Page 41 of Omega in Love
"They want me at the trial. The prosecutor thinks my statement could seal the deal. Charlotte thinks they may allow me to film my testimony under oath. I don't think I can face it all," he'd whispered, and something in my chest had constricted painfully. I'd watched his face drain of color, his eyes go distant, that haunted look I'd promised myself I'd never let return.
The ‘they’ was clear. The federal prosecutors building their case against Senator Blaine, the man who'd ordered Brookes’ abduction as retaliation for supporting Charlotte's omega rights activism. The man responsible for attempting to traffic Charlotte. The man whose name still makes Brookes’ scent shift from roses to something sharper, more acidic.
I hadn't spoken then. Levi had wrapped his arms around Brookes immediately, and Dante had started firing questions about security protocols. I'd simply watched, noting how Brookes’ pulse fluttered at his throat, how his scent soured with fear beneath the roses. I'd catalogued every micro expression, every tremor, storing them away, intelligence to be analyzed later when I could formulate a response that would actually help.
What followed were weeks of preparation. Extra sessions with Dr. Kendrick. Contingency plans built on contingency plans. Countless reassurances whispered into his hair in the early hours of the morning when nightmares jolted him awake. The three of us taking shifts, ensuring Brookes was never alone unless he explicitly asked for space. Memorizing exit routes, safe houses, establishing code words and emergency protocols that became second nature.
Now, as we pull into the private hangar, I study him again. He's wearing what I've come to recognize as his armor, designerclothes that make him look untouchable, sunglasses that hide his eyes. The perfectly tailored suit that creates distance, the carefully styled hair that says, ‘don't touch’, but beneath that carefully constructed facade, I can see the softness that makes him Brookes. The way he leans almost imperceptibly toward Levi. The slight tremor in his fingers as he checks his phone. The barely audible sigh he releases when he thinks no one's listening.
"Perimeter's clear," Dante announces, and I nod. We've been over this choreography a thousand times. Each movement calculated, each position strategically planned for maximum security with minimal visibility.
I exit first, scanning methodically before opening Brookes’ door. My eyes sweep the hangar, checking shadows, sightlines, a habit ingrained from years of extraction operations. The moment stretches between us as I offer my hand. His fingers wrap around mine, warm and surprisingly steady.
"Ready, Heart?" I ask, voice pitched low enough that only he can hear. The endearment slips out unplanned, unguarded, a small crack in my professional veneer.
He slides his sunglasses up, meeting my eyes directly. Those brown eyes that hold more courage than he gives himself credit for. "As I'll ever be."
The scent of roses intensifies briefly, not distress, just Brookes. I squeeze his hand once before releasing it.
On the tarmac, the jet waits, sleek, white, ready. Another piece in our protection plan. No commercial flights, no publicity, nothing that would announce his arrival in New York.
Once aboard, something in Brookes shifts. Perhaps it's the privacy, the knowledge that we're sealed away from the world for the next five hours. His shoulders drop a fraction. He removes his sunglasses, tucking them into his bag with a delicate precision that speaks volumes about how he values even the smallest things he owns.
"Anyone need a drink?" Levi asks, already moving toward the small bar, his large frame navigating the cabin with surprising grace.
"God, yes," Brookes says with a theatrical sigh that carries the weight of the morning's tension. "Something obscenely expensive that will scandalize my publicist. Maybe with bubbles. Definitely with regret."
It's the first joke he's made all day. The sound of it hangs in the air like a fragile, beautiful thing. Dante chuckles, low and warm, as he settles into the seat across from Brookes, his imposing frame somehow making the luxury seat look modest. "So. . .water?"
Brookes’ laugh surprises even him, I can tell by the way his eyes widen slightly, as though he's caught himself feeling something unexpected. "You're a menace, Alvarez. Absolute worst. Zero stars."
The knot in my chest loosens marginally. I take my position by the window and watch Levi return with drinks balanced expertly in his hands. Dante pulls out a deck of cards with practiced fingers, as Brookes curls his legs beneath him and leans forward with interest, his entire being suddenly animated in a way I haven't seen in weeks.
"Prepare to be destroyed," Brookes announces, accepting the cards Dante deals with a flourish. His fingers dance over them, arranging, calculating. "I've been practicing."
"With who?" Levi asks, grinning, dimples appearing like punctuation marks in his expression. "Your reflection?"
"That's between me and my mirror, thank you very much. We have a very intimate relationship. She tells me I'm pretty, I agree wholeheartedly."
For the next hour, I let myself fade into the background, content to observe. This is what I do best, watch, analyze, protect. Catalogue every micro-expression, every shift in bodylanguage, every potential threat. Except right now, what I'm seeing fills me with cautious hope instead of tactical assessments.
Brookes’ laugh becomes more frequent, less guarded. The sound of it fills the cabin like music. At one point, he kicks off his shoes haphazardly, and props his feet in Levi's lap without hesitation, a casual intimacy that speaks volumes about how far we've come. When Dante wins a hand, Brookes dramatically flings himself back in his seat, arm draped across his forehead like a mock Victorian maiden in distress, and the scent of roses fills the cabin, bright, happy, almost intoxicating.
For a moment, just a moment, I can almost forget why we're flying east. Can almost pretend we're just four people enjoying each other's company at 30,000 feet, with no shadows chasing us across state lines.
"Hero," Brookes calls, breaking my reverie, his voice carrying a playful challenge. "Stop lurking and come lose money with us. Your brooding silhouette is affecting my concentration."
I raise an eyebrow, meeting his gaze directly. "I don't lose."
"Promises, promises," he teases, eyes sparkling with mischief, and something warm settles in my chest, spreading outward like a sunrise. This playfulness, it's new. A gift I hadn't expected today, hadn't dared to hope for amid the tension of our departure.
I join them, sliding into the remaining seat, accepting the cards Dante deals without comment. Beneath the table, Brookes’ foot nudges mine, deliberate, almost mischievous, a secret communication between us. I don't react outwardly, maintaining the careful neutrality that's become my second skin, but I know he catches the slight uptick in my scent. Later baby, I say without saying, a slight lift of my brows, a promise contained in the smallest of gestures.
The flight passes in this bubble of almost-normality, cards and drinks and conversation flowing easily, and I find myself wishing it wouldn't end, that we could stay suspended here, where Brookes laughs freely and the world can't touch him but all too soon, the captain announces our descent into JFK, and reality waits for us on the ground below.
Brookes’ scent shifts instantly, roses sharpening with anxiety. I catch his eye across the table.
"I've got you," I say, just like I have a hundred times before. "We all do."
