Page 9 of Omega in Love
Brookes’ eyes narrow with practiced suspicion as I hold the door, his graceful frame hesitating at the threshold. "You brought me to a dessert shop after therapy?" His tone carries that mix of judgment and intrigue I've come to expect.
"No, I brought you tothedessert shop. You're welcome." I throw him a deliberate wink, watching his carefully maintained facade crack just slightly.
"I literally just told Levi this morning I wasn't eating carbs, but he made me eat them anyway. I guess I’m cheating. . .again." He crosses his arms, but I catch the way his eyes linger on the display case.
"Well, I’m sure Levi will approve of this. In fact," I say, selecting his flavor with practiced ease, "he would be absolutelydelighted to watch you indulge. You know how he gets about feeding people."
We settle on the wrought iron bench outside, where the afternoon sun catches the highlights of red in his black hair. He holds the paper cup between his elegant fingers like it's some kind of personal betrayal, but I notice how he can't resist taking that first bite. His sigh is dramatic and full of genuine pleasure, the kind that makes my chest tight with satisfaction.
"Oh my god," he mutters, licking his spoon in a way that should be illegal. "I hate you."
"I know." I lean back, savoring his enjoyment more than my own gelato. "That's why I keep doing nice things. Gotta keep you guessing, Petal."
A beat of silence passes. The sun is warm on our faces, casting long shadows across the sidewalk as people hurry past our quiet corner of the world. The gentle breeze carries the scent of his roses, mixing with the sweetness of gelato and the bustle of city life.
"I miss feeling normal," he says quietly, barely above the hum of the street. His fingers trace abstract patterns on the paper cup, eyes distant and vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be.
I glance at him, then let my gaze drift back toward the sky, watching clouds drift lazily overhead. "You are normal. Just with a little trauma seasoning." My voice is deliberately light, trying to pull him back from wherever his mind has wandered.
He snorts, choking on his next bite of gelato, a few drops landing on his designer shirt. "You're such an idiot." There's warmth in his tone, the kind that makes my chest tighten.
"Glad you're catching up."
Quiet settles between us again, easier now. The kind of silence that feels like trust. It reminds me of something I used towant but never really had, a comfort I'd only seen in movies and other people's lives.
My family didn't do softness. My father was military, all discipline and expectation, his presence filling our San Antonio home like a storm cloud ready to break. My mother loved us in her way, but she measured affection through achievement, perfect grades, perfect posture, perfect control. Emotions were distractions. Vulnerability was weakness. I grew up in a house where you held it together or paid the price, where even a whispered complaint could earn you extra drills at dawn.
I learned to keep my feelings locked down, buried beneath layers of protocol and precision. I learned how to make myself sharp and forgettable, to disappear behind protocol and perfection. It worked and I survived. I became exactly what they wanted, the perfect soldier, the perfect Alpha, and empty inside.
Working for Dez changed that. As the head of an elite global security company, Dez has spent the better part of a decade tracking down trafficked Omegas, guarding high profile celebrities and politicians. He made it his mission to bring together the best of the best to become a part of multiple teams that he calls on at a moment notice. I became a member of his team only a year ago, after an honorable discharge from the military. Dez saw through my shell in five minutes and called me out, his eyes seeing straight through years of carefully constructed walls. He said I didn't need to bury what made me different. Told me I didn't need to dull the parts of myself that wanted to protect others with more than just force. He showed me that being soft didn't make me weak. It made me dangerous in the right way, deadly because I cared, not in spite of it.
Then came Brookes.
I've had clients before. Rich ones. Famous ones. Dangerous ones. Politicians who thought they were gods, celebrities who treated security like furniture. None of them ever cracked meopen the way he did with his sharp tongue and wounded heart, his strength wrapped in vulnerability.
With Brookes, it just happens. I don't try to soften for him. I just do. Like ice melting under unexpected warmth. Years of military conditioning, of keeping my edges sharp and my walls high, and somehow he walks through them without even trying.
"You're my favorite part of the day," I say quietly, eyes fixed on the cup in my hands, the words slipping out before I can analyze or retract them.
He looks up sharply. "What?"
I shrug, trying to make it casual even though my pulse quickens. "Just thought you should know."
He studies me for a long second like he's waiting for the punchline or trying to decide if I'm serious. His brown eyes search mine, looking for the trap, the angle, the hidden agenda. Then he looks away, quiet again, the silence stretching between us like a living thing.
That's fine. I didn't say it to get something out of him. I'm not like the others who want pieces of him, who take and take until there's nothing left.
I said it because it's true. Because I know who I am when I'm around him. Not the version my father pushed me to become, all hard edges and cold calculation. Not the quiet, watchful protector Dez hired. Just me. Just a man who happens to be completely, absolutely ruined by a sharp-tongued Omega who smells like roses and rebellion, whose strength after everything he's endured makes my heart melt.
He doesn't know it yet, but he's mine.
The thought should scare me. Instead, it settles in my chest like it's always belonged there.
I watch as the sun catches on his skin, turning it bronze. The soft curve of his cheek, the fullness of his lips as he eats another spoonful of gelato, the way his lashes cast shadowsagainst his skin. These are the parts of my day I catalog and keep. Little moments when he isn't performing for anyone, when he's just existing in the space between heartbeats. When he's just Brookes, not the supermodel, not the survivor, just himself.
"Stop staring," he murmurs without looking up, licking a drop of melted gelato from his spoon with careful precision.
My lips twitch, warmth spreading through my chest. "Not staring. Maintaining visual on the asset."
