Page 20 of Omega's Faith

Approachable wealth.

True love conquering all.

I snort.

By the time they're done with me, I look like a Ralph Lauren ad. I have carefully disheveled hair which looks very different to the real-life disheveled hair that I’d sat down with, and I’m wearing enough make up that I no longer look hungover.

I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look perfect. I look like the kind of alpha that parents dream about for their omega children. The kind who doesn't put assistants through glass tables or fuck his way through half of Manhattan.

The kind who doesn't play footsie with their arranged mate under the table while his parents squirm.

Fuck.

I still can't believe I did that. I grabbed his thigh like some desperate teenager, captured his foot with mine. But theway he'd sat there, all rigid disapproval and better-than-you judgment, smelling like pure desire..

I wanted to crack that composure. Wanted to see him flush and stammer. Wanted to make him react.

And he did. Christ, did he react. That scent spike nearly sent me under the table. I know I shouldn’t have done it but ruffling that uptight little shit is far too much fun.

"They're here," Ricky announces from the doorway.

I follow him out. The Wells family Honda is making its way along the long drive, looking even more out of place among the production trucks, Diana’s Mercedes and my Jaguar. It’s like a sparrow among peacocks.

The car pulls up and parks. I stand and wait for my so-called-love.

A tall, thin man wearing a black suit gets out first. His hair is bone white and his face could sour milk. He takes in the elaborate set with obvious disgust. His gaze lands on me and his mouth twists like he's tasting something rotten. I’m guessing this must be the preacher who is going to marry us. Yay.

Jonah's parents follow, both in the same Sunday best that they were wearing yesterday. His mother clutches his father's arm, eyes wide. His father just looks tired.

Then Jonah.

Fuck me.

He's in light blue that makes his skin glow, hair actually styled instead of that usual home cut. Someone's already gotten to him—probably Diana's doing. But underneath the polish, he's still pure church mouse. His shoulders are tense and his hands are clenched. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.

His scent hits me from across the lawn. My body responds immediately. I want to stride over there and—

"Alexander!" Diana's voice cracks like a whip. "Into place please. We want these shots out to the magazines by thisevening. No time for your dilly-dallying.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and make my way over to the ‘picnic’.

I don’t look behind me but I am hyperaware of Jonah following me behind me.

When we reach the blanket, he doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t even look at me.

The lead photographer, Mando Shar, has been on the scene for years. I wonder how much Diana spent getting him here at such short notice. He’s famous enough that he gets to pick and choose his celebrity subjects. I’d have thought this kind of thing was beneath him.

Shar is as annoying as I always imagined him to be. He’s wearing a black on black outfit and exuding energy like a hummingbird on cocaine. He starts directing us immediately.

"Both of you down on the blanket," he announces, hands already framing shots. "I’m looking for stolen moments. Intimate but innocent. Like you've snuck away from your families for a private, intimate picnic."

I snort. What private, intimate picnic involves an ice swan? Beside me, I feel Jonah tense.

“Something wrong, Mr Wells?”

“It’s not exactly private with so many people watching."

I laugh. He’s not wrong. Next to me, Jonah bristles.