Epilogue
MYLO
Nine months later
The leather-lined interior of the limo is cool and dark, a refuge from the eager chaos of the gathering crowd outside.
I sit next to Christine, knee brushing hers, as the limo pulls up to the start of the red carpet.
“You ready?” she asks, her smirk painted ruby red. With her platinum hair curled and cascading over one shoulder, she’s a picture of Hollywood glamour.
“Obviously,” I say, as if the question is droll, even though I am very much not ready.
Stunt performers don’t walk the red carpet.
Okay, well, technically I have before—at a couple premieres for some much smaller movies where I did background stunt work.
But walking along the red carpet with other relatively normal people—fellow production crew, friends and family of the cast, contest winners—is entirely different than walking the red carpet.
I’ve never had paparazzi in my face, people asking me who I’m wearing, shouting my name.
That all changes tonight.
Chrylo, the tabloids have dubbed us. It makes me cringe, but at least it’s better than Mystine.
Making sure Haley and the crew found out about me being an omega before the papers was no small feat.
That first heat, we spent a whole week at Reynold Gosling’s guest house, fucking on every conceivable surface.
Just me and Christine and the ocean. She taught me how to surf—or, to be precise, she laughed at me as I tumbled into the waves over and over again, then fucked me senseless until I forgot to be mad about it.
When my heat was finally over, the house might have smelled of sex a little too much to invite anyone to it at that point, so Christine booked a cottage near Santa Barbara and invited Haley and a couple of her friends over for a surprise-I’m-life-bonded-to-an-omega-now party.
To her credit, Haley wasn’t particularly surprised. She just gave a wide-eyed nod and said, “That explains a lot,” before diving into planning coordinating outfits that would take advantage of my teal hair.
Christine swore her friends to secrecy—with an alpha bark, for good measure—then called Lana to begin the tedious legal process of disclosure.
Insurance plans would need to be consulted, contracts would need to be amended, but Christine wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer when it came to the question of my continued employment as a stunt performer.
Then it was back to LA. After a brief detour to my apartment to collect all the belongings I actually cared about and inform Scott that he needed to look for a new roommate, I officially moved into Christine’s obnoxious, excessive mansion.
Though I have to admit, the abundance of rooms made for nice changes of scenery throughout my second heat, which came right on the heels of the first. True to Christine’s prediction—which was later affirmed by that psychiatrist, Giovanna—the next few months were a series of irregular, frequent heats.
Some lasted only a day, others nearly a week; sometimes I got a few weeks’ respite and other times it was hard to tell what was several short heats versus a long one.
Giovanna prescribed moon baths.
I wrote it off as hokey nonsense, but tolerated the idea since sleeping outside, draped across Christine’s chest on her poolside daybed, wasn’t such a bad treatment. But then it actually worked.
Apparently, just like how our daily body clocks sync to sunrise and sunset, the monthly hormone cycle of alphas and omegas is supposed to sync to the moon’s cycle. Something about getting everyone out to fuck on moonlit nights.
While the duration of my heats is still unpredictable, at least I now have a pretty good idea of when they’re going to happen.
So tonight, I know the heat blazing along my skin is all nerves.
Christine, of course, is totally nonplussed.
I only realize the limo has stopped when someone opens the door.
“Time for your debut,” Christine says, taking my hand and pulling me out of the limo.
Cameras flash all around us as what seems like a hundred photographers all try to get the best shot of Christine.
Her name is barked from every direction, and the words Christine Evansworth soon become a strange blur.
No wonder she has the people she actually knows call her something else.
At least I’m spared the same fate, since nobody really cares about getting pictures of me unless they’re alongside Christine.
And god, she’s magnificent tonight. Wearing merciless silver Mary Jane heels that put her somewhere over six and a half feet, she towers over everyone, a radiant beacon of power and poise.
Golden silk drapes sensually over one shoulder and across her chest and hips before pooling at the ground. The vaguely Grecian style is a nod to Electra’s origin story, and with the high slit showing off her legs every time she takes a step, she couldn’t look more like a goddess.
I follow close behind her in a streetwear twist on a classic: simple slim-cut black suit; white buttonless button-down tucked in to create a deep, plunging V; thin gold chain; and black leather Chelsea boots with a chunky lug sole that I told Christine I wouldn’t be caught dead in because they cost more than my first car.
She bought them for me anyway. I (not so) secretly love them.
Christine pauses at one of the customary places to pose for the paparazzi, and I dig deep to find my skills from a modeling workshop I attended when I first got to LA and was looking for any way to diversify my portfolio.
Given that I have exceptional bodily awareness as a stunt performer, it’s not too hard to adapt that into some basic modeling skills.
One of the closer paparazzi practically screams at us. “Christine! Give us a shot of just you!”
“No.” Her red-lipped smirk deepens as her hand slides over my shoulder, pulling me to her side. “I won’t be doing that.”
She steers me past the next cluster of photographers, and we slowly make our way across the carpet, which sprawls along the iconic Walk of Fame.
“I’m not a child,” I grumble up at her, despite being entirely content. “You don’t need to hold my hand the whole time.”
She pauses and turns back, sliding a finger under my jaw and tilting my gaze up to hers.
Familiar warmth and pleasure blossom in my chest.
“I want you close to me,” she purrs. “Because you’re mine.”
My lashes flutter, and I no longer pretend this isn’t the outcome I’m looking for when I push Christine’s buttons.
The rapid flashes around us indicate that the paparazzi are also enjoying the show.
Christine slides a cool, predatory glare over them, and they instinctively lower their cameras.
“I tire of sharing,” she says. “Let’s get inside.”
Christine keeps a hand on my shoulder as she saunters past several places we’re supposed to stop. When the paparazzi complain loudly, she fixes that piercing azure gaze on them, and they fall quiet.
We soon approach the theatre’s entrance, which is flanked by a striking ninety-foot-tall Chinese pagoda. Between red pillars as broad as a sequoia and above the shining gold front doors, a thirty-foot stone dragon relief winds elegantly skyward.
Inside the theatre is even more lavish: all crimson splashed with golden trees, and more dragons slithering along the carpet.
We head to the stage below the screen, since Christine is part of the cast group that will introduce the screening. The theatre itself is nearly full; the only empty seats are those at the center, waiting for us to take them.
Haley’s already by the stage, and she’s one of the few people who can touch me without sending Christine bristling.
Which is good, because Haley’s clinically incapable of not pouncing on me with a hug every time she sees me.
“Oh, it’s so exciting! Just absolutely mental. I’m freaking out, are you freaking out?”
“I am also freaking out,” I whisper, hopefully low enough that Christine can’t hear. When the corner of her mouth twitches upwards, I know I wasn’t successful. At least she decides not to tease me about it, letting me quickly catch up with Haley.
She gushes over the latest revision of the screenplay for the new Melinoe solo movie, which will start filming in just a few weeks, putting us all on the road again.
Though the solo movie had been intended to give me a chance to work without interference from Christine, our bond immediately made that a problem. Christine’s now on as a producer, and the latest script features an Electra cameo, so she still gets to step in front of the camera.
Christine stood by her faith in Haley’s solo star potential, and the chance to try her hand at the producer side of things seems to have eased her worries about getting pigeon-holed.
Then Haley asks about Annie—we all spent a few days at Christine’s pool a few weeks back—and I offer up a quick report about my hometown.
Rusty’s doing better than can be expected, especially on a new medication for his canine arthritis.
Mom and Dad are talking to me again, and we catch up once a month or so.
Now that I’m bonded, Mom has simultaneously given up on ever convincing me to return home and also stopped worrying so much about me.
It’s still a bit of a sore subject—Mom’s made more than one back-handed comment about how nice it would be to just let an alpha solve all her problems—but since we mostly talk about the weather when we catch up, it’s been alright.
Just as I finish my recap, the lights in the theater dim.
As much as I’d rather avoid the spotlights now illuminating center stage, Christine heads that way, and my omega instincts are very confident that the safest place is at my alpha’s side. I try to position myself just behind Haley and Christine, hoping to go unnoticed.
Lana takes the mic first, thanking all the fans for their enthusiasm toward the first Electra movie, which is what has made this sequel possible.
Christine picks up from there, echoing the sentiment and emphasizing what an honor it’s been to play Electra. But then she says something that surprises me.