I'd accidentally gotten us lost on the way to the portrait gallery, a room I'd only seen on my tour with Beatrice, and Adelaide had quipped that I'd never learn my way around the world if I kept my nose in a book as I walked. When I explained that we'd just attended the Flight of Alphas, she nodded sagely and declared that must be why I looked so wind-chafed and weary, and what an overwhelming and intimidating experience it must've been for me. When I tried to settle us in the library for tea, she'd moaned about the smell of mold and how it would "cling" to her if she spent too long there, as I must always do.

The words did sting, like little mosquito pricks of discomfort, delivering the lingering itch of irritation and urge to retaliate. But they didn't hurt.

For the first time in our lives, Adelaide had lost and I had won. We'd never been in a competition before, not really. As far as our society was concerned, Adelaide was too far above me. I suspected the real reason behind her targeted attack was not so much the loss of Ronson to me, but that it was driving her mad to not know why he had chosen me.

I was glad she didn't know. It would've been the only weapon she might've used to really hurt me. The truth. That if Ronson hadn't learned of her planned deception, he would've chosen Adelaide.

He was lucky to have discovered it—he told me so often enough, and of course it was true. And I was starting to believe that there was something between us that no one else, no other more perfect omega, might've had with him.

Still, if not for that brief moment in the woods, the whispered plot and my stumbling blindly into Ronson's arms, Ronson would not have seen the mistake he was about to make…and he would not have seen me at all.

That did hurt, softly and deeply—an open wound at the very heart of me that Ronson unknowingly staunched when we were alone. It was hard to imagine Ronson wanting anyone else when he spoke words of praise and perfect, explicit filth in my ear.

But he'd almost made a different choice.

"Speaking of family," Adelaide started, rallying and straightening her shoulders. Her hand lifted from her side, hovering over her belly, and a nervous sinking weight settled in my chest. But the fates were looking after me, and the door from the hall opened into the parlor.

I couldn't help myself. I released an audible sigh at the sight of my alpha in the doorway, my cheeks warming at the way his stare fixed to me without so much as a flick of acknowledgement in the other omega's direction.

"Our meeting is concluded," Ronson said.

"I spoke to Cook. Our guests will remain for dinner," I answered, smiling at Ronson's scowl. "Beatrice is seeing that rooms are prepared for their stay."

"Their stay?" Ronson repeated, an eyebrow arching.

"For the night," I said, nodding.

Ronson prowled into the room, and I noted the way Adelaide shrank away from him slightly. I didn't understand how—I could barely keep myself from swooning into his chest as he neared. Behind him, Niall and the four betas we'd found upon our arrival stepped inside.

"You're in luck, Palmer. My omega is far more gracious than I. You'll have time to continue haranguing me over dinner," Ronson said, but he didn't bother looking over his shoulder at the beta.

I did, and what I saw left me wondering if I hadn't made a mistake. Palmer and Gamesby shared a smug, satisfied expression. Which meant whatever they'd come for, I'd given them the opportunity to still pursue.

"Niall will show you the way," Ronson said as his arm fastened around my waist, holding me firmly to his side. Adelaide was staring at where he held me, a puzzled frown on her lips, but she followed when Gamesby called for her, a peevish bite of her name, and the party filed out of the room.

"They're up to something," I whispered when Ronson and I were alone.

"Of course they are," he said, spinning me to face him and then crowding me backward.

I knew that hint of heat in his black eyes, the spark of fire in the depth of his irises warning me of his hunger.

I laughed and planted my hands on his chest, trying to slow him as he backed me against the wall. "Ronson!"

He rumbled pleasantly, hunching and surrounding me. "They heard about Millward's scheme for a pearl farming endeavor, and they claim they want the right to do the same."

I frowned and shook my head. "That can't be all."

"It certainly can't," Ronson agreed, hands sliding around my waist and down to grip my bottom, tugging my hips to press to his. "I don't want you alone with any of them."

"I won't be⁠—"

"Not even what's-her-face, Annabelle."

I pursed my lips and tipped my head. Did he really not remember her name, or did he know that would please me? Does it matter?

Ronson growled and ducked his head, teeth gently claiming my bottom lip. "You remain at mine or Niall's side tonight. Drink and eat nothing they hand you."

"You're worried they mean to harm me?" I asked, eyebrows raising.

"It's what I'd expect from a coward like Gamesby," Ronson muttered.

"I shouldn't have invited them to stay. We could change our minds?"

Ronson sighed, leaning into me, and his hands on my ass slid up to stroke my back. "No, you did precisely what an alpha's omega should. We'd be foolish to pretend they aren't a threat but just as foolish to show fear. And we have extra allies on hand tonight too. Millward and Buchanan aren't just here to defend their pearl farm. Come, we'll dress for dinner together." He stepped back, offering me his arm, a half-smile on his lips.

"More dresses from Miss Pettyfer arrived while we were gone."

Ronson purred. "Then I at least have something to look forward to tonight—unwrapping you."

Dinner was tense but harmless. Palmer and Gamesby made a show of wheedling Ronson over the pearl farm plan, but anyone could see it was pointless. They had no one who knew the process, and they had no need to ask Ronson for the capital when it was obvious they could provide it on their own.

In between snide jabs about favoritism, Ronson's restrictive measures against mining, and appropriate pay for farmers, Gamesby made an entirely different case.

"Don't eat that, love," he said, scooping a plate of fish out from under Adelaide's nose. "You know it won't sit well with you."

"Not another glass, my darling. You really shouldn't, you know," he said, shooing a servant away from Adelaide's wine goblet.

And with rude, snapping fingers raised in the air, "You look flushed! The fire is too warm for you. Open a window."

I knew what Gamesby was almost shouting at in his hints, what Adelaide had started to tell me before we were interrupted. What was funny was that Ronson was absolutely oblivious to the performance in front of him. When he wasn't batting away Palmer's petty arguments, he was simply enjoying his dinner, speaking with Gideon Millward, watching me with a hooded and warm gaze—the one I'd mistaken for a dark glare at our first acquaintance.

Gamesby was growing impatient.

It was Adelaide who fascinated me. She was not the effervescent girl of cozy parlors and garden picnics now. She appeared dwarfed by our surroundings, washed out by dark stone and glittering candlelight. Had she changed since the selection ceremony, or was I seeing her through new eyes? Even she seemed irritated by Gamesby's charade, although she caught his hand after the finger-snapping incident and gave us all a reprieve, holding him in his seat with a gentle glare.