Page 8 of Omega in Love
I exchange a glance with Hero over Brookes’ bent head. We've developed a shorthand over the months of protecting him. A silent language of looks and subtle gestures that says more than words ever could. This particular look says:He's having a rough morning, but he's trying.Hero's hazel eyes soften almost imperceptibly in acknowledgment. He understands too.
I slide a plate of food in front of Hero, who accepts it with a grateful nod. We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being utensils against plates and the occasional sip of coffee. It's peaceful, domestic in a way that feels both strange and right.
We don't push Brookes unless it's necessary. We've learned that lesson the hard way. We each have our roles in keeping him safe, in helping him heal. Hero handles the logistics, the schedules, the professional boundaries—his mind always three steps ahead, anticipating problems before they materialize. Dante, who's probably still sleeping after his night shift, brings the humor, the distraction, the lightheartedness Brookes needs when things get too heavy. His jokes cut through tension like nothing else can.
Me, I make sure he eats. I notice when he's tired, when the shadows under his eyes deepen. I provide the quiet stability he pretends not to need but leans into anyway. I'm the one who leaves water by his bed without being asked, who remembers to stock his favorite tea, who sits with him in silence when nightmares wake him at 3 AM. Well, that's if Hero doesn't get to him first.
Some mornings I'm okay being the one who doesn't back down, because sometimes, caring for someone means not letting them get away with hurting themselves, even in small ways. Like skipping meals or avoiding therapy. The stubborn set of his shoulders tells me he's still resistant to the idea of his appointment tomorrow, but he'll go. We'll make sure of it.
As I watch Brookes finish his breakfast, slowly working his way through the food rather than just pushing it around, I feel a quiet satisfaction settle in my chest. It's not dramatic or flashy, this kind of protection. There are no bullets to dodge this morning, no threats to neutralize, just a beautiful man learning to trust again, one pancake at a time. It matters. It matters to me because my heart wouldn't have it any other way. I protect and nurture what's mine, even if Brookes doesn't know yet that's what he is.
Chapter 4
Dante
Icheck my watch for the fourth time in ten minutes, then glance back toward the glass door that swallowed Brookes twenty-three minutes ago. Twenty-four now. The seconds tick by with excruciating slowness, each one stretching like Laffy Taffy in the afternoon heat.
Dr. Kendrick runs a tight ship, punctual to the second. Hero loves that about him, calls it professional integrity. I'm just counting the minutes until I can put Brookes back in a place where he feels like himself again. Therapy is necessary. I get it. I've seen enough broken soldiers to know the value. The sessions scrape him raw, leave him vulnerable in ways that make my protective instincts flare hot beneath my skin. I hate to see him so deflated, even when he walks in with his chin held high and his sarcasm locked and loaded, eyes flashing with practiced defiance. I know how it guts him to speak those memories out loud, to revisit the darkness that still haunts him.
So, I wait, impatiently, to see what version of Brookes will emerge. Will it be the quiet, withdrawn one who'll stare out the car window for the entire ride home? Or the brittle, sharp-edgedone who'll fill the silence with cutting remarks to keep everyone at arm's length?
The car is parked around the corner, as per Hero's orders. In his opinion, the front of the building is too exposed with too many sightlines, too many variables we can't control. I don't disagree, though I still hate not having eyes on the entrance. My fingers tap an anxious rhythm against my thigh as I scan the street again, cataloging every potential threat.
Brookes has a large following on social media and is a celebrity in his own right. His face has graced magazine covers across the world, that delicate beauty both a blessing and a curse. With his best friend Charlotte's online blow up of her kidnapping, the explosive exposure of an Omega trafficking ring, and those involved, the spotlight has only intensified. Everyone knows what happened, not only to her, but to Brookes as well. The world knew about the kidnapping, the assault, the scars both visible and invisible.
Paparazzi are always hanging out in an attempt to get a shot of the now reclusive Omega supermodel, hungry vultures circling what they perceive as wounded prey. They don't understand that their cameras are like weapons to him now, each flash a trigger that sends him spiraling. Honestly, it only makes Brookes’ anxiety worse, feeds the paranoia that's become his constant companion. So, I will do whatever I can to lessen it, even if it means breaking a few cameras or fingers should anyone get too close to him today.
The door finally swings open and my heart settles as Brookes steps out, head down, designer sunglasses perched on his face despite the building's shadow. He moves with the practiced grace that made him famous. Each step deliberate, a glide, shoulders squared, chin lifted just so. I see what others miss though. The slight tremor in his hands. The way his jaw works. The tension running through his frame like a live wire. He'sholding himself together through sheer force of will, and my chest aches watching him try so hard to appear unaffected.
I fall into step beside him without comment, matching his pace instinctively. The silence between us feels heavy but familiar. He doesn't acknowledge me directly, but his body gravitates closer to mine. A subtle shift that's become routine when the world feels too sharp, too loud, too much. His rose scent carries notes of distress that make my protective Alpha instincts surge.
"I thought therapists were supposed to make you feel better," he mutters, voice tight with barely contained emotion.
"They are. First, they dig their fingers into all the bruises and poke around." I inject some lightness into my tone, trying to ease the heaviness I can feel radiating off him.
He huffs, a sound caught between amusement and frustration. "Well, Dr. Kendrick must be doing a fantastic job then."
"It will get better. It just takes time." I fish the car keys from my pocket, the metal warm against my palm. "Come on. Hero wants us back at the house."
He stops abruptly, and when I look back, there's that familiar spark of defiance flickering across his beautiful features. My lips threaten to curve upward at the sight. Even beaten down, he's still got that fire inside him, that stubborn streak that makes him uniquely Brookes.
"I don't want to go home yet," he declares, chin tilted in challenge.
"Hungry?" I ask, noting how his designer clothes hang a touch looser than they should.
He shrugs one elegant shoulder. "Not really. I have a feeling I don't have a say in the matter."
"Cool. You are correct." I can't help but smile now.
Once we're in the car, I drive halfway down the block when I deliberately turn right instead of heading toward home. He watches the scenery pass in silence, those long fingers idly tracing patterns on his thigh.
"You're deviating from Hero's master plan," he finally observes, a hint of curiosity coloring his tone.
"Yeah, well, Hero can kiss my ass. Today needs a plot twist."
The smile he gives me is small but genuine, a glimpse of his radiance. The sight of it hits me right in the chest, and I'd move mountains just to keep that spark alive in his eyes.
I pull into a spot I scoped out weeks ago during one of my routine security sweeps. It's perfectly positioned here, tucked between a quaint bookstore with weathered brick walls and a florist whose roses remind me of Brookes’ scent. The gelato shop, with its faded striped awning and hand-painted window signs, is run by an elderly Italian man named Giuseppe who doesn't ask questions and keeps to himself. He makes the best cinnamon gelato I've ever tasted outside of Italy. That's saying something because I've had real Italian gelato in hidden Roman alleyways that made me question every dessert I'd eaten before.
