Page 56 of Royal Omega

Chapter Twenty-four - Conrad

I’m trying to controlmyself, and it’s not going great. I shouldn’t have given Carissa a black rose; I knew it was a mistake the moment I did it. I was just so damn desperate to separate my pack from her. Every time I get a whiff of her scent, I’m close to throwing out everything I know about her and fucking her against the closest surface. She’s dangerous. Why can’t Ransom and Henry see that?

And now we’re going to spend the day together. This is going to be great.

We pile into a line of vans, driving downtown to Fisherman’s Wharf. Each pack is in their own van, which means I’m stuck alone with my packmates — a situation I would very much prefer to avoid.

“Conrad,” Henry says tightly.

I glance over my shoulder at him. “Whatever you’re going to say, save it. I don’t know why I keep having to say it, but Carissa isn’t what she seems to be, ok? I know she’s beautiful and entrancing. I know she seems like everything you want in an omega. I’ve been down this fucking road before, don’t you understand? If we let her into our lives again, she’ll...” I trail off, looking out the window while I try to get control of myself. My hands are clenched into fists, and I’m a little tempted to punch a hole through the van window.

“She’ll what, exactly?” Ransom asks from the far back seat. “She’ll leave us? Would that be the worst thing in the world?”

Yes, I want to say. Yes it fucking would. Instead I swallow the lump in my throat and shake my head. “Let’s just get through today,” I rasp. “There’s no point in trying to figure all this out now. We’ll have time to talk before the next rose ceremony, and we can figure it all out then.”

“Like talking went so well before the last ceremony,” Henry mutters.

We fall into an uncomfortable silence. I probe the bonds between myself and my packmates, and find I can barely feel them there. I can’t sense their emotions, though I can guess what they’re thinking.

If we don’t fix this soon, our bonds will be severed. Our pack will have failed.

The idea makes me sick. I imagine myself out on my own, lost to the cacophony of feral instincts and anxieties that plague single alphas. Even worse, I try to imagine reconstituting a pack with the broken trust and embittered emotions that fly through my heart at every opportunity.

I’ll be alone for the rest of my life, if we break up this pack. And I’ll lose the only two people who ever really cared for me.

***

THE VANS PULL UP ANDwe’re ushered into a semicircle with Willard in the center. Fisherman’s Wharf is a revitalized pier area, filled with vendors selling postcards and chowder in sourdough bowls. It’s filled with happy people, walking up and down the boardwalk, spending too much money on gelato and listening to the sea lions barking in the harbor.

Willard re-does his whole spiel about the lemonade stands, and how we’re all going to be broken into groups. Then the producers make us say our lemonade stand names again for the camera.

The producers direct us to our little lemonade stands, set up at strategic junctures throughout the tourist area by the water. Carissa is already there, staring down at a selection of water pitchers and powders and worrying her bottom lip as if she’s not sure how to proceed.

“You look overwhelmed,” Ransom says, taking an apron out of Carissa’s offered hand.

“Well it’s not every day that we’re asked to custom-create lemonade for the masses,” Carissa jokes, her eyes sliding over to me before darting away again. “Don’t want to be judged too harshly for my mixologist skills.”

“It’s free lemonade,” I point out. “I doubt we’ll be judged too harshly.”

I watch as Carissa nods, offering me a small, worried smile. She picks up a pouch of ginger powder and opens it. “I think we’re supposed to pour this...” she holds up a carton of premade lemonade, “into this.” She points at the powder mixture.

As she pours, she mutters to herself, “It really doesn’t matter if they hate it. I’m guessing that the actual product has very little to do with how we’ll be judged on this.”

“What does that mean?” I rumble behind her.

Apparently she didn’t expect me to speak to her, because she jumps about a foot in the air, knocking over the cup, and spilling liquid all over the front of her dress. “Shit,” she says, looking down at herself and the sticky sweet mess she’s made.

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