Chapter 23
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
CHRISTINE
The sound comes from across the set, and my ears swivel to lock in:
A thump as Mylo falls, and a low groan of pain.
I’m already running when his scent hits me—more peppercorn than citrus, sharp with agony.
Gabriel is at his side, and the other stunt crew members hold their breath, keeping a respectful distance.
As I pass Gabriel, I’m vaguely aware of his hand on my arm, trying to hold me back, saying something about a spine injury.
But all I can think is, how could you leave my omega lying there like that.
I scoop Mylo from the mat and cradle him against my chest.
He takes a shuddering breath, muscles unfreezing, hand rising to grip the edge of my breastplate.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m here, Mylo.”
“Go away,” he hisses weakly, but he curls tighter into my chest, taking another deep breath of my scent. “My landing was perfect.” He’s hurt, confused.
“I know it was.”
“My spine is fine…”
“I know.”
“I don’t know what’s happening…”
I do.
But I can’t say that, not as Gabriel steps up and Bella sprints closer.
Mylo pushes upright but stays on my lap, raising a hand in a thumbs-up.
“I’m good,” he says, though his voice is strained.
“Someone get an EMT,” Bella orders.
Mylo tenses. “No, I—”
I lean down to his ear and whisper, “Let the EMT check you.”
It’s not a bark, but Mylo’s in no state to resist even a gentle request from an Alpha right now.
Not with his skin burning hot, his scent laced with need. There’s something off about his scent, though—something sour. I’m not sure if it’s the suppressants or the fact that he hates me.
He can hate me all he wants, as long as he’s okay.
Even as the EMT—a young, broad Kiwi who looks like he spends the weekends lifeguarding—approaches, Mylo stays perched on my knee.
If anyone thinks to question that, they swallow it. Perks of an alpha’s aura. I usually take conscious steps to soften it, but not right now. Now, the slightest glance from me is enough to make even a beta tense with wariness.
My omega is in pain, and nobody is going to relax until that’s fixed.
By the time the EMT checks Mylo’s vitals, his pulse and breathing are back to normal. I know he resents the effect I have on him, but it’s undeniable.
His temperature, on the other hand…
“Thirty-eight-nine,” the EMT reports.
“What’s that in Fahrenheit?” I’m too tense to do the mental math right now.
The EMT clicks a button on the thermometer. “One-oh-two.”
“That can’t be right,” Mylo says. “Are you sure it’s working?”
“I can check it again.” The EMT offers the probe, and Mylo tucks it back under his tongue.
A minute later, the thermometer beeps and the screen flashes 102.1.
“Well, there’s your problem,” I say.
Mylo twists toward me, staring daggers, but careful of what he says with so many others around.
“You definitely need to rest,” the EMT says. “Let me just go through the neurological tests…”
The EMT checks all of Mylo’s reflexes, and the surrounding crew noticeably relaxes as the EMT agrees his spine isn’t injured.
“Any other symptoms?” the EMT asks.
“Could it be food poisoning?” I offer with convincing innocence. I’m probably not the only one who heard Mylo dry heaving behind a tree this morning when he thought he was being sneaky.
Mylo glances at me, expression softening as he realizes the angle.
“I have been nauseous,” he admits to the EMT.
“Food poisoning is no joke,” the EMT says. “Best to rest and hydrate. If your fever breaks thirty-nine Celsius, or you have another episode of severe pain, go to the emergency department.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Mylo says tightly.
I nod at the EMT. “I—We’ll make sure of it.”
As the EMT heads out, Mylo pushes off my lap.
“I’m just dehydrated,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I’ll cool off in the trailer, then I’ll be fine.”
He takes a step away from me, then draws in a sharp breath, body stiffening as his hand goes to his chest.
The peppercorn in his scent deepens, a distress signal calling for his alpha.
I reach out for his hand, gently taking it and guiding him back to my lap. Mylo’s already shivering violently, but he stills as my warmth surrounds him. He makes a frustrated sound as he leans toward my chest, and my scent lessens the pain.
Bella shakes her head, glancing back at the EMT. “He needs to go to the ED now.”
“No,” Mylo groans. “No…”
Mylo’s somehow managed to hide his omega status all this time, and a trip to the Emergency Department could easily out him to the crew. A routine blood test, a perceptive nurse, an alpha doctor—all threats to his secret.
Bella’s hand goes to her hip, motherly and stern. “Now, Mylo, this is not a negotiation—”
“I have a doctor,” I say quickly. “A private one. Does international house calls. When I feel like crap, the ED is the last place I want to be. I’ll have her come check him out.”
I’m pretty sure Mylo is smart enough to figure out that the other thing I’m implying with a private doctor is that they’re discreet.
He relaxes slightly. “Fine, whatever.”
God, he becomes such a petulant child when he’s sick.
It’s adorable.
“Why don’t I carry him back to the trailer for now,” I offer, “and we can go from there?”
Whether it’s because I’m an alpha, an A-lister, or it just makes sense, most of the gathered crew nods their agreement.
Everyone except Bella. She eyes me with suspicion. And that’s fair; I think I deserve that after my stunt—well, stunts—yesterday.
I put an edge of alpha command in my tone as I say, “He’s going to be alright.”
Bella blinks, shoulders softening. Though omegas respond most dramatically to alphas, betas also instinctively fall in line.
While Bella might have the biology of a beta, she has the soul of an alpha. So my suggestion alone isn’t enough to put her fully at ease. I could bark, but that’d only make matters worse in the long run.
Bella sizes me up, eyes slightly above mine because I’m sitting on the crash mat.
I’m used to getting along with other strong personalities, used to the push and pull. I’m usually the youngest, the fun and agreeable one. There’s no point ruffling feathers unless it’s necessary.
I think Bella knows that, and she decides I’d only take over if I have a good reason. I have no idea if she’s figured out that Mylo’s an omega, but I’d rather not be responsible for giving her more clues.
Bella finally nods her assent, and I scoop Mylo into a bridal carry.
“I can walk,” he hisses, pouting, but I ignore him as I stride easily up the hill toward the trailers.
Even as we pass more of the crew on the way, I’m tall enough that if we whisper, only we can hear each other.
“Why is this happening?” Mylo whines.
“I know, I know, you hate me.”
“Fuck you for making it about you. I don’t—why do my bones hurt? It’s like someone shoved screws in them, just twisting… Why does everything hurt?!”
“Mylo, I know you don’t want to admit that—”
“Don’t you dare say what you’re about to say. That’s impossible. Scientifically. I made sure of it. I’m on suppressants; I’ve always been on suppressants—”
Distress rises in his voice, and I press him closer to my chest, purring.
“Stop that,” he says weakly, even as he curls into my chest, clinging tighter.
His skin blazes against mine, and now that the sharpness of distress is fading, he smells so fucking good. My mouth waters. But no matter how much his scent makes my cunt throb, especially this close, thoughts of actually doing anything about it remain far away while my omega is upset.
I carry him into my trailer and sit on the couch, grabbing my phone from the table along the way.
He stirs and looks around. “This isn’t the stunt team trailer.”
“Glad your mental capacities are still intact.”
“Put me down.”
“Put yourself down.”
Mylo bristles. “Put me the fuck down, right now—”
Slightly sick of his shit, I drop my arms. My lap is still under him, so he won’t fall, and he’s free to roll off.
A desperate gasp catches in his lungs, and he throws his arms around my neck, clinging close.
His panicked breathing quickly evens as he tucks his cheek against my pulse point, where my scent is strongest.
I lean down to brush my lips over his ear. “I thought you wanted down.”
“Shut up.”
I let him lean against my chest as I text Gia. Known to the rest of the world as Giovanna Heath, award-winning psychiatrist and pioneer of a dual therapy-suppressant modality for designation dysphoria, she’s another female alpha in our little pack.
I text her, and she replies promptly.
Me
Hey girl, want a free vacation to New Zealand??
Gia
Tee, your account got hacked by a spammer bot. Fix it.
Me
It did not
Gia
You know I have more than enough money to go on vacation at times that are convenient and pleasant to me
Me
I need your help, actually
Gia
Shocker. You only text me when you need something.
Me
That’s because whenever I texted you to check in, you told me to fuck off unless I needed something!
Gia
Hm. That does sound like me.
Me
I’m filming the next Electra movie right now. There’s a crew member who was hiding their omega status, and they’re kind of freaking out. Or, like, their body is freaking out. Fever, full-body pain, all the… wives’ tale stuff.
Gia
Well, why didn’t you just say you had a research subject for me?!
Me
So you’ll come?
Gia
I wish. I can’t up and leave my patients. Blood tests are the first step, I’ll put in an order to the NZ Artemis branch. Mor can fast-track it. Can you get him to a testing site?
Me
Not really. He’s stubborn. Can we make this a house call?
Gia
I’ll see what I can do
Me
You mean you’ll see what Mor can do
Gia
Same difference ;)
Me
Thank you for your help, I really appreciate it
Gia
You owe me one.
Me
I thought you were excited to get a test subject?
Gia
Shhh. I’ll also email you the consent paperwork for a telemedicine appointment if he wants to talk to me directly.
Me
Cool. He probably won’t, but I’ll let you know
Gia
Now I have to ask… what’s YOUR relationship to this omega?
I ignore Gia’s question, lock my phone, and set it aside, wrapping my arms around Mylo again.
A frustrated growl rumbles in his throat. “What the fuck is happening to me?!”
“Mylo, you need to—”
“Don’t say it.”
I sigh and gently pull Mylo back from my chest. He clings tighter, fighting me, so I grip his chin as I reposition him.
He softens at the firm touch, omega instincts assured that I’m not pushing him away.
As I try to find his eyes, he glances down.
“Look at me, Mylo,” I say, tone soft.
His jaw tenses under my hand with the physical effort it takes to keep from obeying my gentle suggestion.
“We can do this the hard way, if you want.”
He stubbornly locks his gaze on the floor of the trailer.
I lean forward and feel the alpha command welling as I draw a breath. The words bark out of me. “Mylo, look at me.”
He snaps to attention, eyes meeting mine, trembling softly. Those eyes are wide with fear, and I brush a thumb across his cheek.
Brown pigment hides the true color of his eyes, but not from me. I see the halo of orange amber, like a gemstone painted brown, the corners flaking away, revealing the brilliance underneath.
“Please don’t say it,” he begs, barely more than a breath.
I soften the hand holding his chin, cradling his face tenderly. “Mylo, denial isn’t going to make it go away…”
“Please don’t…”
“Listen to me. You need to deal with this.”
“No, I don’t, you’re wrong—”
“I can smell it.” My fingers tighten where I hold him, mouth watering at the honey and florals weaving into his scent.
Tears well in his eyes, but he doesn’t look away—or can’t.
“Mylo, you’re going into heat.”