21. Theo
THEO
T he east wing of Thornfield Palace at midnight is a network of shadows and whispered secrets.
I should know. I've been walking these corridors for the better part of two hours, my black dress shoes silent against the ancient Persian runners that line the marble floors.
The formal jacket of my tuxedo feels like a straightjacket after spending so many years in tactical gear, but Marcus insisted we dress the part tonight.
"We're hosts," he'd said. "We need to look the part. Better than we’ve ever done before!”
Right now, I'd trade this entire monkey suit for my old combat fatigues and boots.
The bow tie is the worst part. I've loosened it twice already, letting it hang undone around my neck like a silk noose.
My dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the edge of a scar that disappears beneath the crisp white cotton, a souvenir from my last tour that serves as a constant reminder of why I left the military behind.
I'm alone because I needed air. A place to breathe that didn't smell like expensive perfume and political ambition.
The main ballroom had become suffocating with all those masked faces, all those forced smiles, all those people trying to figure out who was important enough to impress.
Marcus thrives in that environment, and Felix can disappear into conversations about art and architecture, but me?
I'm better suited to perimeter security than small talk.
So I'd excused myself, claiming I needed to check on the palace's security systems. It wasn't entirely a lie, because old habits die hard, and I'd spent the first hour of the evening doing exactly that, walking the less-traveled corridors and making sure all the exit routes were clear.
But mostly, I needed to escape the suffocating weight of expectation that comes with hosting these events.
Three years we've been organizing this ball, and hoping that maybe this time, we'll find her. Our omega. The missing piece that would complete our pack and fill the aching void that's been eating at us since we first bonded as alphas.
But every year, it's the same story. We meet beautiful women, intelligent women, accomplished women, but none of them are ours. None of them smell right, feel right, fit into the spaces we've carved out in our hearts and our home and our lives.
Yet Belle is the one. That night after she went into heat, I realized more than anything that she's the omega we've been searching for. We've been holding these events to find the one who was right here in town all along. The irony of it all.
The east wing is particularly quiet tonight, because most guests stick to the central areas where the action is.
The walls are thick stone, built to withstand sieges, and the windows are narrow slits that once served as archer positions.
It's a warrior's architecture, practical and defensive, and it speaks to something deep in my military-trained soul.
The rapid staccato of heels against marble, accompanied by what sounds suspiciously like muttered cursing. Someone's moving fast through the corridors, and from the sound of it, they're not entirely in control of their direction.
I round the corner and freeze at the sight before me.
"Pretty lady, you look lost!" I call out, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.
She's a vision in rose gold silk, all dark hair pinned up in an elaborate style that's clearly taken a beating from whatever frantic searching she's been doing.
Loose tendrils frame her face, which is flushed with exertion and what looks like mounting panic.
The dress she's wearing is stunning. It's rose gold, a color that makes her skin glow, with a fitted bodice that emphasizes her curves without making her look self conscious about them.
The skirt flows in layers of silk and tulle that move like water when she walks, and the overall effect is both elegant and playful.
But it's also clearly not designed for running through palace corridors.
The full skirt keeps getting tangled around her legs, and the heels she's wearing are definitely more fashion than function.
She's moving like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, all desperate energy and diminishing grace.
Every few steps, she wobbles precariously, her arms windmilling as she fights to maintain balance in those ridiculous shoes.
She looks like she's been wandering for a while, growing more frustrated and more panicked with each wrong turn.
But then her scent hits me, and everything else fades to background noise.
Even through whatever suppressants she's taking, I can smell her clearly.
Warm vanilla and honey with something sweeter underneath, something that calls to every instinct I have.
Her suppressants might fool other alphas, but they don't work on us.
She smells like home, like everything we've been searching for without even realizing it.
Our omega. She's here.
She spins around at my voice, and I can see the mix of embarrassment and defiance written across her flushed face. Behind her ornate rose gold mask, her eyes are wide with what looks like exhaustion and barely controlled anxiety.
"No," she says, lifting her chin in a gesture that's probably meant to look commanding but mostly just looks adorable. "I'm not an omega. I don't need a big bad alpha to come and rescue me."
Feisty. Despite my dark mood, I find myself grinning.
Most people in Willbrook either cross the street when they see me coming or try to butter me up because they want something from Marcus.
But this woman, our omega, just looked me dead in the eye and essentially told me to fuck off.
There's something refreshing about that kind of directness, even if she's clearly lying through her teeth about not being an omega.
Her body language is screaming defensive anxiety.
She's holding herself carefully, maintaining distance, ready to bolt at the first sign of unwanted alpha attention.
Smart woman. For all her protests about not being an omega, her instincts are clearly telling her to be cautious around an unknown alpha in a deserted corridor.
"Excuse me for wanting to help you get out of here," I say, matching her tone with exaggerated politeness while I cross my arms and settle in to watch the show. "Seeing as you're not an omega and you don't need a BIG BAD alpha to help you, I'll leave you to it."
I can't believe that after helping her through her heat, even though I was knotted and wanted to take her so badly, she still can't trust us.
I take a deliberate step back, making it clear that I'm not going to force my assistance on her.
But I don't actually leave. Because despite her protests, she clearly does need help.
She's been wandering in circles for who knows how long, getting more lost and more frustrated with each wrong turn.
The palace is a maze even when you know your way around.
For someone unfamiliar with the layout, it's damn near impossible to navigate, especially in heels and a ball gown.
After everything we shared that night at the library, after I sat with her for hours and proved I could control myself, she's still treating me like I'm some random alpha who might hurt her. It stings more than I want to admit.
She glares at me for a moment, her jaw set with stubborn determination, then turns and marches off down the corridor with as much dignity as she can muster.
I count to ten, then start following at a distance, just close enough to keep her in sight but far enough back that she can maintain the illusion of independence.
The corridor she's chosen leads deeper into the east wing, toward areas that haven't been fully renovated with the rest of the palace.
The lighting gets dimmer, the carpets more worn, the air mustier with age and disuse.
She's heading in completely the wrong direction if she's trying to get back to the main areas of the palace, but I don't intervene.
She made it clear she doesn't want my help, so I'll let her figure that out on her own.
Sure enough, within five minutes she's hit a dead end.
This particular corridor terminates in what used to be servants' quarters back when the palace had a full residential staff.
Now it's mostly storage. Furniture covered with dust sheets, old paintings waiting to be restored, boxes of holiday decorations and seasonal items that haven't been touched in years.
She stands there for a long moment, staring at the wall like she's willing a door to appear through sheer force of determination. The set of her shoulders broadcasts pure frustration, and I can smell the spike of distressed omega pheromones even from twenty feet away.
"Son of a bitch," she mutters, and I have to bite back a grin at hearing such colorful language from someone who looks like she should be gracing the cover of a romance novel.
She turns around, clearly intending to retrace her steps, and nearly walks straight into my chest. I'd been closing the distance while she was having her moment of defeat, figuring she might be ready to accept help now that reality had made its point.
"Still not lost, Belle?" I ask, unable to keep the smugness entirely out of my voice.
The look she gives me could melt steel. "I'm... temporarily turned around."
"Uh-huh." I glance around the storage area, with its cobwebs and covered furniture and general air of abandonment. "This is definitely where all the best parties happen. Very exclusive. Most people never find this place."
"Are you mocking me?"
"Would I do that?"
"Yes," she says without hesitation, and there's real heat in her voice now. Then she pauses, tilting her head as she studies my face more carefully. "Theo? Is that you?"
I reach up and pull off my mask, meeting her eyes directly. "Yeah, it's me."