Page 11 of Iris
Rue bobs along, excitement coming off her with each step, and I’m not sure whether it’s for the barbecue or for the article by the Queen Bee, where she swears she’s mentioned. I’ve looked at it sideways, and it’s so generic a description that it could fit any young Omega.
“Sparks by the Fire,” she says, whipping back and spreading her hands. “Can you think of anything more sexy?”
“Rue.” Mom’s voice snaps like a hand against a cheek.
Not that she’d ever hand out that kind of discipline. Her tone and verbiage are enough, thank you.
My little sister turns her million-watt smile on Mom. “It means glamour, Mom.”
Then she turns back and bounces harder, faster, towards a gaggle of girls her age.
“At least she’s got new friends,” Mom mutters.
“This could be French,” Mari whispers to me, her dress darkly floral. It’s somehow both romantic and dramatic, fitting in with the theme. But honestly, Mari could wear anything andbe the most dazzling person in the room. She just has that glow. “All the little tables, the parasols.”
“The smell of barbeque ribs and potato salad filling the air,” I tease.
She pulls my hand, tugging me away from Mom as Heath chats to some Alpha. The guy slides looks my way.
Dahlia follows Mom, always dutiful, her violin case in one hand.
“I just think with the old architecture, the square’s got a European feel.” Mari plonks down on a seat at a table on the edge of the square, the waterfall either adding or taking from the theme. A barbecue is very much a mainland thing, and more on the exotic end here. Sabine is weird.
She puts her bag on the table and pulls out her sketchbook and pencils.
“I like it,” she says, “that’s all.”
I snort. “You would.”
“Are you going to bring down scandal like that Queen Bee says?” Mari’s pencil moves over the black page, filling it with a life that the reality of the scene doesn’t have. Or maybe it does. Perhaps she’s exposing the inner life she sees below the perfect surfaces. She’d say that’s what she’s doing, anyway.
“I just want to be left alone. You know I hate the whole breeding thing.”
She finishes drawing Alicia, who’s beautiful, calculating, and man-hungry, although I think we all know that.
“The ‘breeding thing,’ as you put it, is part of our nature. Omega and Alpha.” She flicks to another page.
I grit my teeth as bright red hair catches my attention, and I wave at Quinn across the square. “So you can’t wait?” I ask Mari.
“Did I say that?” Mari’s mouth turns down. “I didn’t. I’m commenting on what’s expected and the facts of what we are.”
“I’m not a breeding machine.”
She puts her pencil down. “I didn’t say that, either. But we have duties, obligations and?—”
“Is me—am I…” a small voice says to the left of my elbow, almost sending me shooting out of my seat. “—is I?” The little voice gives up. “What is a beading sheen?”
A small girl, tiny and chubby-cheeked with golden hair in curls, veers to stand in front of me. She’s wearing a grass-stained white dress and has big, dark eyes that are an inky blue, and her rosebud mouth is on the verge of a pout. The girl can’t be more than three or four.
I tug one of her curls gently. “Uh, they’re for making clothes sparkle.”
I’m not describing what breeding machine is to a baby.
Just like I’m not telling my sisters or even Quinn about the stranger in the empty room at the ball. The man who seemed to speak with his body, who?—
Wasn’t anyone at all.
The kid squeals in little girl laughter. “I don’t need sparkle.” She announces this like she’s all the sparkle in the world so why ruin it with extra?
