24. Levi
Levi
Two Months Later
A t first, I think I'm dreaming. A high-pitched wail slices through the house like a banshee on a caffeine bender, and for a second, I stay perfectly still in bed, waiting to see if it stops.
It doesn't. Reaching out, I check for the warm bundle of Omega next to me and find the spot cold. Brookes isn't beside me.
I sit up instantly, heart hammering against my ribs, sheets tangled around my legs. The empty space where his warm body should be feels like a warning.
"Hero?" I call out, even though I already know. I heard the back door faintly creak open half an hour ago from the partial open window, the soft shuffle of his feet across the patio stones, the gentle click of the latch. Yoga hour. Right on schedule, predictable as sunrise.
Which means. . .
"Dante," I mutter, yanking on a T-shirt as I jog out of the bedroom and down the hall. My mind catalogs possibilities, electrical issues, security breach, or just Dante's endless tinkering. "You better not be screwing around with the wiring again."
Another shrill beep cuts me off, piercing enough to make me wince.
Then comes the scent, something is burnt. Smoky. . .and eggs? The distinctive smell of scorched protein wafts up the stairs, confirming this isn't a drill or malfunction.
My bare feet hit the first step just as the front door bursts open and Dante barrels in, winded, half-dressed in a long-sleeved tee and cargo pants, face still damp from his morning run. "Is it a fire? Did someone break in? Where's—?" His hand hovers near his hip where his weapon would be.
"Kitchen," I growl, skipping the last two steps, momentum carrying me forward. "It's the damn kitchen."
"Brookes?" Dante says, eyes widening, voice dropping an octave with concern.
"God, please let that man still have his eyebrows," I mutter as we round the corner, visions of kitchen catastrophes flashing through my mind.
Hero swings through the patio door, mat tucked neatly under one arm, face serene despite the chaos, though I catch the slight tension in his shoulders. "It's not even eight," he says mildly. "Can't we have one morning?—?"
We all freeze in the kitchen doorway, a tableau of three Alphas braced for danger.
Smoke curls up toward the ceiling like a bad omen, thick gray tendrils dancing in the morning light streaming through the windows. The smoke alarm screams overhead, flashing red in urgent pulses.
I would laugh, but I hold back. Because there, in the center of it all, framed by a cloud of failure and pride, stands Brookes Daniels.
He's wearing one of my aprons. My pink apron. The one my sister sent as a joke last Christmas. It says Kiss the Chef in glittery cursive, and I've never actually worn the thing. The fabric bunches at his waist where he's double-knotted it, the hem falling mid-thigh on his slender frame.
Charred toast leans precariously on the edge of a plate, blackened beyond recognition, corners curling inward like dying leaves.
Something vaguely resembling bacon is crisscrossed like kindling, shriveled and smoking.
My gosh, the eggs are more of a scrambled crime scene than anything edible.
It looks like part rubber, part liquid, with suspicious dark flecks throughout.
Brookes looks up at us with wide, watery eyes, those beautiful brown irises reflecting hurt and disappointment. A smudge of what might be flour decorates one cheekbone, and his curls sticks up in the front, rumpled and adorable.
"I was trying to make breakfast," he says, voice small, fragile as spun sugar. "For you."
I honestly think we're all stunned silent.
The alarm continues to shriek, a perfect soundtrack to the disaster.
Hero wordlessly lifts a broom and hits the smoke detector until it shuts up with an indignant beep, the sudden quiet almost deafening.
Dante walks straight into the kitchen, waving smoke away with exaggerated flair, opening windows with practiced efficiency. "I have so many questions. None of them appropriate." His voice carries that special blend of sarcasm and fondness reserved only for Brookes.
Brookes’ bottom lip wobbles, that perfect pout that breaks me every time. The scent of roses intensifies. "I just wanted to do something nice. You guys always cook, and clean, and everything. I wanted to give back."
His shoulders hunch, and the apron bunches in his fists like he's bracing for scolding, a reflexive protection against criticism I've seen too many times before.
Nope. I'm having none of that. I just walk over and pluck the plate from his hands, setting it gently on the counter, careful not to let my expression show anything but warmth.
"You know what would be nice?" I murmur, voice deliberately soft, the tone I use when he's had a nightmare. "If you'd sit your pretty ass on the counter and let me handle breakfast."
"But—"
"No buts." I lift him easily, clocking that he could stand to eat more, and set him on the marble. "This is a danger zone now. Chef Levi to the rescue."
He sniffles, a tiny sound breaks my heart a little. "I really did try."
"I can tell," Hero says, biting back a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. "There's effort. Considerable effort."
"Effort and arson," Dante adds, opening the last window. "A truly bold flavor profile. Culinary innovation at its finest."
Brookes grabs a dishtowel and smacks Dante in the thigh with it, the gesture playful despite his embarrassment. "Shut up."
Dante grins and leans in kissing Brookes lips quickly, invading his space with the easy confidence only he can pull off. "You can return the favor later. I accept apologies in the form of my name being moaned."
"Dante!" Brookes squeals, scandalized, a blush blooming across his cheeks, that beautiful brown skin turning a shade darker.
"I'm just saying?—"
"Okay, kitchen rated G now," I cut in, cracking eggs into a pan with a satisfying sizzle. "Dante, you get the plates. Hero, fruit. Let's salvage this morning."
"Copy that," Hero says, already slicing strawberries like it's a mission briefing, his knife work precise and efficient.
We settle into a rhythm, the three of us moving around each other with the practiced ease of men who've learned each other's patterns.
The smoke clears gradually, replaced by the comforting scent of properly cooked food.
Brookes, now perched cross-legged on the counter, watches us work with wide, grateful eyes, tracking our movements like he's studying for a test.
"I see Dr. Kendrick was right," I say after a minute, flopping toast on a plate with a practiced flick of my wrist. "You are making progress. Last month, the idea of you stepping into the kitchen and trying something new would've caused a full-on panic."
Brookes shrugs, picking at the edge of the apron, tracing the glittery letters with one slender finger. "I just wanted to show you I'm not broken anymore." His voice carries the weight of months of therapy, of nightmares and panic attacks, of progress measured in small, painful steps.
I glance at him, then set down the spatula, giving him my full attention.
"You were never broken, sweetheart," I say softly, meaning every word. "You were hurt. There's a difference. But you? You've always been whole." I reach out, and brush the bit of flour from his forehead, letting my fingers linger against his temple.
He blinks fast, eyelashes fluttering against the threat of tears. "Don't make me cry over burnt bacon."
"You started it," I reply with a chuckle.
Brookes sticks out his tongue at me and goes back to watching Hero arrange blueberries into a heart on a plate, his artistic precision making the simple gesture look elegant.
Dante hums, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. "This might be the gayest breakfast I've ever had."
"I thought last week's pancakes spelled 'pack goals' was peak," Hero says, deadpan, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward.
"Hey, I stand by that," I reply, pointing my spatula at them. "Those pancakes were a masterpiece."
Brookes laughs. Really laughs. Not the careful, measured chuckle he's been using like armor, but a full-bodied sound that starts deep in his chest and bubbles up like champagne.
The sound makes something inside my chest twist in a way that's not entirely comfortable but entirely welcome, like muscles stretching after too long at rest.
We eat together around the island, trading jokes and bites and mock insults.
The food isn't fancy, just eggs, toast, and fruit, but it's ours, made with care.
At one point, Dante feeds Hero a strawberry and Hero actually rolls his eyes but takes it anyway, the brief moment of tenderness between them making Brookes smile into his coffee.
Then Hero glances at Brookes, his expression carefully neutral, though I catch the significance in his eyes.
"So. . .what if we went out for breakfast tomorrow?
" he says casually, like he's suggesting nothing more important than a change in coffee brands.
"There's that semi-private rooftop place on Sunset.
Outdoor seating, VIP section, no press. Good sightlines, two exits.
" The security assessment comes naturally, woven into the invitation.
The room goes still, the clink of silverware suspended.
All eyes go to Brookes, waiting, not pressuring.
He looks down at his plate, fork pushing a blueberry in slow circles. Then up at us, those brown eyes searching each of our faces in turn.
There's a beat, heavy with possibility and fear.
Then he nods, a small, decisive movement.
"Yeah," he says quietly, voice steady despite the enormity of what he's agreeing to. "I think I'd like that." His first voluntary venture into public since the incident, since the nightmares began.
Dante lets out a low whistle, eyebrows raised in pleased surprise.
Hero beams, a rare full smile transforming his usually serious face.
I reach for my phone, already pulling up contacts. "Reservation sorted.”
Brookes finishes his coffee and leans his head against my shoulder, his weight warm and trusting. The scent of roses wraps around me, no longer tinged with anxiety. "You love me. You really love me." The words are simple but weighted with everything he can't say.
"You make it easy," I say, kissing the crown of his head, breathing in the scent of his shampoo mingled with that distinctive floral note that's uniquely him.
After we clean up, minus the charred casualties, which get a proper burial in the trash.
We settle into the living room with tea and the morning news playing low in the background.
The sun streams through the windows, painting golden rectangles on the hardwood floor.
Brookes sits between us, tucked under my arm, flipping through his phone, his body relaxed in a way that would have been impossible months ago.
"Charlotte's pack found another trafficking site," he says after a moment, voice steady despite the subject matter. "Somewhere near Prague this time. They rescued nine Omegas and three Betas. Some had been missing for years."
We all go still, the comfortable morning atmosphere shifting.
"She's a savior and she has the perfect men at her back," Hero says, setting his mug down carefully.
Brookes nods, scrolling through what must be a message from her.
"They're not stopping. She said as long as there's one more out there, they'll keep digging.
They've already partnered with three international networks.
Teagan says they're building a global task force now.
Governments are finally getting involved. "
I exhale slowly, pride mixing with respect. "She's incredible."
"She is," Brookes agrees, quiet but proud, loyalty shining through. "But so are we." The inclusion of himself in that statement, another milestone I note silently.
He leans back, eyes fluttering closed in the warm glow of the morning sun, dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His breathing evens out, not quite asleep but peaceful, trusting enough to let his guard down completely.
I just sit there, watching the man we almost lost to his darkness, burnt toast, apron, and all. My chest tightens with something too big for words, something fierce and protective and tender all at once.
The three of us sitting around a man who has slowly, painfully pieced himself back together, who wakes up some mornings screaming and others attempting breakfast, who still flinches at unexpected touches but now reaches for us in the night.
Brookes Daniels.
Our Omega.
Our treasure.
Our reason for breathing.