14. Hero
Hero
A week later. Seven straight days of heat.
Of slick skin and heavy limbs. Of whispered names and half-choked cries.
Of Brookes, burning up from the inside out, held together only by our touch and the sound of his own breath.
Of rose-scented sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, glistening across his brown skin as he arched beneath us, begging in that broken voice that still echoes in my mind.
We barely left the room.
Not unless it was to grab water or food or more blankets.
Sometimes I'd slip away while he slept, just long enough to bring back cold compresses for his fever-hot skin, or the protein shakes Dante insisted on.
Nesting supplies ran low two days in, and we improvised the rest. We pulled pillowcases from the linen closet, my own shirts that he clutched to his face to breathe in my sandalwood scent, even the throw blankets from the living room that Levi dragged in on day three.
The guest bedroom is still a wreck. It smells like sex and cedarwood, sandalwood, rose, and vanilla, the telltale mix of all four of us wrapped together in the intimate space where nothing existed beyond Brookes and his needs.
I finally peel myself away from the warmth of the nest this morning, careful not to disturb his sleeping form.
My muscles protest with every movement, the ache in my lower back a sharp reminder of the past few days spent holding him steady through the worst waves, keeping him grounded when he'd start to shake and cry, whining to be knotted.
The carpet feels rough beneath my feet as I stand.
My legs feel like lead, worn from hours spent kneeling, bracing, supporting.
My body's exhausted, hollowed out in that satisfied way that comes from being completely needed.
But Brookes. . .Brookes is finally sleeping peacefully, his beautiful features relaxed, those long lashes resting against his cheeks, his breathing deep and even for the first time in a week.
I pad through the hallway in just a pair of sweats, phone in hand, rubbing the back of my neck as I scroll through missed messages.
Eighteen. Most of them from Brookes’ modeling agency.
One from Camilla. I don't think anyone was able to call her to tell her Brookes is okay after we left the commercial shoot.
So, I open hers first, the bright blue notification bubble seeming to pulse with urgency against the dim morning light filtering through the blinds.
Guess where I'm flying to? NYFW! They called me last-minute. Brookes hasn't told me anything but I assume you three are going, too. Hit me back. Also, tell B I packed the heat balm he likes. The fancy French one that smells like eucalyptus and costs more than my rent. He'll need it after all this.
I barely finish reading when my phone starts ringing, the vibration harsh against my palm. The screen lights up, casting shadows across the hardwood floor beneath my bare feet.
Private number. But I know who it is. The timing is too perfect to be coincidence.
I sigh and accept, pressing the cool glass to my ear. "Elijah Delaire." My voice comes out rougher than intended, gravelly from disuse and exhaustion.
"Finally," a familiar voice exhales, the relief palpable even through the digital connection. Gregory. Brookes’ agent. "I've been trying to reach him for days. Hourly calls. Texts. Emails. Nothing."
"He's been. . .indisposed," I say carefully, heading into the kitchen for coffee I'm not even sure I'll drink. My fingers trail along the cool marble countertop as I move. "I'm just now getting a breather. First time I've checked messages in days."
"Indisposed," Gregory repeats, and I hear the sound of him flipping through papers, the crisp rustle of expensive stationery.
"Well, I'm glad the commercial was at least done before you pulled him.
But this, Hero, I mean, Elijah, this is important.
We've got something big. Time-sensitive. Career-defining potentially."
I brace myself against the kitchen island, feeling the cool surface press into my forearms. The house is quiet except for the distant hum of the air conditioning. "Go on." My tone is neutral, measured, revealing nothing of the protective instinct already flaring inside me.
"There's a designer, Mathéo Delvecchi. He's launching his next couture line at New York Fashion Week.
It's a closed-door show, with limited press access.
The exclusive guest list is tighter than the White House's security protocols.
He wants Brookes." Gregory's voice drops to a reverent whisper on the last sentence, as if speaking of something sacred.
My brows lift, interest piqued despite my reservations. "Wants?"
"Wants him. As the centerpiece. The show-opener and the closer.
Specifically requested. Delvecchi doesn't do repeat models, Elijah.
This is it. A second chance. A reintroduction to the global scene.
The kind of opportunity that comes once in a career, if ever.
" His words tumble out faster now, excitement barely contained.
"After everything that happened here in New York, this could be Brookes’ comeback.
His redemption in the industry eyes. Not saying he has anything to redeem, but you know what I mean. "
I glance toward the hallway, toward the bedroom I just left. "He's not ready." My voice drops to a near-whisper, protective instinct hardening into something like steel in my chest.
"I know what happened," Gregory says, his voice softening with genuine concern.
"And I know he's still recovering. But if he passes on this, there won't be another chance like it.
Not with Delvecchi, not at this level." He pauses, and I can almost see him running his hand through his thinning hair, a trade marked nervous habit.
"I don't want him fading into obscurity, doing fragrance shoots and second-tier campaigns forever.
Brookes Daniels deserves the world. And you know that better than anyone, don't you, Elijah? "
My jaw tightens until I feel the pressure in my temples. The muscles in my forearms flex against the counter. "If he says no, it's no. No persuasion. No guilt. No second-guessing. We respect his boundaries now more than ever."
"I'm not asking you to push," Gregory insists, a note of desperation creeping into his tone.
"Just. . .tell him. Let him make the choice with all the information.
He has to be in New York in two weeks for fittings if he says yes.
Everything else, security, accommodations, travel, we'll let you handle with absolute discretion. "
I hang up with a reluctant promise to relay the message, even though every instinct in my body screams to shield Brookes from the pressure of it all.
The lights. The eyes. The whispers. The risk.
New York holds ghosts for him, memories etched into his skin as surely as my tattoos are etched into mine.
When I return to the room, I stop in the doorway, breath catching silently in my throat.
Brookes is half-curled between Dante and Levi, tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets, the morning light filtering through half-drawn curtains and catching the sheen of sweat on his temple.
His usually perfect hair is mussed against the pillow, lips slightly parted.
He's awake, barely. Bleary-eyed and blinking slowly, like his mind hasn't quite returned from wherever his body just took him.
He sees me and smiles. It's soft, fragile, every defense stripped away, like seeing him for the first time all over again.
The carefully constructed veneer he shows the world has given way to something pure and honest, no walls, no performance, no careful calculation of how to appear.
Just Brookes, exposed and beautiful in the aftermath.
"Come on, Heart," I murmur, crossing the room with measured steps. "Let's get you cleaned up."
I help him rise, movements deliberate and gentle. His body accepts my support without resistance, without the momentary stiffening I'd grown accustomed to months ago. He melts against my side, trusting his weight to me completely.
We move into the bathroom together, a slow procession.
The marble is cold beneath our feet. I reach over and turn on the water, adjusting the temperature with practiced precision, not too hot, just the way he prefers it.
Steam begins to billow upward, transforming the space into something otherworldly and intimate.
In silence, I strip off my sweats and guide him under the spray with me, one hand braced against the small of his back.
I let the water soak his skin first, washing away the surface evidence of the night, before I even consider reaching for the soap.
He's quiet, eyes half-lidded, tension melting from his shoulders with each passing second.
I wash him with reverence, my palms gliding over the slopes of his shoulders, down the elegant lines of his chest, across the flat plane of his stomach.
I navigate around the constellation of our claiming bites scattered across his golden skin.
I eye them all with satisfaction, mapping every mark with pride.
I take my time, allowing him to lean into each touch, giving him space to breathe and exist without expectation.
His voice breaks the silence, low and slightly hoarse. "You okay?" The question catches me off guard, his concern for me in this moment speaks volumes.
I smile faintly, thumb tracing a small circle against his shoulder blade. "I should be asking you that."
He shrugs, cheek pressed against my chest, water cascading down his back. "I don't regret it. I think things happened as they should have." There's a certainty in his tone that wasn't there before, a calm acceptance that feels like growth.
"I didn't think you would." I hesitate, weighing the timing of what I need to say next. The water continues to fall between us. " Something came through this morning. From your agency."
I feel him tense against me, muscles going taut beneath my fingertips.
I stroke a hand through his damp curls, cradling the back of his head. "They want you for New York Fashion Week. Headlining for Mathéo Delvecchi."
He pulls back slightly, wide eyes locking onto mine, disbelief and something like wonder crossing his features. "No. Really?"
"Yeah." I nod, watching his expression shift. "They want you. But it's your choice, Brookes. Only yours." I emphasize the last words, needing him to understand the sincerity behind them.
His breath stutters, a momentary fracture in his composure. "What if I'm not ready?"
"Then we say no." I cup his jaw gently, thumb brushing across his cheekbone.
"But if you are, even a little, you won't be alone.
We'll be with you. You have Charlotte and her pack.
I know Teagan will be more than happy to run point with us.
All of us." I let my forehead rest against his, lowering my voice.
"I'll build a goddamn perimeter around that catwalk if I have to. You'll be safe."
His throat works as he swallows, unsurety and consideration battle across his features. "I'll think about it."
"That's all we ask." The words come out softer than intended.
He leans into me again, head returning to my chest, ear pressed against my steadying heartbeat.
Lifting his chin with a gentle finger, I lean down and claim his mouth with mine. His lips part willingly, granting me access to the sweet warmth within. A soft moan vibrates against my lips, sending a shiver down my spine.
"Hero, I want you," he whispers, the words hot and desperate against my skin.
"Do you, Heart?" I murmur, tracing the curve of his jaw with my thumb. "Haven't you had enough? That pretty hole of yours should be worn out," I tease, reaching behind him to stroke my fingers between his cheeks. He's slick and ready, his body primed for mine.
Brookes hisses as I circle the tender opening, his body arching into my touch. His slickness coats my fingers, making the press of them inside him effortless. He's tight, hot, and perfect.
"I'll never be too sore to take you. Any of you." His voice is breathless, his eyes gleaming with need. "Please, Hero." He practically climbs into my arms, wrapping himself around me, his body pliant and eager.
I capture his mouth in a searing kiss, biting his bottom lip between my teeth before pulling away.
"And I will never be able to tell you no," I growl, my voice rough with desire.
I back him against the shower wall, the cool tiles a stark contrast to the heat of our bodies.
With one powerful thrust, I plunge into his slick, welcoming heat.
Brookes clings to me, his voice hoarse from days of screaming our names.
He takes everything I give him, his body yielding to mine.
I fuck him hard and fast, the sound of our bodies slapping together echoing off the shower walls.
He cries out in pleasure, his dick untouched but spilling over my chest, marking me with his release.
Picking up the pace, I hold him close, grinding into him, hitting that spot deep inside that makes him keen.
His nails dig into my shoulders, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
I feel my balls drawing up, my own release hitting me like a freight train.
Leaning forward, I press my face into his neck, inhaling his sweet, rosy scent as I cum, filling him with my seed.
Breathing heavily, we both come down slowly, sharing soft, sweet kisses. I clean him up, my hands gentle and reverent as I wash away the remnants of our passion. In this stolen moment of quiet, my heart is full, content in a way I never thought possible.
"I love you, Hero," Brookes finally says as I turn off the water and take his hand in mine to help him out of the shower.
I stop and turn, not in surprise, but in relief. I think I've loved Brookes from the moment I laid eyes on the broken man. Now, I can finally say it freely, as his Alpha, as his.
"I love you more, Heart," I say, wrapping my arms around his waist and pulling him close once more.
I love him, he's mine, and whatever he decides going forward, that won't change.