Episode 29 When the Spell Slips
I am buzzing. My skin feels electric, overly sensitive even hours after the pack left me last night.
I wake up beaming in the nest I made last night, my smile wide and bright.
The pillows and blankets holding the faint scent of sex, and fresh cut grass.
I wish it smelled like all of us combined, but I suppose I’ll just have to be satisfied with Piers’ scent for now.
I grin and stretch, feeling the delightful ache of muscles that haven’t seen use in years. It persists through my rushed shower, my quick makeup application, through randomly grabbing an outfit, not my normal yoga pants and sports bra.
No, today I want to feel pretty, even if I don’t want to spend too much time on it.
So I slip on a long flowy skirt and a crochet top. I’ve already worn this outfit, but I can’t bring myself to care. I just want to see my pack.
Now.
I get a giddy little thrill at the mentally calling them mine. And before I know it I’m all but skipping down the path toward the small dining hall where we gather for breakfast.
But when I get there the room is empty. No alphas. No Piers. No omegas.
Am I really that early?
I’ve never gotten here before the pack. Not once.
While I’ve started to view this as a vacation, sleeping in until production wakes me. I’m fairly certain Forsythe and his pack stick to a strict routine complete with wake-up alarms, a fitness schedule and nutritionist approved diets. Last night's gut bombs notwithstanding.
Maybe things are running a bit slower after the storm. Maybe they needed a little extra sleep after their exertions the night before?
Still they should be here soon, so I busy myself with pouring the perfect cup of coffee.
Just the right amount of creamer and oat milk.
But when I sip it, I realize it's not as good as the coffee Grieves makes for me and I have to wonder if he does something special to it, or if it's just that he’s made it for me that makes it better.
“Florence,” Marshall pops up at my elbow, making me jump and almost spill my coffee. “I’m glad I caught you. We need you for a confessional after your date.”
“Right now? I haven’t even had my coffee.”
“Not our fault you slept in. You’re scheduled for an 8:30am confessional. It's 8:30. Let's go.”
I don’t remember them telling me about this, but if I’m honest the longer filming goes on, the less I listen to what production says. There’s no point. They’ll fetch me when they need me. Like Marshall is doing now.
“Okay, lead the way.”
He runs his eyes over me, like he’s assessing my mental wellbeing or something. Whatever he sees, has him sighing heavily before he spins on his heel and leads me to one of the rooms set aside for confessionals.
My heart thunders with every step I take, my stomach clenching with nerves. They’re going to ask about the date, about how I think it went.
And I’m going to lie my ass off.
What happened last night was for me. For us.
Not for the cameras and not for the show.
Private. Special. Ours.
Lulu is already waiting, crossed leg bouncing, lips pursed.
The chair in front of the cameras is empty. Also waiting.
Both of them watch as I settle into the chair, lacing my fingers together over my stomach, resting my elbows on the wooden arms. My mouth curls into an insincere smile, one I have the feeling they can see is fake. “Should we get started?” I prompt, wanting this to be over as soon as possible.
They exchange a look. One that tells me they know something I don’t and it's going to suck for me but be great for their ratings.
Lulu’s smile is tight around the edges when she turns back to me.
“You had your date with the pack last night.” I nod. “Take us through it. What you did and why you did it.”
I let out a breath of relief and do as they ask talking at length about the food, the fort, the video games and why I planned the date I did, while being careful to reveal that it was mostly for Piers.
“Don’t you think it was a bit… common for the royal pack?”
I knew this question was coming, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling a pinch of anger. “I think everyone can benefit from a relaxed and easy night. Even royalty. Maybe they need it more than any of us.”
Lulu hums and eyes me, pen cap tapping against her chin. “The power went out last night during your date.”
I nod. “It did.”
“Did anything happen we need to know about?”
My cheeks flush a very bright pink, but I try my best to keep my expression nonchalant, my voice even. “Nope. We just stayed hunkered down and waited for production to tell us what to do.”
She frowns and leans forward. “Nothing happened?”
I shrug. “I mean, we talked some. It's not like we just sat there in silence waiting for the cameras to click back on.”
“What did you talk about?”
Why is she pushing this? Do they know something happened?
Is it against the rules? But no. I’ve watched every season of Alpha Love Getaway, and there is always some kind of hookup between the pack and one or two of the omegas in the lead.
It’s never been frowned upon. In fact, some might even say it's encouraged, given the existence of the Honey Pot room.
But this is the royal pack. Maybe the rules are different.
Or maybe they’re just upset that they didn’t get whatever happened on camera.
“Just… stuff.” That they’re going to keep me until the end at least and maybe longer.
Courtland called me perfect after I came.
Thayer said I taste delicious. Piers kissed me like I’m air.
Grieves held me so tight against his chest…
and Forsythe, he directed it all before coming in my mouth and ordering me to feed it to one of his pack mates.
Lulu and Marshall exchange a look, and then Lulu is staring at me hard. “I’m worried about you, Ren.”
The chair squeaks as I shift. “Why?”
The producer jerks her chin at Marshall who sighs and taps at something on his tablet. “We’ve warned you about how this is going to go,” he says. “Repeatedly.”
“I’m aware I’m not good enough for the royal pack,” I say, even as I think, Court called me perfect.
Lulu shakes her head. “That isn’t what this is about. Whether you're good enough or not is immaterial. They will not pick you at the end.”
Marshall’s lips purse hard enough that they bleach of color as he hands over the tablet. The screen is divided into four sections. Four different camera angles. A creeping sense of dread slicks over my skin. “This is what they did on Isadora’s date.”
It looks like an opera box? I briefly recall that she’d bragged about that, taking them to a theater. I’d thought it sounded boring as hell, and not a very good way to get to know each other. But then, I guess they’ve known one another for years, so that’s not the point of their date.
There are five chairs. Three in the front two behind them.
Isadora is in the front, flanked by Forsythe and Thayer.
Grieves and Courtland are behind them. Piers is nowhere to be seen.
Forsythe has his arm draped over her shoulders, his thumb moving in circles on the exposed skin of her shoulder.
Thayer’s hand is resting high on her thigh. Too high for my taste.
I watch as Courtland leans forward and murmurs something in her ear, nipping at it like he did me before he drags his lips down the curve of her neck. She shivers. Thayer’s hand moves, inching the silk of her skirt up, until he’s touching her bare thigh. His face looks almost bored as he does.
Court slumps back in his chair and Forsythe grips Isadora’s chin tilting her face to his so he can kiss her. Her eyes slip closed. His remain open.
I frown as I watch it. I might be wrong but all of this seems rehearsed.
Like they’re going through the motions. There’s none of the heat I felt with them, Thayer’s enraptured expression watching my pleasure.
Forsythe’s intense stare. The tremble in Court’s hand as he touched my skin.
Grieves’ groans of pleasure when I came.
How they all seemed to lose themselves, lose control when they touched me.
All of that seems absent.
Like they’re playing a part. Which they absolutely are.
Everyone knows Isadora is the front runner. She’s nobility. Was raised with them. Before this television show, everyone suspected that a marriage between them was in the works. I know the queen prefers her to anyone else, is pushing the pack to get her way.
And it seems like it’s working. Like the royal pack is playing along, giving the queen, the world and Isadora what they expect. But they’re not getting what they need.
Lulu and Marshall are watching me with rapt expressions, likely hoping that I’ll throw some kind of a tantrum, give them some drama, but I just feel… a little numb.
The Ashbourne pack made me promises last night. Promises to keep me. Forsythe’s ragged, ‘Fuck, cor mea, I don’t think I’m going to be able to let you go,’ rings in my ears.
Maybe it's foolish of me, but I trust them.
I trust that they will keep their promise to me. That they want to keep me.
“I see.” I try to hand the tablet back. Marshall doesn't take it. Instead he clicks into another video, hovering over my shoulder as it begins to play.
There on the screen is the entire pack again, alone, no omegas present. And I realize this must be where the show records their deliberations. Where they figure out who is staying and who is going.
I almost drop the tablet, almost shove it back at Marshall, and leave this interview. I know whatever they’re about to show me is something I do not want to see.
But then its playing and I can’t look away.
Forsythe sits at the head of the table, arms folded. The other alphas around the table look uneasy. Piers is notably absent, though I have the feeling he’s out of range of the camera, but still present.
“We have to make a decision before the next ceremony.”
“You mean someone to cut,” Courtland scoffs.