Page 3 of Omega in Love
My hand moves before I can stop it. Before I can think better of it. I grab his wrist, fast and sharp and way too tight, my fingers digging in with a desperation I didn't know I possessed.
He flinches slightly and his hazel eyes widen, reflecting the dim light from the hallway.
I pull back instantly, guilt flooding my chest, hot and suffocating. "I—sorry. I didn't mean to—" The words tumble out, clumsy and broken. "I shouldn't have grabbed you like that."
"It's okay," Hero says, still crouched beside me, not pulling away. His voice is gentle, that deep rumble that somehow never feels threatening. "You're okay. I'm not going anywhere if you need me."
Staring at the space beside me on the mattress, at the rumpled sheets and the indentation where he'd been sitting. My fingers tremble in my lap, and I try to hide them in the folds of the blanket. Everything in me wants to shove this moment back inside; to pretend I don't need anything. To maintain the careful distance I've built.
I do need something. I need someone. Yet to admit it feels like falling off a cliff.
"Will you. . ." I swallow, the words thick and clumsy in my throat. My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, small and vulnerable in a way I hate. "Will you stay? Just for a little while." It's barely a whisper. My throat burns just saying it, as if the request itself is painful to voice.
Hero blinks. I can see the shift in his face. The flicker of surprise is quickly replaced with something warmer. Something solid. Something I'm afraid to name.
He nods once, a single decisive movement. "Yeah, of course. As long as you want."
As he stands, I catch movement in the doorway. The door is cracked just enough to see Levi posted outside, his broad shoulders braced against the frame, massive arms crossed over his chest. Watching. Not intruding. Just there. A silent sentinel with eyes that see too much.
He meets my gaze, those deep brown eyes soft with understanding. Doesn't say a word but his dimples appear briefly, a ghost of reassurance.
When Hero crawls onto the bed, settling carefully beside me, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that I can feel his warmth, Levi's gaze flicks to him. He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, then closes the door with a soft click, leaving us in darkness broken only by the faint glow of moonlight through the curtains.
The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but heavy with things unsaid.
I don't turn toward Hero. I don't touch him. I focus on the steady rhythm of his breathing. The warmth of him beside me, solid and real. The subtle scent of sandalwood that always clings to his skin, grounding me in the present. For the first time in a long time, I don't feel completely alone in the darkness.
"Thank you," I whisper, the words barely audible even to my own ears.
A beat passes and my body begins to relax into the mattress, muscles unclenching one by one. The nightmare recedes, not completely gone but no longer pressing against my skin. Then I hear it, soft, low, right at the edge of sleep, Hero's voice a gentle rumble in the darkness.
"Anything for you. Always."
I'm not sure if I imagined it. If it was real or just another dream, but it was kinder than the last.
I let myself believe it anyway. Just for tonight.
For the first time in weeks, I drift back into sleep without drowning in darkness, anchored by the steady presence beside me and the knowledge that someone has chosen to watch over me.
Chapter 1
Brookes
Flashes pop, the click-clack of the camera burns white-hot bursts behind my eyelids. It's blinding, and familiar. Like lightning in a bottle, captured and released with each snap of the shutter. The heat of the studio lights prickles against my skin, beads of sweat threaten to ruin the careful artistry painted across my body.
"Hold that pose! Beautiful, yes, right there. Brookes, give me more chin. There we go. Magic!"
I don't blink. I've trained myself not to. Each flash costs thousands, each frame is worth more than what most people make in a month. I'm a product, carefully packaged and positioned to sell a fantasy.
I breathe in through my nose, hold it, and shift my weight just enough to tilt my hip toward the light. The body paint on my skin glimmers with the movement—gold leaf and glitter streaked across my chest and arms like tropical war paint. The metallic flecks catch the light, transforming my brown skin into something otherworldly, something untouchable. Ferns brush against my legs as I stand barefoot in the middle of the set, half-draped in gauzy linen that barely hides anything. The fabricwhispers against my thighs, cool and ephemeral, a ghost of modesty.
Tropical fantasy. Runway couture. My job. My armor.
They tell me I'm stunning, radiant, god-tier beautiful. The photographers, the stylists, the creative directors, they all look at me with that same hunger in their eyes. Wanting to capture, to possess, to own a piece of what they see. I smile for them. I pose. I smolder. I become what they need me to be. I'm their canvas, a concept. A carefully constructed illusion of desire and perfection.
Inside though?
Inside I'm somewhere else entirely. Somewhere far away from the jungle set and the artificial mist being pumped into the air. Somewhere safe, if such a place even exists anymore.
