Omega in Love (The Fire and Bloom Duet #2)

Prologue

Brookes

I know I'm dreaming.

I know it the second I feel the zip ties biting into my wrists, slick with old blood and sweat. The second I hear the buzz of overhead lights and the slow, mocking drag of boots across concrete. It's always the same dream. Same smells. Same ache in my ribs. Same taste in my mouth.

Rust. Copper. Fear.

The warehouse is cold and damp, the kind of chill that seeps straight into bone.

The air stinks of stale piss, mildew, and the sharp, cloying rot of blood.

I gag on it, even though I already know it's coming.

My body remembers every second. Every bruise, every cut, every moment of terror etched into my cells like a grotesque tattoo.

Even though I'm screaming inside to wake up, to pull myself out of it, I can't. I never can.

I'm trapped in this loop of horror, forced to relive it all over again.

I shift, instinctive, and the chair groans beneath me.

My ankles are tied to the legs, plastic cutting into my skin with every desperate twitch.

My chest is bare, heaving, each breath a jagged knife sawing through the cracked cartilage of my ribs.

My left eye won't open all the way; swollen and throbbing with its own heartbeat.

My lips already split, puffy and tender against my teeth.

There's a trail of dried blood crusted down my chin, sticky and bitter, flaking off whenever I try to speak.

Voices circle me. Low and amused. Their words are always the same, like a script they've rehearsed just for my nightmares.

"Fucking pretty thing. Waste of good looks on something so broken."

"Bet he cried when they told him what he was. Bet his daddy couldn't even look at him."

"Freakin' waste of an Omega. Who the hell wants a male one, anyway? Nature's little mistake."

They circle like flies, buzzing around the edges of my consciousness.

I hear them more than I see them, dark shapes just outside the pool of flickering light above me.

Their silhouettes stretch and distort on the concrete walls, monstrous and looming.

They don't matter. Not really. They're just the warm-up.

The appetizer before the main course of my terror.

I know who's coming.

I always know.

The boots change first. Quieter. After years of modeling, I can identify the varied sounds different types of shoes make.

The click, click, click of brogues. The sound feels wrong.

They don't belong here. The man wearing them doesn't belong here.

He's the one who owns this nightmare. Who built it for me.

Who orchestrated every second of my suffering with the precision of a conductor.

Senator Blaine.

His voice slices the air before I ever see his face, cutting through the murmurs of his henchmen like a scalpel.

"I expected more. For all the noise you made on social media, you're a hell of a disappointment in person. Prettier in your photos, too." He smiles, that smarmy smile politicians do, one that gives a false sense of security.

I flinch before I can stop myself, hating how my body betrays me, how it remembers to fear him.

His voice is smooth. Polished. The kind of tone made for press conferences and campaign trails, not underground torture chambers.

He crouches in front of me all the same.

His Armani suit without a wrinkle. Expensive cologne that turns my stomach.

His expression full of disdain, like I'm something he found stuck to the bottom of his Italian leather shoes.

"You just had to run your mouth, didn't you?" he says, his breath hot against my face. "Begging for help. Stirring the pot. Acting like people give a shit about Omegas like you. Like you matter in the grand scheme of things."

His hand snaps forward, fingers clamping down hard around my jaw, forcing my face up. His nails dig crescents into my skin that I swear I can still feel when I wake up.

"If you'd kept quiet, maybe Charlotte would've stayed lost. Maybe this whole thing would've been nice and clean.

But no, you had to turn her into a fucking hero.

You furthered her agenda when you got others on board with her movement.

You had to make people care about someone who was supposed to just disappear. "

He releases my face with a shove, and my head jerks back with a crack against the chair. Stars burst behind my eyes, a constellation of pain blooming across my vision.

"You're not a savior," he spits, a fleck of his saliva landing on my cheek. "You're a pawn. A loud, soft-bellied pawn. And the second she walks through that door to save you, you'll both die screaming. I'll make sure of it."

The guards don't wait for the cue. They never do.

They start hitting me again, their movements practiced and efficient.

A backhand across the face, then a fist to the stomach that empties my lungs.

My breath goes ragged, desperate wheezes that can't fill my chest. The crack of knuckles against my jaw.

The taste of iron floods my mouth. A knee drives into my ribs and something gives with a crack.

My body folds, collapsing in on itself like wet paper.

I scream. Not because it helps, but because it's all I have left. Because the sound is the only thing I still own in this place.

"You should've died at designation," one of them mutters, wiping my blood off his knuckles onto my shoulder. "Could've spared everyone the embarrassment. Especially your family."

Laughter ripples through the room, cruel and cold. More blows rain down. The floor sways beneath me, though I'm still tied to the chair. My head lolls, vision swimming, the world tilting on its axis. I taste bile and blood, a potent cocktail of misery.

My name's gone. My purpose is gone. All that's left is the chant in my ears, a litany of words that burrow under my skin:

Useless.

Mistake.

Pretty thing.

Pawn.

Freak.

Freak.

Freak.

Just when I think it's over, just when I think maybe this time I'll black out earlier, find some mercy in unconsciousness?—

I hear her name.

"Charlotte's gonna watch you die," Blaine says, low and pleased, his fingers tracing the bruises blooming on my chest. "And she'll know it was her fault. That her precious little Omega friend paid the price for her rebellion."

The pain is almost nothing after that. I float in it, broken and weightless, the sound of my breath rattles in my ears like wind through a shattered window. I feel myself detaching, drifting away from my battered body.

I beg myself to wake up. I plead with whatever part of my brain is still functioning to pull me out. Of course, it never works.

Not until?—

"Brookes."

A different voice. Familiar. Gentle. Like a lighthouse beam cutting through fog.

"Brookes. You're dreaming. Breathe for me. Just breathe," he whispers.

I jolt up, choking on a scream, fists flying, ready to defend myself against phantom attackers.

Hands catch mine, solid and warm. Not restraining, not hurting. A calm presence steadies me, presses gently at my wrists, grounding without pinning. Thumbs trace small circles on my pulse points.

"Hey. You're safe. It's me. You're in your bedroom. You're home."

The slight Southern accent. Tonight, it's Hero.

My chest heaves, lungs clawing at the air like I've been underwater.

I'm drenched in sweat. My shirt sticks to me like a second skin, cold and clammy.

The sheets are like restraints tangled around my legs, and I kick at them frantically.

My heart's beating too fast, a drum solo against my ribs.

My mouth tastes like copper. For one breathless second I swear I hear Blaine's voice echoing in the corners of the room.

Still smell blood in the air. Still feel the zip ties biting into my skin. Still see the warehouse shadows stretching across my bedroom walls.

"You're not there anymore," Hero says softly, his voice a low, steady anchor. "You're here. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you."

I want to believe him. I desperately want to let his words wash over me and cleanse away the nightmare.

Even as I gasp and blink and fight for air, the memory stays lodged in my throat like a shard of glass.

It always stays.

Because some nightmares aren't just dreams.

They're echoes. Replays. Memories with teeth.

Hero starts to rise, slow and quiet, just like he always does.

I see it in the roll of his shoulders, the careful way he shifts his weight, the way he eases off the bed without jostling me.

It's their routine. Wake me, ground me, and leave me to catch my breath while they stand guard in the hall.

Out of sight. Out of reach. Professional. Distant. Safe.

This time. . .this time, something breaks inside me. Some wall crumbles.

I reach for him.

My hand moves before I can stop it. Before I can think better of it. I grab his wrist, fast and sharp and way too tight, my fingers digging in with a desperation I didn't know I possessed.

He flinches slightly and his hazel eyes widen, reflecting the dim light from the hallway.

I pull back instantly, guilt flooding my chest, hot and suffocating. "I—sorry. I didn't mean to—" The words tumble out, clumsy and broken. "I shouldn't have grabbed you like that."

"It's okay," Hero says, still crouched beside me, not pulling away. His voice is gentle, that deep rumble that somehow never feels threatening. "You're okay. I'm not going anywhere if you need me."

Staring at the space beside me on the mattress, at the rumpled sheets and the indentation where he'd been sitting.

My fingers tremble in my lap, and I try to hide them in the folds of the blanket.

Everything in me wants to shove this moment back inside; to pretend I don't need anything.

To maintain the careful distance I've built.

I do need something. I need someone. Yet to admit it feels like falling off a cliff.

"Will you. . ." I swallow, the words thick and clumsy in my throat. My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, small and vulnerable in a way I hate. "Will you stay? Just for a little while." It's barely a whisper. My throat burns just saying it, as if the request itself is painful to voice.

Hero blinks. I can see the shift in his face. The flicker of surprise is quickly replaced with something warmer. Something solid. Something I'm afraid to name.

He nods once, a single decisive movement. "Yeah, of course. As long as you want."

As he stands, I catch movement in the doorway. The door is cracked just enough to see Levi posted outside, his broad shoulders braced against the frame, massive arms crossed over his chest. Watching. Not intruding. Just there. A silent sentinel with eyes that see too much.

He meets my gaze, those deep brown eyes soft with understanding. Doesn't say a word but his dimples appear briefly, a ghost of reassurance.

When Hero crawls onto the bed, settling carefully beside me, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that I can feel his warmth, Levi's gaze flicks to him.

He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, then closes the door with a soft click, leaving us in darkness broken only by the faint glow of moonlight through the curtains.

The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but heavy with things unsaid.

I don't turn toward Hero. I don't touch him.

I focus on the steady rhythm of his breathing.

The warmth of him beside me, solid and real.

The subtle scent of sandalwood that always clings to his skin, grounding me in the present.

For the first time in a long time, I don't feel completely alone in the darkness.

"Thank you," I whisper, the words barely audible even to my own ears.

A beat passes and my body begins to relax into the mattress, muscles unclenching one by one. The nightmare recedes, not completely gone but no longer pressing against my skin. Then I hear it, soft, low, right at the edge of sleep, Hero's voice a gentle rumble in the darkness.

"Anything for you. Always."

I'm not sure if I imagined it. If it was real or just another dream, but it was kinder than the last.

I let myself believe it anyway. Just for tonight.

For the first time in weeks, I drift back into sleep without drowning in darkness, anchored by the steady presence beside me and the knowledge that someone has chosen to watch over me.