Page 26 of Omega in Love
"And now she can have me," Brookes says smoothly, passing his bag to Dante without looking. "These three come with me."
The woman, Sylvia, I remember from previous shoots, raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. By now, most of Brookes’ regular collaborators have grown used to us. Three Alphas hovering might seem excessive to outsiders, but after what happened in New York, nobody questions it too hard.
"Fine, but hurry. We're running behind schedule," she says frantically.
Brookes is whisked away to the makeup chair, and we position ourselves around the perimeter of the area. Close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to give him professional space. I lean against a concrete pillar, watching as Camilla transform Brookes’ already beautiful face into something otherworldly.
"He's going to need to eat after this," I say quietly to Hero, who nods.
"Already ordered lunch delivery for 2 PM. Should be here right after they wrap the first set."
This is how it's been, the three of us anticipating Brookes’ needs, sometimes before he knows them himself. Not because we're trying to control him or because we think he can't take care of himself. Because sometimes, when you love someone, you pay attention to the little things they forget when they're focused on the big picture.
Yes, I said love. I haven't said it out loud yet, none of us have, but it's there, growing steadier by the day. It's in the way Dante checks the locks twice before bed because he knows it helps Brookes sleep. It's in how Hero always keeps spare pain medication in his pocket for when Brookes’ old injuries flare up.It's in my compulsion to feed him, to nourish him, to remind him that his body deserves care after years of treating it like a commodity.
I'm pulled from my thoughts by a subtle shift in the air. It’s the same intensified rose scent I noticed earlier, now mingled with something almost like honey. I straighten, my gaze sharpening on Brookes in the makeup chair. He's shifting uncomfortably, a faint sheen on his forehead that Camilla dabs away with a tissue as she continues to gossip softly with Brookes.
"You feeling alright, hun?" she asks, and I strain to hear Brookes’ response.
"Just a little warm. Air conditioning in here is a joke," he says as he fans himself with his hand.
But the studio is actually quite cool. I exchange a glance with Dante, whose nostrils flare slightly. He's noticed it too.
"Pre-heat?" he mouths at me in question, brows raised, confirming my suspicions.
Well, shit. Today was going too well.
Chapter 12
Dante
The fragrance shoot continues, and Brookes is killing it. Even under the hot lights, he moves like every gesture is effortless, a natural extension of himself rather than choreography. The photographer keeps making these little sounds of approval, muttering "perfect" and "beautiful" under his breath as Brookes shifts from one pose to the next, his camera clicking rapidly to capture each nuanced movement.
Something's off. I can feel it in my gut, that sixth sense that's kept me alive through three combat tours and countless protection details.
I scan the room from my position near the back wall, methodically noting each exit, each person, each potential variable. The additional makeup artist hovering near the refreshment table. The lighting technician adjusting a softbox. Two assistants whispering in the corner. It's what I always do. I assess, calculate, prepare for every possible scenario. But today, my attention keeps snapping back to Brookes with an urgency that has nothing to do with standard protocol.
He's been holding it together like a pro for the past three hours. Smiling for the camera, hitting his marks with effortlessprecision, charming everyone on set with that easy laugh that never quite reaches his eyes when he's working. I don't miss how his hands tremble at his sides, just slightly, like the energy inside him has nowhere to go. The way he's blinking more frequently under the lights. How he keeps shifting his weight from one foot to another when he thinks no one's watching. His expression doesn't falter, but his scent does.
The roses are still there, always, but something deeper is rising beneath it now. Spiced honey and heat. Unmistakable. My nostrils flare involuntarily, and I have to force myself to maintain my position instead of moving closer.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath, feeling my pulse quicken despite years of training to control physiological responses.
Levi clocks it too from his position by the main entrance. His shoulders tense from across the room, eyes narrowing as he inhales deeply, confirming what I already know. Hero is already moving, subtle but decisive, repositioning near the back entrance, creating a triangulation around Brookes without drawing attention. We've all trained for moments like this, emergencies, panic attacks, potential threats. We've run drills, memorized protocols, and practiced extraction techniques until they became muscle memory. Unfortunately, this isn't something we can disarm or neutralize with tactical precision.
This is biological. This is a heat, coming on fast and unexpected, in the worst possible location. I've never experienced a heat up close, never been responsible for an Omega during one. Neither one of us have, so this is new territory. Dangerous territory, especially with the way my body is already responding to the change in his scent.
Brookes shifts again, weight wobbling as he tries to step into the next pose. His breathing is wrong, shallower, faster. Camilla says something to him, her voice concerned but soft, leaning closer with her makeup brush hesitating mid-air, and Brookesgives a tight shake of his head, a tremor running through his slender frame.
"Levi," I say low, stepping beside him, keeping my voice controlled despite the adrenaline starting to flood my system. "It's starting."
"I know." He's pale beneath his golden-brown skin, jaw clenched tight. "That's not the normal scent profile."
"No. It's not." I agree, fighting the instinct to move closer to Brookes, to shield him from every set of eyes currently trained on him.
We didn't expect it to happen here. Not now. Not under hot studio lights with twenty-plus strangers milling around, each one a potential threat in my hypervigilant mind.
We planned for this. Weeks ago, before lines blurred, before kisses and shared beds and whispered promises that still echo in my ears at night. We built a contingency plan for if Brookes went into heat while in public. Protocols. Extraction steps. Isolation setups. Safe houses and secure routes. Those plans didn't include us being emotionally, intimately entwined with him. They didn't account for how my heart would race not just from duty but from something deeper, more primal.
