Chapter 25
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
CHRISTINE
Every second I’m not in the trailer with Mylo, my nerves tighten. My ears swivel to every sound, and my senses are open and wary, scanning for threats.
Whenever someone steps toward my trailer—even only in its vague direction—I suppress a growl.
I’ve assured the team, especially Bella, that Mylo’s already doing much better.
Lana had a chat with the producers and Gabriel, and they’ve worked out an updated schedule that will keep the production on-track.
It requires that Mylo is well tomorrow, and I assure them that he’s on track.
It’s not entirely a lie. I believe it in a sense. We’ll figure something out.
We have to figure something out.
Something that somehow hides the glaring truth: he’s an omega in heat.
I’ve gotten this far in my career on instinct and luck, and I can only hope that’ll cover Mylo too, this time.
Every break between scenes, I jog back to my trailer and check on Mylo, refreshing my scent on the clothes tucked against his cheek.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him peaceful, but it’s the calm before the storm.
I’m lucky he’s so exhausted; I don’t know if we’d be able to stay apart this afternoon otherwise.
All I want to do is sit next to him, brushing back his sweat-damp hair, making sure he’s alright.
But the best thing I can do for his sake is to keep the production running.
Usually, I live for the novelty of shooting on-location: the chance to work alongside breathtaking vistas, historic towns, unexpected terrain.
The bulk of today’s shooting is in front of an absolutely gorgeous waterfall, but I hardly see it. At least Electra’s headspace for these shots is as distracted and agitated as mine, and Lana’s elated with how everything’s coming together.
While the sound engineer debugs an issue, earning Lana’s growing impatience, Haley and I steal a quick break to hydrate.
We stand in wardrobe on set, surrounded by cameras. Though we were just depicting a vicious argument, we find our usual friendly rapport.
“Mylo’s really alright?” she asks.
I nod. “It’s not like what happened to Alanna. It’s just food poisoning.”
She chews her lip, then catches herself, remembering her last scolding from her makeup artist. “Ugh, I feel so bad for him.”
“You two have gotten pretty close, right?”
“Yeah… or—well, I think so.”
“You’re lucky. He hates me,” I say with a wry chuckle.
“Oh, no, I’m sure he—”
I lightly wave my water bottle. “I wasn’t complaining. He said something about method acting. Lana seems very pleased.”
Haley cracks a smile. “Well, Mylo is very dedicated. I’m sure he doesn’t actually hate you.”
That makes one of us. “So you’ve enjoyed working with him?”
Haley nods emphatically. “Isn’t he incredible? He’s so good at what he does. And so sweet, too. He’s like my emotional support twin. Wait, is that narcissistic to say?”
I shrug and offer a lopsided grin. “I’m the wrong person to ask.”
Haley laughs and hits my arm. “Oh, stop that. You’re, like, the most humble person I know.”
“I’m pretty sure if I take that compliment, I’ll prove it wrong.”
Haley’s smile widens. “See? Legit so down-to-earth.”
I force a convincing, easygoing laugh. “Would you want to work with Mylo again?”
“Again? Like, you mean, you think they’ll invite me back for another one?!”
I nod. “Are you kidding? Lana loves you.”
“You really think so? Oh wow, I mean… if I’m so lucky… I don’t see how I could do it without Mylo. He’s so much of who Melinoe is now. Plus, I’m horrifically afraid of heights…”
“That’s the kind of partnership that could make a career for both of you.”
Haley’s eyes shine. “It really means so much for you to say that. Hey, I did want to ask you something: are you and Mylo to—”
“Alright, everyone,” Alejandro barks. “Sound issue’s fixed. Quiet on the set!”
The takes drag on—there’s a plane rumbling overhead, stray water droplets from the waterfall, a lighting issue, the boom mic dipping into shot—nearly everything that can go wrong does, but after twenty takes, Lana finally calls a wrap for the day.
I break off and jog back to the trailers, not caring who sees; I’ll say I had food poisoning of my own if I have to. The last hour has been torture, knowing my scent’s wearing off and my omega is in pain.
You’ve got to stop calling him your omega.
I push into my trailer, expecting to see Mylo curled up on the couch.
The vacant cushion sends my heart thundering with adrenaline to ready me for pursuit or combat. My nostrils flare, but in the stagnant trailer air, his scent comes from every direction.
I surge inside, searching for him—and nearly knock him over as he steps around from the bathroom.
Only my arm looped around his waist keeps him from falling.
“What the fuck is your problem?” he snaps, even as he folds into my chest and takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“How long have you been up?”
“Like you care.”
I give a soft laugh. I’m not sure which is more surprising: that he’s so whiny when he’s heat-sick, or that I find it oddly cute.
“For tonight,” I say, “I think you should stay with me—”
“No,” he says sharply, though his arms tighten around my waist. “I’m fine.”
“Uh huh.”
“I want to ride back in the van with everyone, and I want to sleep in my own fucking hotel room.”
“If you ride in the van, everyone’s going to see how sick you still are.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then huffs. “Fine.”
“Besides, we should get you to bed early. You need as much time as possible to rest before tomorrow.”
“Fine, fine, whatever. I’ll ride in your stupid car.”
I raise a hand to brush his damp hair back from his forehead, and he leans into my palm.
“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” I soothe.
I move us to the couch, and Mylo drapes against me. Whether resting or moping, it’s hard to say, but there’s not a long wait after I text my driver.
Once the sedan’s just outside my trailer, I carry Mylo down, ignoring his grumbles of protest.
I settle into the car’s bench seat, and Mylo immediately wiggles off my lap, working his way over to the other side of the car.
“Suit yourself,” I say with a shrug.
He clicks his seatbelt into place, staring out the window and ignoring me. I nod to the driver, a middle-aged Kiwi Indian named Ollie, and he pulls along the gravel lot.
For the first few minutes of the drive, Mylo does a poor job of hiding his labored breathing, even with the classic rock radio humming in the speakers.
As the car fills with my scent, he calms.
Mylo watches carefully out the window, and when Ollie doesn’t turn the blinker on to pull off at the crew hotel, he says sharply, “It’s a left here.”
When I don’t protest, Ollie follows Mylo’s instructions, pulling to a stop in front of the hotel.
“Goodnight,” Mylo says, tone brisk. He unclicks his seatbelt, shoulders his backpack, opens the door, and hesitates.
“Goodnight,” I say lightly, suppressing a growing grin.
He takes a shallow breath, jaw tensing.
“Go on. You got what you wanted. You can sleep in your hotel room, just like you asked.”
As the open door brings in fresh air and dilutes my scent, Mylo’s resolve wavers.
“Fuck,” Mylo hisses. He pulls the door shut and leans his head against the window, shaking with pain.
My voice gentles. “Mylo, come here.”
His muscles tense.
“You’ve got two options. You can come over here because you chose to, or…” I let the threat of a bark hang, careful of the words I use in front of Ollie.
Mylo turns to me with a look of sheer loathing—and I suppress a laugh, since it’s about as intimidating as a wet cat glowering because they don’t want a bath.
He finally caves, sliding into the middle seat and resting his forehead against my arm, touching me as little as possible while he waits for my scent to relieve the pain.
It doesn’t take long.
I nod to Ollie, and he pulls back onto the road. If he has questions about what just happened, he keeps them to himself.
My head nearly brushes the roof of the compact car, so I still have a clear view out the front window, even from the backseat. The dark, twisting trees slide by the headlights’ beam, otherworldly and foreboding.
A few turns later, we’re in the suburbs, as if we’d passed through some portal.
Mylo shifts next to me and nuzzles against my arm.
He’s just getting comfortable, I’m sure; it doesn’t mean anything. Even so, warmth spreads through my chest.
I stare out the window and refuse to think about what that means.
The car stops in the hotel’s porte-cochère, awash in bright lights that banish the memory of the dark forest.
I swing my door open. “Thanks for the ride, Ollie.”
“All good,” he chimes. “You two kiddos take care.”
I help Mylo out of the car despite his grumbles, then sling his backpack and my crossbody bag over my shoulder.
He takes a step away from me, then shivers violently, curling back toward my warmth as I close the door.
Ollie gives a friendly nod and drives off, heading home for the night.
I reach down to pick Mylo up, but he grabs my wrist with surprising strength and pushes it away. “I can walk.” The words are sharp enough that if he were an alpha, they would have come out as a bark.
“Suit yourself.”
I take a natural stride toward the hotel’s door, and Mylo scurries awkwardly after me. I stop, and he jostles into my side, then leans heavily against my arm.
My brows rise. “You look like you’re drunk.”
“Shut up.”
I loop an arm around his shoulders, but he shoves it off, taking a few steps—then freezing with pain as he waits for me to catch up.
An indignant huff escapes my chest. He really likes pushing it, doesn’t he?
I adjust, taking short strides that allow him to keep pace. An attendant opens the hotel doors for us, and I nod at her as I lead Mylo through.
When we step into the busy lobby, Mylo clings to my arm, stumbling to stay close to me.
My alpha instincts are on high alert, and an acrid scent rises sharply from the hotel’s chaos: another unbonded alpha.
There, leaning against the check-in counter on the other side of the lobby: a middle-aged man with fiery red hair, yellow eyes, and an expensive black pinstripe suit.