Episode 3 Fracture in the Fairytale #2
Working. Sure. That’s what he’s doing. Definitely not distracting himself from the hurt we caused, from the reality of our lives stretching ahead of us. Isadora.
The queen hasn’t pressed us to set a bonding date, but I know we won’t be able to avoid it forever. I almost wish Forsythe would just do it, just get it out of the way, and then we would know the date of the end of us.
I shake my head at the macabre turn of my thoughts. It happens more and more these days.
The end of us started long ago.
We’ve just been stretching it out.
I press my forehead to the wood separating me from my alpha. “Okay,” I say hoarsely. “I understand. I’ll just leave it here in case you change your mind.”
“Thank you, love,” he says after a long drawn out pause.
I swallow thickly and then bend to place the tray on the floor, but I don’t walk away. I can’t.
I’m fucking lonely as hell, and my pack have been avoiding me. Been avoiding everyone, and I just… I need to feel close to someone.
My eyes flick to the door of Courtland’s bedroom. I’m certain he’s in there. I heard him come in during the early hours of the morning, halfway hoped he'd slip into my bed, pull me close and hold me as he slept. But he didn’t.
I heard his shower turn on. And then off. And he never came to me.
The late hours and stumbling in at three or four am are normal when he’s working. But avoiding my bed is not.
And I can’t help but be hurt by it.
Almost like he can hear my thoughts, Courtland stumbles out of his bedroom, still wearing the pajama set Florence made for him.
He hasn’t taken it off in days. Refuses to let the staff wash them.
They don’t even smell like her, they never did, but he’s become more stubborn in recent weeks.
And slovenly. As evidenced by the paint smearing his forearms.
“Court?”
He stumbles to a stop, lifting blurry bloodshot eyes to mine. “Piers?” His voice is hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in days… or he’s been screaming for hours. With the way we’ve all been feeling for the last few weeks, I suppose it could be either. “You need something, baby?”
I swallow thickly and reach out to him, stroking my fingers over the embroidery on his chest. Pretty boy. “I need to know if you're okay?”
A harsh laugh falls from his mouth and he sags against the wall. “No. I’m decidedly not okay, Piers. But I think you know that.”
I’d halfway expected Court to throw himself back into his wild lord, fuck boy lifestyle after we sent Florence home. He’s always seemed so elastic to me, bouncing back from nearly everything that part of me had expected—worried— that this would be no different.
But of course, he wouldn’t. He can’t. None of us can.
Losing Florence wrecked us.
Though losing isn’t the right word. Not by a long shot.
With a weary sigh he pushes off the wall. “If you don’t need anything else, I’m going to my studio.”
My brow wrinkles as I look at him, the way he sways on his feet. Inching closer I take a deep inhale, expecting the scent of stale booze, but finding only his spiced cranberry scent tinged with bitter regret and grief. He’s not drunk or hungover… he’s just heartbroken. Like me.
Like all of us.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive Forsythe for doing this to us. To her.
“You need to eat something before you go.”
He’s shaking his head before I finish my suggestion. “No, I’m fine.”
I frown. “You’re not.”
His fingers brush my cheek. “I am, Piers. I ate this morning before going to bed.” I snort. I can just imagine what that would have been. Chocolate covered pretzels and peanut butter, most likely. Maybe a chunk of cheese. But I suppose it’s better than nothing.
So I nod. “Okay. Can you try to eat a fruit or a veg today?”
The smile he gives me is soft and a little heartbroken. “No promises, baby. But I love how you’re still taking care of us.” His brow wrinkles. “We really don’t deserve you, do we?”
Words flood up my throat, reassurances that I would have rushed to say in the past. But I choke them back.
Court blows out a breath and shakes his head. “We never have. Pixie was right about that.”
We both flinch. Court shakes himself, recovering before I can. He presses a kiss to my cheek, and then the corner of my mouth. “I’m off. I’m almost done with my most recent series.”
The one he won’t let any of us see. He’s never kept me locked out of his studio before.
Everything about this is different, about us is different.
That is the Florence effect.
“Don’t wait up,” he murmurs against my temple, before he stumbles away from me. If his studio wasn’t just two floors down, I might be worried about whether or not he’d reach it safely. I certainly wouldn’t let him get behind the wheel of a car, as drunk with exhaustion as he seems.
But I know he’ll be safe, even if he can’t walk straight.
The door clicks behind him and loneliness slips in again. Who am I kidding, it never really left, even in the presence of one of my alphas.
Before I’m even conscious of it, my fingers pull my phone from my pocket again. Florence’s phone number is still pulled up, still ready for me to call. I glance around the quiet apartment and then give in to the urge as I have countless times before.
I just want to hear her voice. To know she’s out there. That she’s okay after what we did to her.
The call connects for the first time in weeks, and a hard female voice snarls, “Haven’t you hurt her enough?”
Shaken, I rock back on my heels, sliding my hand over my eyes to try to keep the tears from falling. “Is this Haven?”
“Who I am is none of your goddamn business, other than if you call here again, I have the means and the ways to hunt you down and cut off your dick and shove it down your goddamn throat. You get me?”
Maybe the threat should disturb me, but all I feel is relief.
“Ren talked about you all the time,” I say, pressing into my eyes at the thought of my omega. “Said you’re the sweetest person ever until someone threatens someone you care about. I’m so glad-” I choke and start again. “I’m so glad she has someone like you looking out for her.”
“That’s right she does!” Haven shouts.
There’s the low murmur of a male voice on the other end, and then the sound of the phone jostling. “Which one are you?” a clipped male voice says.
I swallow thickly. “Piers… I’m her beta-”
“No,” he cuts me off. “No, you aren’t her anything.
You rejected her, you understand? On international television.
Your pack rejected her and she is dealing with the consequences of that.
The last thing she needs is you trying to soothe your guilt by checking on her, she's dealing with enough bullshit as it is. Call here again and expect to get a visit in the middle of the fucking night where I cut your dick off just like my girl said.”
I can tell by the sound of his voice that he means it. If I call Ren again he’ll find me. Doesn’t matter if I’m a member of the most protected pack in the world. He’ll find me and make me a eunuch. It might be worth it if I can just talk to her.
“I need her,” I whisper, but I know he hears it all. The pain and the longing and the fucking heartache. The regret.
There’s a long pause on the other side of the phone, during which I can hear Haven warning him from saying anything else. “Yeah, well she needs you too, but it’s not my call to make.”
The nape of my neck pricks, like this is important, even if he’s being vague as shit. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Not my story to tell.” Another pause. “But I have a question for you. What the fuck did you think would happen when your pack rejected your scent match mate?” There’s a breathless pause, like he’s waiting to make sure I heard him, like he wants his words to sink in.
Then there’s the click of the line going dead before I can even begin to process an answer. My brain is too busy rolling over the little bits of information he fed me. Florence is dealing with the consequences of our rejection. The rejection that he says was a scent match rejection.
A fated mate rejection.
Fuck.
Fuck.
No.
My heart thunders in my chest and my finger tighten on my cell phone. I resist the urge to call back to demand if my dawning suspicion is right. I need to find my pack. I need to tell them what I found out.
Because if what I think is true, our omega is sick and we’re the only cure.