Chapter 25 – BELLA
CHAPTER 25
BELLA
I can tell something isn't right with Braxley the moment I see him.
For one thing, he isn't filming. The content creation room is his sanctuary, his temple of self-worship. He's never in here without at least three cameras running from different angles. But now the equipment stands dormant, lenses capped and ring lights dark.
For another, he looks... disheveled.
And Braxley Worthington III is never disheveled. His usual perfectly styled hair stands in unruly tufts, like he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. His designer shirt is wrinkled, and—I blink, not quite believing what I'm seeing—there's a stain on the cuff. An actual stain.
"Braxley?" I ask, hovering in the doorway. "Are you okay?"
He startles at the sound of my voice, spinning around to face me. His eyes are wild, pupils dilated with what looks suspiciously like fear.
"Bella!" He forces a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "There you are. I've been looking for you."
That's another lie. He's been avoiding me all day, making excuses and disappearing whenever I enter a room. I've noticed, of course. How could I not? But I assumed it was just Braxley being Braxley—self-absorbed and wrapped up in his latest social media drama.
"Really?" I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Because it seems like you've been dodging me since breakfast."
He laughs, a high, nervous sound I've never heard from him before. "What? No, of course not. I've just been... busy. Very busy. Important influencer things, you know how it is."
"Right." I don't bother hiding my skepticism. "So what's with the..." I gesture vaguely at his entire appearance. "This. You look like you actually slept in those clothes."
Braxley glances down at himself as if seeing the wrinkles for the first time. A look of genuine horror crosses his face. "Oh my god. I look terrible. I need to change before anyone sees me like this."
He makes a move toward the door, but I don't step aside. Something is definitely wrong, and for once, I'm not going to let him brush me off with excuses about his skincare routine or follower count.
"Braxley, what's going on?" I ask, more firmly this time. "You've been acting weird all day."
He freezes, and for a moment I think he might try to push past me. But then his shoulders slump in defeat. "I... I need to tell you something."
A cold knot forms in my stomach. There's only one reason I can think of for Braxley to look so guilty, so uncharacteristically serious. Actually, two.
He found out who shot at us, or he's cheating.
He gestures to a chair, the expensive ergonomic one he uses during his long filming sessions. "Maybe you should sit down."
"I'll stand." Whatever this is, I have a feeling I'm going to want my feet under me for it.
Braxley nods, starting to pace again. He walks the length of the room, turns, walks back. Three times before he finally speaks.
"I... I've been messaging people," he blurts out. "On dating apps. And, um, meeting up with them sometimes."
I blink, processing his words. Messaging people. Meeting up with them. It doesn't compute at first, like he's speaking a language I only half understand.
"You've been... cheating on me?"
The words come out measured, calm.
Too calm, maybe.
All of it—every fake smile, every staged photo, every minute spent listening to him talk about his follower count—it was all for nothing.
I've spent months of my life with an alpha I can barely stand on his best days. Endured his tantrums, his narcissism, his constant need for validation. I've smiled through dinners with his insufferable friends. Convinced myself that this was just how life had to be.
And for what?
So he could cheat on me the entire time?
Part of me wants to laugh. Another part wants to throw something at his perfectly styled hair. But mostly, I feel a crushing wave of regret for all the time I've wasted trying to be the perfect omega for someone who wasn't even attracted to me in the first place.
Every compromise, every sacrifice, every moment I bit my tongue when I wanted to tell him exactly what I thought of him—all of it meaningless.
Braxley just winces. "Yes. No! I mean—it's not what you think."
I raise an eyebrow. "What exactly am I supposed to think, Braxley?"
"It's just—God, this is hard." He stops pacing, facing me with a vulnerable expression I've never seen before. Real vulnerability, not the staged kind he puts on for his followers when he's talking about his "insecurities" while filtered to perfection. "The thing is, Bella... I'm not actually attracted to omegas."
I stare at him, waiting for the rest. When nothing comes, I say, "Okay. And?"
Now it's his turn to look confused. "What do you mean, 'and'? I just told you I'm not attracted to omegas. I'm attracted to alphas. And some dominant betas." He drags a hand down his face. "Look, I can still appreciate an omega's beauty. You're beautiful, anyone can see that. But I don't... I don't want omegas. Not the way I'm supposed to."
I take a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. "Let me get this straight. You, an alpha, prefer other alphas and sometimes betas. But not omegas. And you've been, what? Hooking up with these people? While we're together?"
"We're not technically engaged," he mumbles. "You never actually said yes."
"I didn't say engaged. I said together." My voice rises despite my best efforts to keep it level. "And that's really not the point here, Braxley."
"I know, I know." He holds up his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. This is coming out all wrong."
"No kidding." I run a hand through my hair, mimicking his earlier gesture without realizing it. "How long has this been happening?"
He at least has the decency to look ashamed. "Always? I mean, I've always known I wasn't into omegas the way other alphas are. But the messaging and the... meetings... that started a few months after we met."
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. "So basically our entire relationship."
"My parents don't know," he says quickly, as if that somehow makes it better. "Nobody knows. That's why the engagement makes sense. It's the perfect cover. An alpha from a wealthy family marrying a nice, respectable omega. Everyone gets what they want."
"Except me," I say, my voice deadly quiet. "And you, apparently."
"But that's just it, Bella. You don't love me either." He says it with such certainty that I'm momentarily taken aback. "I see the way you look at me. Or don't look at me, really. You've been going through the motions just as much as I have."
I open my mouth to deny it, but the words don't come. Because he's right. I've never loved Braxley. I've been playing a role, fulfilling my family's expectations, telling myself it was the right thing to do.
"That doesn't excuse cheating," I say finally.
"No, it doesn't." He sighs, deflating further. "I'm sorry. I should have been honest with you from the beginning."
I should be furious. I should be storming out. I know that. Instead, I suddenly feel... relieved. Like a weight I didn't even know I was carrying has been lifted from my shoulders.
"Why now?" I ask. "Why tell me this now, after all this time?"
Braxley shifts uncomfortably. "Roman... found out. He, um, saw some messages on my phone. And he wasn't happy about it."
My eyes widen. "What did he do?"
"Nothing! Well, nothing permanent." Braxley's hand drifts to his throat, and I notice for the first time the faint bruising there. "He just made it clear that I had to tell you the truth. Gave me a deadline and everything."
Of course he would confront Braxley. Of course he would demand honesty. Roman adheres fiercely to his strict moral code.
"So what happens now?" I ask.
Braxley shrugs, looking lost. "I don't know. My parents will be furious if we call off the engagement. The family image and all that. But maybe we could still... I don't know, work something out? A marriage of convenience?"
I stare at him, not quite believing what I'm hearing. "Are you serious right now? You want me to agree to a sham marriage so you can keep hooking up with other people while I, what—sit at home being the perfect omega trophy wife?"
"Well, when you put it like that..."
"There's no other way to put it, Braxley." I shake my head, a strange lightheadedness sweeping over me. This is it. The last freaking straw. "It's over. Whatever this was, it's done."
To my surprise, he just nods. "Yeah. I figured you'd say that. Can't blame a guy for trying though, right?"
I don't dignify that with a response. The room is suddenly too warm, the air too thick. I need to get out, need to process everything that's just happened.
"I have to go," I mutter, turning toward the door.
"Wait," Braxley calls after me. "One more thing."
I pause, glancing back over my shoulder.
"For what it's worth," he says, "I really am sorry. And I hope... I hope you find someone who makes you happy, Bella. Someone who sees you for who you are. Maybe even a whole pack."
The words strike something deep inside me. An unexpected current of emotion flows through me at the thought of someone who sees the real me. Not the dutiful omega, not the perfect fiancée, but me.
Bella Emerson, with all my strengths and flaws and dreams.
Someone like the Vanguard Pack.
The thought brings with it a wave of heat so intense I have to steady myself against the doorframe.
What the hell was that?
"Are you okay?" Braxley asks, frowning. "You look flushed."
"I'm fine," I lie, pressing a hand to my forehead. It's burning up. "Just... a lot to process. I need some air."
I stumble out of the content creation room, making my way toward the living room. Each step seems harder than the last, my limbs growing heavy and uncoordinated. By the time I reach the couch, I'm breathing hard, my skin prickling with strange heat.
What's happening to me?
I collapse onto the couch, closing my eyes against a fresh wave of dizziness. Maybe I'm coming down with something. A fever from the stress of everything that's happened.
But this doesn't feel like any illness I've ever experienced. There's a restlessness in my limbs, an ache building low in my abdomen. And my sense of smell—usually dulled by Braxley's artificial scents—seems suddenly, impossibly sharp.
I can pick out individual notes in the air. Leather from the couch, coffee from the kitchen, the lingering trace of Savva's cologne from when he walked through earlier. And beneath it all, something deeper. A scent I recognize yet can't quite place, growing stronger by the second.
Alpha. But not just any alpha scent. This one's different. Richer, more complex. Like summer fireworks and warm sand, layered with something that makes my pulse quicken and my skin flush hotter.
Troy.
The realization comes just as he rounds the corner into the living room, stopping short when he sees me. His usual easy smile falters, eyes widening as he takes a deep breath.
"Bella?" His voice sounds strained. "Are you okay?"
I try to answer, but another wave of heat washes over me, more intense than before. A small whimper escapes my lips as I curl in on myself, arms wrapped around my middle.
Troy is speaking, but not to me. His hand flies to his earpiece. "Roman," he says urgently. "We've got a situation. It's Bella. She's... fuck, she's going into heat."
Heat? But I've been on suppressants ever since I first presented as an omega. I never even get breakthrough symptoms.
But the cramping in my abdomen, the fever, the heightened senses—it all points to one thing.
Somehow, Troy is right.
He approaches cautiously, keeping his distance even as concern radiates from him. "When was your last shot?"
I try to think through the fog settling over my mind. "Two months ago? Not long before we went on that trip. It was a shot. They last three months."
He nods, his expression grim. "That's what I thought. Look, Bella, the others are on their way. Just... hang tight, okay?"
As if on cue, the elevator dings. Moments later, Roman bursts into the living room, followed closely by Liam and Savva. Cole hangs back in the doorway, his stance rigid.
Their scents hit me all at once, and I nearly buckle under the sensory assault. Roman smells like cedar and rain, Liam like whiskey and leather-bound books. Savva's scent is old paper and expensive cologne with metallic undertones. And Cole's stone and steel scent makes me want to bury my face in his neck and never come up for air.
I've never smelled them so clearly before. Never felt so attuned to their presence, so aware of their every movement.
The room spins as the alphas' scents wrap around me like invisible cords. My skin burns, too sensitive against the fabric of my clothes. Every breath brings new waves of their scents, and each one hits me like a drug straight to my veins. I've never experienced anything like this before. This all-consuming need.
"Something's wrong with me," I groan, clutching the edge of the couch. The cramping in my abdomen intensifies, radiating outward.
"Bella," Troy says, his voice strained as he backs away, "when did you start feeling like this?"
I try to focus, to push through the fog clouding my thoughts. "Just now... after talking with Braxley..."
Roman steps closer, then hesitates, visibly forcing himself to maintain distance. "What happened with Braxley?" His voice is tight, controlled in a way that seems to require tremendous effort.
"He confessed. About cheating. About not being attracted to omegas."
The alphas exchange loaded glances, a silent conversation passing between them. There's more happening here than I understand, and trying to figure it out feels like solving a puzzle while my brain is melting.
"Stress can trigger heat," Savva explains, his accent noticeably thicker than usual. "Particularly emotional upheaval."
Another cramp hits me, stronger than before, and I double over with a whimper. My legs feel weak, unable to support my weight as heat pools low in my belly. I try to stand, thinking vaguely that I need to get to a room, but my knees buckle.
I don't hit the floor.
Roman moves faster than I thought possible, catching me against his chest. The moment his hands touch me, electricity sizzles across my skin. His scent engulfs me—cedar and rain. I want to bury my face against his neck and never leave.
"You're in heat," Roman tells me, his voice tight with restraint. He's holding me, but I can feel how rigid his body is, how carefully he's controlling himself. "A full heat."
"I think I need stronger suppressants," I mumble.
"The suppressants aren't going to work this time," Roman says. His golden-hazel eyes are nearly black, pupils dilated so wide they've almost swallowed the color.
Liam steps forward, his voice rough. "He’s right. They won't help for long, lass. Not now. You're under extreme stress, and you're trapped with—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
"With what?" I ask warily, even as another wave of heat crashes over me. I'm burning from the inside out, my body demanding something I don't fully understand.
Roman's eyes close briefly, as if gathering strength. "With your scent matches."
The words hang in the air between us. Five simple syllables that rewrite everything I thought I knew.
"What?" My voice comes out as a whisper.
"We're your scent matches, Bella," Troy says quietly. "All of us."
The world tilts on its axis.
Scent matches?
"No, that can't... you would have said something." Yet even as I protest, pieces start clicking into place. The instant connection I felt when they arrived. The way their scents call to me like nothing I've ever experienced. The comfort and safety I feel in their presence.
"We've been wearing scent blockers," Roman explains, still holding me steady. "You're engaged. We were hired to protect you, not to complicate your life and put additional pressure on you."
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. "Not engaged yet. And he was cheating on me the whole time."
"I wanted to kill him," Liam growls, and the naked honesty in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. "Still do."
Another cramp, worse than before, makes me gasp. My legs give out completely, and Roman scoops me up in his arms like I weigh nothing. The movement presses me against his chest. His body is so warm, so solid against mine, and every cell in my body is screaming for more.
They're my scent matches.
It makes no sense and perfect sense at the same time.
The way I've been drawn to them from the start. The inexplicable comfort I feel when I'm around these alphas. The flutter in my chest when Cole gave me that carved duck. The rush of energy during training sessions with Liam. The laughter that comes so easily with Troy. The quiet moments with Savva. Roman's steadying presence.
It was never gratitude or friendship or even simple attraction. It was this—this bone-deep recognition that's now impossible to ignore as my heat strips away every barrier I've carefully constructed.
"We need to get her somewhere private," Savva says, his voice tight with restraint. "The living room is too exposed."
"Guest suite," I manage to say between shallow breaths. "My backup suppressants... in my purse."
They’re right about one thing. If they are my scent matches, and I’m already feeling the heat this intensely, it won’t be enough to stave it off completely, but it might help. Buy me some time to process this.
Roman's arms tighten around me as he strides toward the hallway, the others following at a careful distance. Each step jostles me against his chest, sending sparks of sensation through my oversensitive skin. His scent wraps around me—cedar and rain—making my head spin with want.
Another cramp hits me as we reach the guest suite, so intense I cry out, clutching at Roman's shirt. He kicks the door open, carrying me swiftly to the bed. As soon as he tries to set me down, I cling tighter, unwilling to lose the contact.
Troy enters moments later with my purse. His usual easy smile is nowhere to be seen, replaced by an expression of tightly controlled restraint. I notice he's staying by the door, keeping his distance.
They're all keeping their distance now, each alpha positioned around the room like sentinels. Savva stands by the window, his knuckles white where he grips the sill. Liam leans against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Even Cole lingers in the doorway, though he looks ready to bolt at any moment. Roman stands beside the bed, watching me with those golden-hazel eyes, so dark now they're almost black.
"Here." Troy tosses my purse to Roman, who catches it one-handed.
With trembling fingers, I dig through the bag, finally locating the small case of suppressants I keep for an emergency. The pills are designed for breakthrough symptoms, not a full heat, but they should take the edge off enough for me to think clearly.
"Water," I croak, and Savva moves immediately, retrieving a bottle from the mini-fridge in the corner.
I swallow two pills, chasing them with half the bottle of water. My throat is parched, my skin burning. Everything hurts and aches with an intensity I've never experienced before. Is this what a full heat feels like? How do omegas survive this without going mad?
"How long until they start working?" Roman asks, his voice rough.
"Twenty minutes, maybe?" I curl around myself, hugging my knees to my chest. "I've never had to use them before."
Twenty minutes feels like an eternity when every second drags like glass across raw nerves. I focus on my breathing, trying to ignore the way my body is screaming for alpha touch.
For their touches.
All of them.