Page 4 of Omega in Love
The lights don't stop flashing as my mind drifts, just for a second, back to this morning. The cold side of the bed. The faint impression of Hero's body still pressed into the sheets, long gone before sunrise. The hollow where his weight had been, a physical memory of comfort that vanished too quickly.
"Anything for you. Always."
I don't know if he said it. Maybe it was part of a dream. Maybe it was wishful thinking from a half-broken brain that can't tell the difference between comfort and hallucination. Maybe it was real, whispered against my temple while I attempted to forget thrashing against invisible hands. Or fighting shadows that never quite leave me alone when the lights go out.
I’d woken up with his scent on the pillow, the rich sandalwood that had become synonymous with safety in my mind. My throat raw from screaming, my hands clenched into the sheets like I'd been trying to hold something that slipped through anyway. The cotton had been twisted into ropesbetween my fingers, wrinkled evidence of another night spent battling demons.
There was no one beside me. Only silence, heavy and thick, like a blanket thrown over my head.
Breakfast had been waiting in the kitchen like nothing had happened. Like I hadn't shattered the night with my terrors again.
"Perfect, Brookes! Yes! Keep that energy. Give me wild, babes. Think untamed, jungle god. That's it! Channel that intensity!" The photographer yells as he continues to take shot after shot.
I exhale, arch my back, shoot him a broody smirk in unspoken understanding. Tilt my head just so, letting the shadow play across my collarbones, accentuating the hollows nature gave me and makeup enhanced. My body knows the language even when my mind is elsewhere.
My knees ache from holding this position. My skin itches under the layers of paint, the adhesive slowly tightening as it dries. Glitter is clinging to places I'll be scrubbing for days, working its way into every crease and fold. None of it shows. I've mastered the art of stillness, of selling a fantasy while drowning under the surface. I appear serene while counting exits, tracking movements, cataloging every person who enters the room.
Because this is who I am now. This is what I do. This is how I survive. This is the only thing I've ever been truly good at; becoming whatever others need to see.
I scan the set without turning my head. Just a flick of my gaze, quick and subtle. It's instinct at this point. A reflex as natural as breathing, as necessary as oxygen.
Hero is at the door, one hand pressed to his earpiece, his hazel eyes sweeping the room in a continuous, practiced pattern. He's murmuring something low, probably checking in with Dante or Levi. His stance is loose but calculated, ready to moveat the slightest hint of a threat. He doesn't move much during my shoots, doesn't need to. His presence alone is enough to keep the chaos at bay. Six-foot-five of quiet vigilance, his light brown skin catching the studio lights, his curly hair cropped close to his scalp.
Dante is posted up a few paces behind the photographer. Sunglasses on indoors like always, hiding those penetrating green eyes that miss nothing. Arms folded tight across his chest, body like a slab of stone, immovable and imposing. His golden-brown skin seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, as if he's determined to be the shadow rather than the subject. He's watching everything, the crew, the lights, and the exits. The way his jaw tightens when someone moves too quickly in my direction. The subtle shift of his weight when the photographer gets too close. It is almost laughable, the level of security I have.
Levi stands near the window, where the natural light pours in like it belongs to him. His dark brown skin glows in the sunlight, those deep dimples hidden now behind a mask of professional detachment. Calm. Casual. No one gets past him. No one ever does. His eyes, dangerously observant, track every movement, every potential threat, while his massive frame blocks the most vulnerable entry point in the room.
My three points of security. Three anchors in a world that tried to sweep me away.
They always form a triangle around me, strategic, silent, steady. A formation as practiced as my poses, as deliberate as the lighting setup. They've turned protection into an art form, their bodies a living barrier between me and anything that might hurt me again.
I didn't ask for it. Not at first. Charlotte would have never let me leave New York without them. I fought against it, railed against their constant presence, the reminder of why I needed them in the first place. I've come to need them more thanI'll ever admit. More than my pride can acknowledge, even to myself.
If I can see them, I'm safe.
If I lose sight of even one, my chest tightens, my throat locks, and suddenly I’m in a warehouse again. Flashing lights replaced with fists and zip ties and the taste of blood. The smell of roses overwhelmed by fear and pain and the stench of strange alphas who thought they could break me. Who almost did.
So, I scan my surroundings and I breathe, just breathe. Counting down the seconds until they call it, until I can shed this skin of gold and glitter and return to the relative safety of walls and locks and watchful eyes.
"That's a wrap! Let's get our golden boy cleaned up," the photographer shouts to everyone in the room.
A robe is draped around my shoulders. The fabric is soft, plush against my skin, a welcome barrier between me and the world. My makeup artist, Camilla, approaches with practiced gentleness, her fingers light as she wipes sweat and glitter from my temples. She moves slowly, deliberately, never making sudden gestures, never getting too close without warning.
"Absolutely killed it today, babe," she says, smiling. Her voice is soft, calming, like she's talking to a spooked animal. Maybe she is. "Let's get you out of this shimmer hell and back into something breathable. The gold looks amazing, but I bet you're dying to wash it off."
I nod. I don't say much after shoots. Just fall into the routine. Words feel too heavy in my mouth, too difficult to form when my body is still vibrating with the effort of being seen, of being perfect under all those eyes.
Hero moves first, slipping out through the side door and holding it open like always. His eyes sweep the corridor before he nods once, signaling the all-clear. As I walk past, Camilla follows, still chattering softly about the shoot, about how thephotos will turn out, about anything that might distract me from the vulnerability of the moment. She knows better than to touch me without warning. Knows the exact tone to use. The exact distance to keep.
She's the only makeup artist I let near me now. After last time, my agency made sure she's the only one assigned to me. No more strangers. No more risks. No more hands on my face, my neck, my body without express permission and extensive vetting.
I still flinch sometimes. Still check over my shoulder when someone new steps into the room. Still have moments where a brush against my skin feels like a threat instead of artistry. With her, I can manage. I can breathe through it. I can pretend I'm whole.
I step into the dressing room and allow her to help me out of my war paint while I dress in my street clothes. The sooner I can leave the better. I will shower at home. Once done, I wave at Camilla and I'm following Hero out the door.
We walk together, through the building's back corridors, heading toward the private exit. The hallways are emptier now, cleared by security before we ever step foot in them. Dante joins us at the stairwell, his massive frame blocking most of the light. Levi waits by the SUV, already holding the back door open, his eyes constantly scanning, never still. The moment we step outside, the city's noise tries to pierce through, but they insulate me from it like armor. Three bodies between me and the world, three shields against the chaos.
Inside the car, I sink into the leather seat, close my eyes, and breathe. The scents of cedarwood, sandalwood, and vanilla surround me. Their scents mix into something that's become synonymous with safety in my mind. A chemical cocktail of protection.
