Page 15 of Omega in Love
"Chin down! Right arm, up. Yes, more! Beautiful Brookes. Now drop your shoulder! Give me that magic!" The photographer shouts, his enthusiasm almost manic as he circles, crouching then standing, seeking the perfect angle. Brookes goes with it, his body responding with practiced precision to each command, but I can tell he isn't fully there. His eyes flicker occasionally to the growing crowd, a momentary break in his professional mask that only someone watching as closely as I am would notice.
He's stiff from tension that radiates from him in waves more palpable than those lapping at his thighs. His fingers twitch when they're supposed to be relaxed, curling slightly as if ready to form fists. His smile is a touch too tight, not reaching his eyes the way it does when he's genuinely at ease. His scent is sweet, sure, but tinged with something sharp now that carries on the salt-laden air. Overripe roses, a sure sign of his anxiety spiking. It's a subtle change, but to me, it might as well be a siren blaring across the beach.
I clock every single variable: the crowd gathered just beyond the safety ropes, phones raised like weapons; the press lingering behind tinted sunglasses, pretending to be tourists but hungry for a story; the click-click-click of not just the official camera but others, too many others. I catalog each face, each movement, each potential threat with the practiced vigilance that's become second nature since we took this assignment.
Hero's pacing the edge of the cordon, sunglasses low on his nose, eyes hard and scanning. His fingers twitch occasionally near his hip, a habit from his military days. Dante's in a forced conversation with the lead shoot manager, his jaw tight as he tries to tighten up protocol, gesturing toward the flimsy barriers with barely contained frustration. Me? I don't move. I don't blink. I don't breathe unless Brookes does. My focus is absolute, unwavering, fixed on the beautiful man posing in the shallowwater, trying to pretend he's comfortable when I can smell his fear from here.
He's not okay. Not by a long shot.
I know the exact moment it tips from manageable to too much. His shoulders sag just a hair too far, a microscopic tell that most would miss. His mouth falters between frames, the practiced smile slipping for just a fraction of a second. A small tremor runs through his fingers when they should be elegantly poised. Then the photographer claps loudly, signaling the end of the session, and the world unravels like a poorly sewn seam.
Camilla is already halfway to him, makeup case slung over her shoulder, her small frame moving with purpose across the sand, motioning for him to follow. "We'll reset you in the tent, Sweets! Come on, watch the towel. Shit, someone grab a towel!" Her voice carries, sharp with professional urgency that masks genuine concern.
Brookes moves toward her, head down, trying to keep it together. Water drips from his perfect form, catching sunlight like diamonds. I start forward, muscles coiled and ready to meet them halfway. My eyes never leave him, tracking every subtle shift in his posture, every hint of distress in his expression.
Suddenly, without warning, the crowd shifts like a living organism. Spectators surge closer for one last glimpse, their excitement turning predatory. The parameter security guards are too slow to respond. A pair of paparazzi leap the ropes with practiced agility, cameras already firing, and that's all it takes for chaos to erupt.
Brookes disappears, swallowed up by the hoard of bodies and flashing lights, his rose scent spiking with terror that hits me like a physical blow.
"Brookes!" Camilla shouts, her voice piercing through the chaos. I hear her desperate cry before I even spot her in the crowd. She's frantically trying to push through the wallof bodies, her small frame bouncing off photographers and onlookers like a pinball. "Where the hell is security?! Someone do your damn job!"
My vision narrows instantly, tunneling down to a single focus. Everything else around me, the beach, the ocean, the equipment fades into a meaningless blur. All I can see is the flash of Brookes’ hair, the way his beautiful features have frozen in raw panic as the bodies close in around him, trapping him like they’re wolves circling a wounded animal.
Then the questions start hammering at him. Fast. Ruthless. Merciless.
"Brookes, is it true you knew about Charlotte's mission before it happened?"
"Were you kidnapped specifically to be trafficked too, or was it just revenge?"
"Will you ever walk New York Fashion Week again? Has this affected your career?"
"Did you know about Blaine's trial date being set? Are you planning on testifying against him?"
They're hounding him like he's prey, like he's nothing but a headline, like he's not a person with wounds still healing. His panic only heightens his rose scent, making it sharper, more distressed. If there are any uncontrolled Alphas amongst this rabid crowd, we may have an even bigger problem on our hands. I won't hesitate to shoot first if anyone makes a move toward him, and I sure as hell won't ask for forgiveness afterward. His scent spikes again, cutting through the heavy mixture of sunscreen, sweat, and ocean salt. He's completely frozen as they continue to bombard him with questions that tear at his worst memories.
I shove through the bodies without hesitation or gentleness, using my size to create a path. Cameras whip toward me, people shouting, some even trying to physically block my way with theirbodies or equipment. I don't care. I don't fucking care about any of them.
When I finally reach him, my heart nearly stops. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, lips parted in silent panic, chest heaving like he can't get enough air into his lungs. His hands are clutching at nothing, trembling visibly. Without a second thought, I wrap one strong arm around his waist, slide the other under his legs, and lift him clean off the sand, cradling him protectively against my chest.
"Back off!" I bark, the sound low and feral, a primal warning that makes several people stumble backward.
The press is snapping faster now, cameras clicking like hungry insects. The headlines will write themselves. Brookes Daniels carried out of a shoot by his Alpha, the fallen supermodel's breakdown on full display. Let them. I'll shoulder every bit of the fallout, every sensationalized story, every invasive speculation. What I absolutely will not take is another second of him feeling like this—exposed, vulnerable, hunted.
His fists tangle desperately in my shirt as I carry him across the scorching sand, knuckles white with tension. His breathing stutters against my collarbone, short, shallow gasps that tear at all my protective instincts. Hero's in front of us now, his lean form carving a protective path through the remaining vultures, his expression coldly professional but eyes blazing with barely contained fury. Dante's already got the SUV running, engine growling impatiently at the curb.
I slide in first, carefully maneuvering Brookes’ trembling body, still cradling him in my lap like the precious cargo he is. His weight settles against me, familiar and fragile all at once. Hero slams the door shut behind us with enough force to rock the vehicle, sealing us away from the chaos outside.
"It's okay," I whisper, pressing a steady hand to the back of his head, feeling the softness of his hair against my callousedpalm. "You're okay. You're out. I've got you." The words feel inadequate against the magnitude of what just happened, but I repeat them anyway, a gentle mantra for us both.
His breath hitches against my chest, and for a second, I think he's going to cry, but he doesn't. He just curls tighter into me, face buried against my chest as though trying to disappear entirely, fingers still visibly shaking where they clutch my arm. The rose scent of him is distorted by fear, smelling more wilted petals instead of fresh bloom.
I stroke his hair gently, over and over, the repetitive motion as much to calm myself as him. My heart is still slamming against my ribs like a caged animal. His scent is still too sharp, too laced with panic but he's here, in my arms, and safe. Far away from those who would tear him apart for a story, for their moment of fame built on his trauma.
Dante's in the front seat, giving rapid-fire orders into the comm to Dez. His voice is low, controlled, but I can hear the underlying tension. The last thing we need is for this to reach national news without telling him first. He's our boss and will have our backs with the fallout. The media would have a field day with Brookes’ panic attack, twisting it into something sensational and cruel. Hero is beside him, knuckles white against the door, his normally calm demeanor replaced with a stillness that radiates danger.
"I'm sorry," Brookes whispers, voice hoarse and broken against my chest. "I didn't mean to. It just happened. I thought I could handle it."
"No." I cut him off softly, cupping the back of his head protectively. "You don't apologize for being overwhelmed. Not to me. Not to us. Not ever."
