Page 52 of Omega in Love
Not healed fully. That will take years, maybe a lifetime of careful tending. Like restoring something precious that was shattered, where you can still see the seams no matter how carefully you've pieced it back together.
Peace. Unmistakable peace. The first tentative breath after nearly drowning, when your lungs burn and your vision clears and you realize you've broken the surface. That moment when you understand survival wasn't just possible but has actually happened.
They did it. Against the odds, against the nightmares, against the whispers that said Omegas stood no chance against men with money and power.
They put him away. The monster who lurked beneath tailored suits and practiced smiles. The man whose name Brookes couldn't say for months without his rose scent souring into something sharp and acrid with fear. Finally, he is locked behind bars where he belongs.
They survived, and made sure no one else would ever have to endure what they did. They turned their pain into purpose, their trauma into testimony.
I glance at Levi and Dante, who are both watching Brookes with a kind of pride that cracks something open in my chest. Dante's eyes are suspiciously bright, and Levi doesn't bother hiding the tear that slides down his cheek, catching in his dimple before he wipes it away.
Charlotte steps back first, brushing a tear away with the pad of her thumb. "You good?" she asks him quietly, her voice thick with emotion.
Brookes nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah. I'm good."
He turns to us. His eyes land on mine, warm brown meeting hazel across the space between us. Something passes between us, an understanding that needs no words.
I nod, a silent acknowledgment of everything he is, everything he's survived, everything he's become.
That's a win, I think. Maybe the biggest one of all.
Chapter 24
Levi
Two Months Later
At first, I think I'm dreaming. A high-pitched wail slices through the house like a banshee on a caffeine bender, and for a second, I stay perfectly still in bed, waiting to see if it stops. It doesn't. Reaching out, I check for the warm bundle of Omega next to me and find the spot cold. Brookes isn't beside me.
I sit up instantly, heart hammering against my ribs, sheets tangled around my legs. The empty space where his warm body should be feels like a warning.
"Hero?" I call out, even though I already know. I heard the back door faintly creak open half an hour ago from the partial open window, the soft shuffle of his feet across the patio stones, the gentle click of the latch. Yoga hour. Right on schedule, predictable as sunrise.
Which means. . .
"Dante," I mutter, yanking on a T-shirt as I jog out of the bedroom and down the hall. My mind catalogs possibilities, electrical issues, security breach, or just Dante's endlesstinkering. "You better not be screwing around with the wiring again."
Another shrill beep cuts me off, piercing enough to make me wince.
Then comes the scent, something is burnt. Smoky. . .and eggs? The distinctive smell of scorched protein wafts up the stairs, confirming this isn't a drill or malfunction.
My bare feet hit the first step just as the front door bursts open and Dante barrels in, winded, half-dressed in a long-sleeved tee and cargo pants, face still damp from his morning run. "Is it a fire? Did someone break in? Where's—?" His hand hovers near his hip where his weapon would be.
"Kitchen," I growl, skipping the last two steps, momentum carrying me forward. "It's the damn kitchen."
"Brookes?" Dante says, eyes widening, voice dropping an octave with concern.
"God, please let that man still have his eyebrows," I mutter as we round the corner, visions of kitchen catastrophes flashing through my mind.
Hero swings through the patio door, mat tucked neatly under one arm, face serene despite the chaos, though I catch the slight tension in his shoulders. "It's not even eight," he says mildly. "Can't we have one morning?—?"
We all freeze in the kitchen doorway, a tableau of three Alphas braced for danger.
Smoke curls up toward the ceiling like a bad omen, thick gray tendrils dancing in the morning light streaming through the windows. The smoke alarm screams overhead, flashing red in urgent pulses.
I would laugh, but I hold back. Because there, in the center of it all, framed by a cloud of failure and pride, stands Brookes Daniels.
He's wearing one of my aprons. My pink apron. The one my sister sent as a joke last Christmas. It says Kiss the Chef in glittery cursive, and I've never actually worn the thing. The fabric bunches at his waist where he's double-knotted it, the hem falling mid-thigh on his slender frame.
