“Promise?”
I look at him again. His brow is creased and concern wrinkles the corners of his eyes. I wonder if he’s thought about last as a fluke, too, and like it’ll all fall apart again. “I promise. Maybe we’re both being stubborn, but I wantthiswith you three just asmuch as I did before. But you can’t be there for this if you don’t heal your leg. So please take it easy.”
Fowler nods again. “Noted, no more long walks after this morning.”
I lay my head on his shoulder as we walk toward the arena. “Thank you. If I don’t catch you and Zev tonight after the show, I’ll make sure Connor and I make it over tomorrow.”
He kisses the top of my head. “I look forward to it.”
We slowly walk the rest of the way to the arena. By the time Fowler’s dropped me off and is heading toward his truck, he’s limping even heavier. One crutch willnotcut it. But I see the second one poking out of the back seat.
I wave as he drives away, then head inside for rehearsal.
Rehearsals bleedinto showtime with a slow inevitability. By the time we’re getting ready for performance number two for today, I’m already half-feral from nerves and caffeine, holed up in the cast dressing room with my tiara and sequins. The air in here is thick with hair spray and floral perfume.
I’m in front of the mirror at my ready space in the dressing room, redoing my eyeliner for the third time, when the door opens and Connor steps in. He’s still in warmups—navy joggers, black logo pullover— from between the shows, but he’s already in full Prince mode.
Then I see it. A bouquet of pink and purple flowers in one hand. The floral scent isn’t quite strong enough to block his peppermint scent, but it comes close.
“Hey.” His soft voice is barely loud enough for anyone else to overhear even if there’s practically no way the bouquet will go unnoticed. “For the Princess.”
“Connor, these are beautiful.” I take them automatically, almost dropping them because of course my hands are trembling. “Thank you.”
A sheepish grin lights up his face. “You’re welcome. Figured maybe I could liven up your ready space here.”
“That’s very thoughtful.” I brush a lock of hair behind my ear and set up the bouquet in one corner. I’ll take them home after the show and find them a perfect vase. But for now, they do brighten up the space. “You’re all making my day today, I have to admit.”
Connor just winks and leaves as if there’s more to come. Never in my life did I think I’d accept surprises from these three alphas, but here I am excited for more.
The backstage wingsare pure chaos. Props tumble past, costumed extras jostle for position, and the lighting techs curse at each other in a language only they understand. The rink itself glows blue-white under a galaxy of spotlights, the surface so pristine it looks unreal. From this angle, the crowd is a blur of colors and camera flashes, thirty thousand strangers crammed into the arena, every face turned toward the story about to unfold.
Connor is at my side, now in full costume: tailored navy jacket, gold braid, knee-high boots that make him look even taller. His hair is slicked back, eyes laser-focused on the center circle. The peppermint is stronger now, chasing away my own rose scent, which embarrassingly refuses to fade.
We wait for our cue. My heart hammers loud enough I’m sure he can hear it.
“Hey,” Connor says, turning to me. “Don’t lock your knees during the spin. And if you feel shaky on the lift, just signal me. I’ll adjust.”
“Okay,” I say, voice breathless.
He leans in, lips right next to my ear. “And don’t forget to smile. You’re the Princess.”
I want to say something snarky, but my brain short-circuits. Instead, I nod and hope it looks more confident than it feels.
The overture swells, and suddenly we’re in motion—gliding out onto the ice together, every eye in the place on us. The story is simple: a Princess, trapped in a dream; a Prince, doomed to fight through illusions to save her. It’s every fairy tale ever, but tonight it feels personal, like someone wrote it just for us.
Connor’s grip on my waist is secure, almost possessive. We spin and leap and trade lines, and every time he lifts me, I swear he’s holding back, afraid I’ll slip through his fingers if he tries too hard. We’re supposed to act out falling in love, but I can feel the real thing pulsing underneath. I see it in the way his eyes soften when I laugh, or the way he touches my hand between steps, like he’s checking that I’m really here.
The alpha/omega pull is a living thing, a current sparking between us. I catch the cast members watching from the wings, Zev especially, his gaze following every move with a weird mixture of pride and regret. Fowler, somewhere in the dark, is probably biting his knuckle to keep from yelling. The whole rink smells like sugar and peppermint and roses, and I know, on a primal level, that every person in this arena can sense what’s happening between us.
We hit the climax: the final sequence, the famous “heart’s awakening” spin, and then the kiss. It’s supposed to be staged, a brief touch, nothing scandalous.
Except it isn’t.
Connor’s hand finds the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. His lips brush mine, and I go rigid from the shock of it. For a second, everything is gone: the lights, the music, the crowd. It’s just the taste of peppermint and the heat of his mouth on mine, soft and then hungry, like he’s wanted this forever and is only just now letting himself have it.
The world snaps back into focus to the sound of the audience erupting. It’s not polite applause. It’s a full-throated, standing ovation, people on their feet, the sound so loud it makes my chest ache. I pull away, dizzy and breathless, and Connor is grinning like a fool, cheeks flushed, eyes so bright it’s almost painful to look at him.
We bow together, and I’m barely holding it together, because everything in me wants to drag him backstage and do it again, a hundred times, until I can’t feel anything but him. But there’s still a story to finish, lines to deliver, a curtain to close.
