Episode 28 Dress for the Scandal You Want
Florence
A dress is delivered by a harried looking messenger, who sneaks worried glances at the guards flanking my door, later that day.
I thank her, taking the huge pink box in hand and letting one of the guards close the door behind me.
My pack still hasn’t returned from wherever they went.
I have a sinking suspicion it’s something to do with Isadora.
Why else wouldn’t they have told me where they were going?
So I’ve spent the day wallowing in self-pity, anxiously checking that the guards are still outside the flat, and wandering from room to room in this apartment that doesn’t feel like mine, like ours.
And why would it?
They aren’t mine. Not truly.
Even if they feel more and more like my pack. My home.
They’d left me with kisses pressed to my temples, my cheeks, my lips, my neck, and promised they would be back before too long. But that was hours ago.
And now this. A large light pink box tied with a crisp white ribbon, a white card taped to the front with just my name scrawled across it in calligraphy, delivered at 2pm on the dot.
Unexplained nerves jangle in my stomach, make my fingers tremble as I undo the bow, the satin slipping against my skin pleasingly.
When the lid comes off I can do nothing but stare at the contents.
My fingers hover over the fabric before I dare to touch it, like it might disappear if I’m not careful.
The fabric is a deep, dusky rose, rich without being loud, catching the light as I lift it from the box. It spills through my hands, smooth and fluid, the weight of it just enough to feel expensive, intentional.
The bodice is fitted with clean lines and careful seams. The neckline is softly scooped with delicate straps and gauzy strips of fabric that will drape over my biceps. The skirt falls in long, dreamy lines, a subtle slit along one side that promises movement more than it demands attention.
My throat tightens as I smooth my hand over the waist, tracing details I thought would only ever live on paper.
It’s mine, and it’s exactly how I imagined it.
I remember sketching it late one night, chasing a feeling more than a design. Something soft but structured. Elegant without trying too hard. Something I didn’t think I’d ever actually make. Not right away at least.
Not until my more accessible designs took off.
Why is it here?
I finished it not long ago, but it’s not as though I’ve had the tools to sew it… and I certainly didn’t send it anywhere to have it created for me. The most I did was send it to Haven to get her thoughts on it.
I search for a note or something to tell me my best friend did this, or if not her, who did. But the only things I find are silky lacy underthings and a small white card with “6:00” scrawled in Forsythe’s bold script.
Does that mean I’m meant to be ready by six tonight?
A glance at the clock tells me it’s just after six am in Granton and probably too early to call my best friend to get her opinion on the matter, but I decide it wouldn’t hurt to get a little dolled up, just in case.
The next few hours are spent washing, shaving, blow drying and curling. I’m not sure what the plan is for the night, so I keep my makeup relatively neutral. No smoky eyes or red lips, instead sticking with pinky browns on my eyes and a my-lips-but-better color on my mouth.
I’ve just slipped into the dress when I hear the front door open and close and I feel a flicker of fear for a moment. Small, but still there, imagining that it’s the queen coming to check if I followed her instructions.
It vanishes as soon as I hear Court’s voice call out, “it’s only us, Pix!”
Blowing out a breath of relief, I finish doing up the side zipper on my dress and pick up my heels, carrying them as I exit my room, and hurry down the stairs, only to pause midway when I catch sight of the Ashbourne pack—my pack—waiting at the bottom, looking up at me with hungry intensity.
My breath catches as I take them in.
Forsythe stands at the center in a perfectly cut black tux, all sharp lines and quiet authority. Crisp white shirt, black bow tie, not a single detail out of place. He looks like power—controlled, contained—and his gaze locks onto me like he doesn’t know how to look away.
Courtland is temptation at his side, dressed in midnight blue instead of black, the fabric catching the light when he shifts. No tie, his collar open just enough to be distracting, his smirk slow when he sees me staring.
Thayer is softer, but no less dangerous in charcoal and a dark tie. He looks like he belongs behind a lectern, not standing there watching me like that—focused, intent, barely holding himself together.
Grieves is all blunt edges in all black, his jacket stretched across his shoulders, collar open like he couldn’t be bothered with formality. His gaze drags over me, heavy and possessive, and my breath stutters.
And Piers…
God.
Piers in deep navy, softer than the rest, his tie just slightly crooked like he’s been fussing with it. He looks warm, approachable. And the way he’s looking at me? Like I’m everything.
They all are, actually.
And it’s overwhelming.
“What’s going on?” I ask, feeling dazed and wholly unprepared for the majesty of all five of them dressed up like this. In suits and ties and looking so goddamn dapper.
Court grins and bounds up the stairs to my side. “What’s going on, Pixie, is that you look bloody gorgeous.” I start to shake my head. But he pinches my chin to keep it in place. “No, don’t deny it. It is simply a fact. You look gorgeous. The end.”
Heat gathers between my breasts and spreads upwards. He grins and then bends to brush the lightest of kisses over my lips, so unlike him that it startles me. He grins when he pulls back. “Don’t want to mess up your lipstick before the night begins.”
I’m still hazy when he guides me down the stairs to the rest of his pack. We pull to a stop in front of Forsythe and the rest of the pack closes ranks around us—around me, clustering close. Hands brush over patches of bare skin. My hair is pushed over my shoulder to tumble down my back.
“Court’s right,” Thayer murmurs. “You look bloody gorgeous, killer.”
Grieves shakes his head. “You might need to call me that tonight, Thay, because I will straight up murder every person who even looks at our omega in this dress.”
“Is it too much?” I ask, fingering the skirt near the top of the slit. “Should I go change?”
“No,” Forsythe tells me. “No. You look perfect, cor mea.”
“Gorgeous, as I said.”
“Grieves just means you look good enough to eat, and he doesn’t want anyone else thinking they might like a taste,” Piers reassures me with a soft kiss to my cheek.
“Oh, okay.” I still feel a little shaking, a little unsure, but I’d definitely felt beautiful when I put on the gown, so I should let their reassurance bolster that.
“May I?” Forsythe asks, motioning to my shoes dangling from my fingers.
“What? Oh, I can-” I cut off when the prince takes them from my limp, unresistant fingers and drops to his knees in front of me… for the second time in a few days.
I blink at the top of his head as he looks at his pack mates. “Hold up her dress.”
So many hands rush to do as he ordered, carefully holding the fabric up and out of the way and I have the absolutely crazy thought that Forsythe is going to eat me out right here in the living room, but he just taps the side of my right ankle and orders, “up.”
I do it on instinct more than anything, as he cups my heel and helps lift it while the rest of the pack keeps me steady.
It's a good thing too. If left to my own devices, I would have tumbled right over when Forsythe, the prince of Bravonne, bends further and brushes a reverent kiss over the top of my foot.
I mean… what is even happening right now?
A whine pulls from my chest as he lingers there, breath warming my skin. I feel him smile against it, a sly knowing thing, before he reaches for my first heel, carefully slides it on my foot, and then sets it down.
He does the same exact thing with the other foot, and good god, I don’t think I’m equipped to handle this. How could I be?
I’m flushed and shaking with need as he sets my other foot down, then smooths out my skirts, making sure it’s not wrinkled. “This is a gorgeous dress, Florence,” he murmurs, sliding his hands onto my hips, thumbs brushing over a seam there, like I don’t already have slick sliding down my thighs.
“Deep breaths, killer,” Thayer reminds me, amusement thick in his tone.
Well, I’m glad someone seems to be enjoying this.
You’re enjoying it too, Ren. Don’t lie to yourself.
“I am breathing,” I mutter back to him, and they all chuckle. Forsythe leans forward and presses a delicate kiss to my stomach that makes my toes curl before uncoiling to his feet, towering over me.
I don’t want them to have this kind of power over me. To reduce me to utter goo, by the simple act of helping me put on my shoes, but the problem is that it’s reminiscent of him kneeling for an entirely different reason.
Still they obviously have something planned for tonight, and I don’t want to completely fall apart before we even leave the apartment. So I suck in a deep breath in an attempt to try to get myself under control, only to have all of their scents flood my senses.
Goddammit.
Focus on something else, Ren!
“Is there a reason we’re all dressed up?” I ask, nerves fluttering in my stomach like a ballerina’s skirt. “Did the-” My mouth goes dry. “Are we going to the palace? To see the queen?” Now is definitely the time to tell them about the queen’s visit if that is our destination.
“No,” Forsythe reassures me. “Nothing like that. We’re simply going out.”
I blink up at him as he tucks my arm through his and leads me out the door. “Out?”
The smile he gives me is soft but determined. “Yes. Out. You’ve been tucked up in this flat for ages, cor mea. I want you to see what our country has to offer. This is what you requested, is it not?”