence.” I groan out her name as I come, hand milking my cock the way I want her body to. Chest heaving, sweat slicking my skin. My vision goes spotty with the force of it. So much cum spills from me I’m a little concerned for the state of my nuts.
I take a deep breath, willing my cock to soften.
It doesn’t.
It's not enough. Of course it's not.
It never will be.
Not unless I can actually live out my fantasies, not until I can fuck Ren and fill her just like my alpha is demanding I do. Which means I need to find a way for us to keep her.
I need to find a way to have love and fulfill my duty.
Why does that feel impossible?