Chapter Five
Rhea
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard.
Focus on the sting. The tang of blood. Something sharp.
Something real .
My feet stay put out of sheer spite. My fingers wrap around the camera, knuckles stiff, grip aching. It’s heavy, familiar, and one of the few things in this room that doesn’t smell like polished ambition and pheromones.
Click. Click.
I keep shooting. Keep framing.
Keep pretending I’m not one breath away from absolutely feral.
You are fine. You are invisible.
You are a beta, and they cannot smell you.
Except the words are starting to slosh around in my head like soup.
The crowd blurs. Laughter crashes too loud. Lights burn too bright.
My ears are ringing.
And my gut? Oh, my gut has opinions. Three different ones, to be exact, all pulling in entirely separate directions.
The scent-neutralizers aren’t cutting through anything anymore. They’ve given up.
So have I.
Still, I lift the camera again. Zoom in on a new face.
Tall. Unfamiliar. Alone at the far end of the room.
Click.
I freeze.
He's beautiful.
Not in the arrogant-god way Ash is.
Not in Lucian’s I eat spreadsheets for breakfast way.
And not in Kai’s chaotic sex-and-petty-theft energy, either.
No. This one is still.
Not stiff. Not cold. Just… settled.
Like someone pressed pause on the world, and he’s just standing there, holding the silence.
He’s tall. Built like he could bench-press a compact car while apologizing for getting in your way.
Sleeves rolled. Forearms dusted with ink.
Collar open. Shoulders broad. Stance loose.
Hands in his pockets like he’s been waiting for nothing in particular, and enjoying it.
And yet, somehow, he’s the only person I can actually see.
Theo.
I know his name without hearing it. I know his weight in the room before I even register the color of his eyes.
My breath stalls. Because I realize - too late - what I’ve just done.
I’ve made a huge tactical error.
I’ve gotten too close.
He shifts, and I catch the line of his profile through the lens.
Strong jaw. Amber eyes. Lashes that should be illegal.
And then his scent hits.
Pine. Honey. Warm bread on a cold morning.
It doesn’t crash through me like the others - it sinks, deep and sure, filling every hollow like it was made for them.
My knees lock. My mouth goes dry. Something behind my ribs flutters, then takes off in a full sprint.
Alpha.
A fourth.
And I am standing way too close, with not enough excuses and far too many hormones.
The lights smear. Someone bumps my shoulder, and I sway like a paper doll at sea.
My heart thuds once. Then again.
It’s knocking. Loudly. Possibly trying to break out.
The camera dips. I yank it back up like that’ll help.
My fingers twitch. My thoughts are mush.
You’re fine. You’re working. You are not -
“Hey,” a voice says; low, kind, and unfairly warm. “Everything alright, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
Oh, great. He’s one of those.
Normally, that word would send me sprinting in the opposite direction - emotionally, physically, spiritually.
But coming from him, it doesn’t clang - it settles.
Somewhere low and treacherous and already bracing for impact.
I nod. I lie. “Yeah. Sorry. Just - lightheaded.”
He tilts his head slightly, eyes scanning me in that calm, assessing way that somehow doesn’t feel invasive.
“You eaten anything tonight?”
“I had… half a granola bar, three existential crises, and approximately one-third of a birthday cake straight from the box.”
His lips twitch. “Solid dinner.”
“I try to keep it balanced,” I mutter. “Add a little dread, a splash of poor financial planning - chef’s kiss .”
That earns a real smile. It’s small, quiet, but it hits harder than it has any right to.
I feel it somewhere in the base of my spine.
“You want to sit?” he asks. “There’s a quieter corner over there. Fewer scent trails. Less… glaring.”
He gestures vaguely toward a beta couple currently side-eyeing me like I’ve committed a felony by existing too close to their champagne tower.
“I can’t,” I say, raising the camera a little. “I’m working. This is me being professional.”
“Of course,” he says solemnly. “How could I interrupt such elite photojournalism of napkin sculptures and drunk people pretending they’re not sweating through their designer collars.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “You say that like it’s not art.”
“I’m sure the swan-shaped napkin will win an award,” he deadpans.
“I live in hope.”
He watches me again; his gaze all still and steady. One brow lifted, just a little.
“You sure you’re okay?”
I hesitate. “I’m fine.”
“Is that your real fine, or the fake fine people say before they fall over dramatically in public?”
“I’ll let you know if I plan on swooning,” I mutter. “I’d hate to ruin your shoes.”
He glances down at his boots - scuffed, worn, clearly lived-in.
“They’ve been through worse.”
And then his amber eyes find mine again - deep, steady, and kind.
And beneath my ribs, something old and primal stretches again.
Not sharp. Not panicked.
Just awake.
Curious.
Hungry.