4. Dante
Dante
I check my watch for the fourth time in ten minutes, then glance back toward the glass door that swallowed Brookes twenty-three minutes ago. Twenty-four now. The seconds tick by with excruciating slowness, each one stretching like Laffy Taffy in the afternoon heat.
Dr. Kendrick runs a tight ship, punctual to the second.
Hero loves that about him, calls it professional integrity.
I'm just counting the minutes until I can put Brookes back in a place where he feels like himself again.
Therapy is necessary. I get it. I've seen enough broken soldiers to know the value.
The sessions scrape him raw, leave him vulnerable in ways that make my protective instincts flare hot beneath my skin.
I hate to see him so deflated, even when he walks in with his chin held high and his sarcasm locked and loaded, eyes flashing with practiced defiance.
I know how it guts him to speak those memories out loud, to revisit the darkness that still haunts him.
So, I wait, impatiently, to see what version of Brookes will emerge. Will it be the quiet, withdrawn one who'll stare out the car window for the entire ride home? Or the brittle, sharp-edged one who'll fill the silence with cutting remarks to keep everyone at arm's length?
The car is parked around the corner, as per Hero's orders.
In his opinion, the front of the building is too exposed with too many sightlines, too many variables we can't control.
I don't disagree, though I still hate not having eyes on the entrance.
My fingers tap an anxious rhythm against my thigh as I scan the street again, cataloging every potential threat.
Brookes has a large following on social media and is a celebrity in his own right.
His face has graced magazine covers across the world, that delicate beauty both a blessing and a curse.
With his best friend Charlotte's online blow up of her kidnapping, the explosive exposure of an Omega trafficking ring, and those involved, the spotlight has only intensified.
Everyone knows what happened, not only to her, but to Brookes as well.
The world knew about the kidnapping, the assault, the scars both visible and invisible.
Paparazzi are always hanging out in an attempt to get a shot of the now reclusive Omega supermodel, hungry vultures circling what they perceive as wounded prey.
They don't understand that their cameras are like weapons to him now, each flash a trigger that sends him spiraling. Honestly, it only makes Brookes’ anxiety worse, feeds the paranoia that's become his constant companion.
So, I will do whatever I can to lessen it, even if it means breaking a few cameras or fingers should anyone get too close to him today.
The door finally swings open and my heart settles as Brookes steps out, head down, designer sunglasses perched on his face despite the building's shadow.
He moves with the practiced grace that made him famous.
Each step deliberate, a glide, shoulders squared, chin lifted just so.
I see what others miss though. The slight tremor in his hands.
The way his jaw works. The tension running through his frame like a live wire.
He's holding himself together through sheer force of will, and my chest aches watching him try so hard to appear unaffected.
I fall into step beside him without comment, matching his pace instinctively.
The silence between us feels heavy but familiar.
He doesn't acknowledge me directly, but his body gravitates closer to mine.
A subtle shift that's become routine when the world feels too sharp, too loud, too much.
His rose scent carries notes of distress that make my protective Alpha instincts surge.
"I thought therapists were supposed to make you feel better," he mutters, voice tight with barely contained emotion.
"They are. First, they dig their fingers into all the bruises and poke around." I inject some lightness into my tone, trying to ease the heaviness I can feel radiating off him.
He huffs, a sound caught between amusement and frustration. "Well, Dr. Kendrick must be doing a fantastic job then."
"It will get better. It just takes time." I fish the car keys from my pocket, the metal warm against my palm. "Come on. Hero wants us back at the house."
He stops abruptly, and when I look back, there's that familiar spark of defiance flickering across his beautiful features. My lips threaten to curve upward at the sight. Even beaten down, he's still got that fire inside him, that stubborn streak that makes him uniquely Brookes.
"I don't want to go home yet," he declares, chin tilted in challenge.
"Hungry?" I ask, noting how his designer clothes hang a touch looser than they should.
He shrugs one elegant shoulder. "Not really. I have a feeling I don't have a say in the matter."
"Cool. You are correct." I can't help but smile now.
Once we're in the car, I drive halfway down the block when I deliberately turn right instead of heading toward home. He watches the scenery pass in silence, those long fingers idly tracing patterns on his thigh.
"You're deviating from Hero's master plan," he finally observes, a hint of curiosity coloring his tone.
"Yeah, well, Hero can kiss my ass. Today needs a plot twist."
The smile he gives me is small but genuine, a glimpse of his radiance. The sight of it hits me right in the chest, and I'd move mountains just to keep that spark alive in his eyes.
I pull into a spot I scoped out weeks ago during one of my routine security sweeps.
It's perfectly positioned here, tucked between a quaint bookstore with weathered brick walls and a florist whose roses remind me of Brookes’ scent.
The gelato shop, with its faded striped awning and hand-painted window signs, is run by an elderly Italian man named Giuseppe who doesn't ask questions and keeps to himself.
He makes the best cinnamon gelato I've ever tasted outside of Italy.
That's saying something because I've had real Italian gelato in hidden Roman alleyways that made me question every dessert I'd eaten before.
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 to the dessert 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 absolutely delighted 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 to want 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.