Episode 30 Midnight Strikes #2
“Helped her? That’s what you think we’re doing here?
Helping her by rejecting her? Jesus Christ, Forsythe, I’ve always known you were a cold bastard, but I didn’t realize you’re this fucking cruel.
We’re going to send her right back to where she was when she got here.
Prove to her all over again that alphas can’t be fucking trusted. We’re going to fucking break her.”
My eyes snap open, fixing on my pack mate. His assertion that I’m being cruel hurts. I don’t want to do this anymore than they do. I loathe the idea of Florence hurting because of us, because of me more specifically, because this is my fault.
An accident of birth put me in this position where I can never truly have the life I want, the pack I need, the omega that is the epitome of perfection.
“Florence is a lot stronger than you’re giving her credit for,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I can, my expression too, but I know he can see my turmoil in my eyes.
“This isn’t going to break her. But waiting?
Letting this go on longer, scenting her, and letting her scent us, and then sending her home. That would break her.” And us.
I hold his gaze, steady as I can force myself to be. “You knew what you were signing up for when you joined my pack, Court. You knew we would have to do things like this. The hard things. You’re just exceptionally lucky that this is the first real sacrifice we’ve had to make.”
Piers makes a choking sound and I wince, but I don’t take back my words.
We might not be able to publicly claim him as ours, but at least he’s here with us.
Even if it is only in private. That will not be the case with Florence.
There wouldn’t be any reason for her to spend time with us… unless we were fucking her.
The rumors, the speculation about our relationship would run rampant, and the reputation of my family, the royal family, would be tarnished. Florence would become a homewrecker, despised by supporters of the crown.
I’m a little concerned my grandmother would kill her before she’d let that happen.
Which is another reason she needs to go.
Still, Courtland has a point, and I’m not a tyrant, no matter what my forefathers might have done to maintain their grip on power. “If you have a problem with the way this is being handled, you are always free to leave the bond.”
The words come out harsh and quiet. My body tense as I wait for him to make his decision.
Me or Florence.
Our pack or our omega.
His brothers or his pixie.
Court’s jaw ticks, but he drops his gaze.
It doesn’t feel like a victory.
The PA from before comes into the room, pausing when he feels the tension radiating from all of us. He folds in on himself, bowing his head just slightly. “They’re letting her go first,” he mutters, before scurrying away.
I blow out a breath. This at least is good news. This will make it easier on all of us.
“Are we agreed?” I ask, knowing our time is short.
“Yes,” Thayer readily agrees. But the word is hollow.
Grieves grunts out a sound that gives his assent.
Court a jerky nod.
My eyes find Piers, already pushing out of the line of the cameras, distancing himself from us yet again. Not bothering to give his answer, most likely because time and again, I’ve proven to not listen to his input. As if it doesn’t matter, but it does. Of course it does.
I am a cold, cruel bastard, just like Courtland says.
The lights in the room blink and then only some turn back on strategically lighting the space to look more intimate and cozier than it really is.
“Rolling,” someone calls out.
My heart thunders in my chest and I feel sick. I’m going to vomit, comes the harried thought. But I swallow down the swell of bile, force my expression into something soft and kind and gentle.
So I can be gentle while I rip out my omega’s heart and shatter her dreams.
Cold.
Cruel.
Bastard.
The door opens.
I swallow another wave of nausea.
Florence steps into the room, radiant in pale pink. Her neck and shoulders are exposed by the thin straps, and I see a faint bruise where Court nipped at her a little too hard. It's clear she—or someone on the makeup team—tried to cover it, but they weren’t entirely successful.
My eyes latch onto the spot, and for one moment I imagine what it would look like if she had a full necklace of our bites. Four of them ringed around her throat, proclaiming her as ours.
She gives us a shy smile that falters when none of us smile back. Her brows pull together, uncertainly. Fuck. I don’t want her nervous. I don’t want her worried or scared or having any kind of negative feelings. Not when it comes to us.
Too late.
Still, I make my mouth curl into a smile. One as genuine as I can manage in this situation. I’m rewarded when her shoulders relax and her own smile blooms brighter. “Florence.” Her name is a purr. One I can’t help because I’m just that tangled in this girl.
“Forsythe,” she breathes, then ducks her chin. “I-I mean, Your Highness.”
I should just get this over with, should rip off the plaster off quickly and efficiently, it's the kindest thing I can do for her, but this might be the last time I get to see cor mea. The last time I get to soak up her sweet warmth.
I hold out a hand to her. “Come here, Florence.”
She does without question, moving over to me, slipping her fingers into mine. I use the grip to pull her just a bit closer. Wishing I could just smell her. Catch even a whiff of her true scent.
“Sythe,” Grieves growls in warning. We’d agreed to do this first and fast.
For her sake as well as ours.
Kaleidoscope eyes shift to the rest of the pack, and the trust I see in them nearly guts me.
Fuck, this is going to hurt. Badly.
I guide her over to the two chairs set up for just this purpose, help her settle in one, and then take the other.
Her smile falters when she looks back at me, her eyes latching onto the swollen flesh on my cheek.
It's covered by makeup, I know the cameras won’t see it.
Hell, most people wouldn’t notice, but Ren does and her eyes widen in concern, her fingers coming up like she wants to brush them against the small hurt, make it better.
I catch her hand before she can, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “I’m okay, cor mea. Grieves and I just had a disagreement, yeah.”
The scowl she turns on my pack mate is adorable and makes me want to kiss her. “You promised,” she says to Grieves, who shifts uncomfortably under her attention, hands fisted at his sides like he’s contemplating punching me again.
“I know, bubbles. I’m sorry.”
“He deserved it, Pixie,” Court mutters, voice holding none of his usual flirty warmth.
A wrinkle forms between her brows as she looks between the five of us.
I smile for her, trying to ease as much of her anxiety as I can.
I’m tempted to purr, to try to ease her even further, but I can only imagine how well that would go over with my grandmother, with the fans of the show, with my fucking pack, given what I’m about to do.
What we’re about to do.
The producer in charge of this segment clears his throat in a quiet demand that we move forward.
Guilt crashes into me.
All of this is my fault.
Because of the family I was born to.
Not for the first time, I wish I had been born someone else. Someone with fewer expectations placed on them. Someone who could meet Florence Karlin and give her the entire world. But that’s not who I am.
And now I have to prove it.
I’m aware of the cameras, of the eyes on us, as I reach out and gently, carefully take her small hand in mine. The last thing I want to do is cause her any amount of pain or discomfort, and I know I’m about to do that in spades, so I can be as careful with her physically as I can.
She gives me a sweet smile—sweetest smile I’ve ever seen in my entire life—and there’s hope in her eyes. So much fucking hope. Fuck. I should never have given in last night, should have put a stop to things before they went as far as they did.
But I’d been swept up in the fantasy that is Florence Karlin, and I’d lost my mind.
“Florence,” I say, and she knows. Just by my choked tone she knows what I’m going to say. Her cheeks, which had been flushed, go pale and her hand where I’m holding it is suddenly cold, trembling. I hate it, but I can’t change my course. This is part of being who I am.
Her perfect pink lips part as she breathes out, “oh.”
I see her swallow down a whine, watch as her chest contracts, her stomach going concave like she’s pulling in every bit of herself, holding it in control until she shakes herself, a mask falling over her face, hiding her emotions from me, from the cameras, from everyone watching at home. I hate that too.
But I would hate it more if she stayed. If we all got more attached and still had to send her home at the end. Because as much as I want her, as much as my alpha swears she’s ours, I can never have her.
“Florence,” I start again and this time there is no tremble, no crack in her mask.
My thumb rubs a soothing circle against her wrist. “You are an amazing woman. I have- We have enjoyed our time getting to know you very much. And I know you’re going to make a pack very happy someday.
” There’s a flicker in the depths of her multi-colored eyes, an emotion that I think might be agony, before she shutters them even tighter.
“But unfortunately, you are not our omega.”
I nearly choke on the words, bile burning in my stomach and in my throat. I bite my tongue to keep from taking the words back, so hard I taste blood. I watch as her eyes move off of me, up to the pack standing over my shoulder, silently pleading for one of them to contradict me.
“I’m sorry, killer,” Thayer says, voice just as hollow as before. “You are not our omega.”
“I wish things were different, Pixie.” Court speaks up next, anger dripping from every syllable. “But you are not our omega.”
Grieves doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to, even though it's expected. It's part of this entire stupid TV show. Florence knows what he would say, everyone should.
She twists until she finds Piers, leaning against the wall behind the cameras, hands fisted at his sides, expression stony. And any lingering hope she’d had dies. Right there in front of me. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t force a smile. She doesn’t beg or plead for us to change our minds.
She carefully disentangles her fingers from mine, and I have to curl my hands into fists to keep from reaching for her again, from yanking her against me and kissing those pink lips and promising that I didn’t mean it.
That she is ours and will always be ours. That we pick her, will always pick her.
I want to tell her that while she’s not the omega of our pack, she will always be the omega of my heart. Our heart. Our sunshine.
But I can’t say any of that, it will just make it harder for us to separate. For her to go back to her life and us to mate and bond an omega that isn’t her.
Her voice is steady, and monotone when she tips her head down and drops into a small curtsy. “Thank you for the opportunity, Your Highness, Pack Ashbourne. It's been my honor.”
And then she just fucking leaves without a backward glance.