13. Theo
THEO
I f the guys could see me now, then I can imagine them laughing, especially Marcus, but I'm wondering if the reason we struggle to have an omega, is because we're never in touch with our feminine side.
We're three alphas, our idea of having a meal is ordering take out.
Our idea of housekeeping is a cleaner and our idea of having a good time is watching boxing matches.
There's nothing more exciting than watching two alphas beat the shit out of each other.
Or football where they tackle and try to beat each other for a ball.
Yeah, we need to lighten up, and there's no better way than to try and maybe read a book.
A romantic one, but then I heard the book club talking in the cafe the other day and some of those books, sound far from romantic.
We did have a conversation with Belle and Adam in the city yesterday. They were nice. We tried to be friendly, but Belle was really nervous around us. She was twitching while talking to us and never meeting our eyes. Our presence makes her feel nervous like everyone else in town.
But there was something else. I could smell her scent, even through whatever suppressants she's taking.
Warm vanilla and honey with something sweeter underneath, something that called to every instinct I have.
Her suppressants might fool other alphas, but they don't work on us.
She smelled like home, like everything we've been searching for without even realizing it.
I stand at the entrance, feeling as if I've just entered a maze. And I have no fucking idea where to start.
Protection.
Security, now that's my jam. This, feels like it is on a different planet.
The irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, Theo Blackwood, former Special Forces operative who's spent the better part of a decade protecting high-value targets and neutralizing threats in some of the world's most dangerous places, completely flummoxed by the organizational system of a small-town library.
I can infiltrate enemy compounds, defuse improvised explosive devices, and coordinate tactical operations under fire, but ask me to find a romance novel and I'm as lost as a tourist without a map.
The Willbrook Public Library after six is completely different, than during the day.
Gone are the chattering families with their energetic children racing between the stacks, the study groups of teenagers sprawled across tables with textbooks and laptops, the constant hum of activity that makes the place feel alive and purposeful.
Instead, there's this peaceful quiet that settles over everything like a warm blanket, broken only by the soft tick of the antique clock near the circulation desk and the distant hum of the building's heating system.
The overhead fluorescents have been dimmed to a softer setting, leaving only the warm glow of reading lamps scattered throughout the building. The effect is somehow both cozy and mysterious, transforming the familiar daytime space into something that feels almost sacred.
I've never been here this late before. Hell, I've barely been here during regular hours except for the occasional research project or when Marcus needed some obscure business document that Belle always managed to track down with that sunny smile of hers.
She's... complicated. Always so cheerful and chatty when we interact, bubbling over with enthusiasm about whatever project she's working on or book she's recently discovered.
But there's something underneath that brightness, almost guarded.
Like she's performing happiness rather than actually feeling it.
It's the kind of thing you notice when you've spent years reading people for threats, for weaknesses, for tells.
In my line of work, being able to assess someone's true emotional state can be the difference between life and death.
Most people wear their feelings on their faces, their body language broadcasting their intentions whether they realize it or not.
But Belle has layers. Walls built with smiles and deflection, barriers constructed from helpful efficiency and cheerful professionalism.
The way she sometimes pauses mid-sentence, like she's editing herself in real time.
The careful distance she maintains during conversations, friendly but never truly intimate.
The way her smile sometimes doesn't quite reach her eyes, especially when she thinks no one is looking.
The subtle tension in her shoulders that suggests she's always slightly on guard, always ready to retreat behind her professional persona.
I shake my head and force myself to focus on the task at hand. Romance novels. Jesus Christ, what have my packmates reduced me to?
I enter the library, and head to the fiction section.
It stretches out before me like an ocean of spines, organized according to some system that Belle probably explained to me once but which now seems as incomprehensible as hieroglyphics.
Thousands of books in neat rows, their colorful spines creating a rainbow of possibilities that somehow feels more overwhelming than comforting.
I realize I should have asked Belle for help before she left for the day.
She probably would have guided me right to what I needed with that enthusiastic efficiency she brings to everything, chattering about different subgenres and authors while pulling exactly the right books from the shelves.
She has this gift for making even the most mundane research feel like an adventure, her passion for books and learning infectious enough to make anyone feel excited about discovery.
Except... I can hear movement coming from deeper in the library. Soft sounds, like someone reorganizing shelves or maybe working late in the back office.
And then I catch it. Her scent. Warm vanilla and honey with something sweeter underneath, something that calls to every instinct I have. Even through whatever suppressants she's taking, I can smell her clearly. Her scent cuts through the musty smell of old books and cleaning supplies like a beacon.
Belle.
She works too damn hard, staying late all the time.
I've driven past the library on my evening security rounds more times than I can count, and her car is still in the parking lot long after the building should be empty.
The woman needs to learn when to go home and take care of herself instead of constantly taking care of everyone else.
It's one of the things that draws me to her, if I'm being honest. That selfless dedication to her work, to serving the community, to making sure everyone else's needs are met before she even considers her own.
But it's also one of the things that worries me.
There's a difference between being dedicated and being self-sacrificing to the point of self-harm.
I navigate through the shelves, following the sounds deeper into the library.
The romance section can wait, because I need to at least say hello.
Maybe offer to walk her to her car. It's getting dark outside, and while Willbrook is generally safe, you never know.
The protective instincts that made me good at my job don't switch off just because I'm in civilian life now.
The library feels different when it's empty like this. More intimate, somehow. I can see why Belle loves this place so much, why she's put everything into making it a real community space.
The sounds are coming from the reference section, tucked away in the back corner where the old, heavy volumes live. As I get closer, I can hear her moving around, the soft rustle of papers and the occasional satisfied hum that suggests she's found whatever she was looking for.
But then I catch another scent that stops me dead in my tracks, every nerve ending suddenly firing at once.
Belle is distressed.
Her omega scent, usually carefully masked by suppressants, is bleeding through in waves of panic and desperation that triggers every protective instinct I have. I need to find her. Now.
My military training kicks in automatically. Assess the situation. Identify the threat. Determine the appropriate response. But this isn't a combat situation, and the "threat" isn't external, but it's biological, natural, and happening to someone I care about.
I move faster, following the scent trail that's growing stronger with each step. It leads me around a tall stack of encyclopedias, past the reference desk with its neat stacks of research requests, deeper into the maze of shelves where the oldest, most specialized volumes are kept.
And that's where I find her.
Belle is crumpled on the floor between two towering shelves, her back pressed against the wall like she's trying to make herself as small as possible.
Her knees are drawn up to her chest in a defensive posture, her arms wrapped around her legs.
Her face is flushed a deep pink, the color spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath the collar of her practical cardigan.
Her breathing is shallow and rapid, almost panting, and her usually perfect ponytail has come loose, dark hair sticking to her damp forehead in chaotic waves.
She looks like she's fighting off some kind of illness. But I know better. The scent filling the air around her tells the whole story, because it’s of sweet vanilla and roses with an underlying note of desperation that makes my mouth water and my alpha instincts sing with recognition.
"Belle?" I drop to my knees beside her, careful to keep some distance even though every fiber of my being wants to reach out and touch, to comfort, to protect. "What's wrong?"
She looks up at me with glassy, unfocused eyes, and that's when the full force of her scent hits me like a freight train. My vision narrows, my breathing deepens, and suddenly every cell in my body is screaming that his woman is important, that I need to help her regardless of the cost.
Heat.