Chapter 1 #2
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he hisses. His head lifts, and I see his expression twisted into something that looks like regret. “Andi, I didn’t—Fuck—I didn’t—”
I don’t give him a chance to finish.
I stumble to my feet, kicking off my strappy heels in the process as I desperately reach for the doorknob. I leave a bloody handprint on the wall before immediately turning and running.
Running for my life.
Do I know where I’m running?
No.
I just know I need to get away.
I’m not safe with Ezra.
Nausea roils through my stomach as I stumble my way through the winding hallways. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink tonight. Every time I try to swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth, it feels like I’m trying to swallow broken glass.
How much damage did Ezra do?
“Oh my god, what the hell happened to her?”
My vision spins again as I jerk my head to the side.
Oh my fucking god.
Paparazzi.
I went the wrong way.
“That’s that girl, right?”
“Andromeda Sterling! What happened? Who did that to you!”
Run.
Every cell in my body is in agreement. Despite feeling like a newborn foal, I stumble my way down the hallway.
I seem to be running for my life no matter where I turn.
Because if the paparazzi snap photos of me like this, my life is effectively over anyway; my mom would make sure of it.
If the media doesn’t crucify me, spinning this story however gets them the most clicks, she’ll put me in the ground herself for associating this kind of bad press with the family brand.
Blood drips into my eye as I continue to stumble barefoot through back hallways. Thank God my workout plan is basically all cardio.
I hear footsteps and chaos behind me, though. Closing in.
They’re following me.
Like a lamb to the slaughter, I am their prey.
Just like I was Ezra’s.
Then I see it.
A blazing red sign of salvation.
EXIT.
I shoulder past a thick metal door—the impact jolting its way up through my shoulder and into my skull.
My back presses against the cool metal of the door as I slam it behind me, my chest heaving with desperate, gasping breaths. The chilly February night air soaks into my fiery, swollen throat.
Along with something else.
Burnt caramel.
Omega.
Holy fucking shit, I’ve been around plenty of omegas. There are a lot of us in show business. But I’ve never scented one this delicious.
Blood Orange.
I stiffen as a more masculine, citrusy scent hits my nose.
Oh god, I’m not fucking alone here, am I?
It takes me a second, my vision still spinning and blurry from the blood dripping down half my face, but I see it.
Two men.
Staring at me like deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.
Damn. I can see why.
One is on his knees in front of the larger, more muscular man.
I wipe at the blood dripping into my eye, trying to clear my blurry vision. The world is still fucking spinning.
“Holy shit, are you okay? What happened to you?” The one on his knees says.
Oh. I know that voice.
Everyone knows that voice.
Beckham Knight has taken the world by storm as Hollywood’s newest heartthrob. He’s the first male omega to ever make it big in show business, bringing awareness to the newest and rarest designation in the world.
And I just found him on his knees, in front of an alpha. A male alpha.
The media would go fucking feral.
Part of Beckham Knight’s appeal has been the allure of a male omega to his female fanbase. With suppressants being made commonplace and easily accessible, his followers seem to think that he’s all theirs.
“You should wrap that up if you don’t want the paps to see,” I croak out. “I think we’ve maybe got a minute before they find me.”
“Find you? Have they been chasing you?” Beckham asks, stumbling to his feet.
His expression darkens, his clenched teeth hardening into the picture-perfect jawline that’s captured the hearts of teenagers across the country.
“They have, haven’t they? Those fucking vultures have been hunting you instead of helping you. ”
“Yeah,” I say, letting out a small huff.
“You better not say jack shit,” Beckham’s alpha companion snarls, jerking up the fly to his jeans.
“Stop being a dick, Eli, look at her!” Beckham says.
“Nothing to worry about here,” I croak out, holding my hands up in surrender. “Promise.”
The alpha—Eli—looks like he’s about to snarl something else when I’m sent nearly tumbling to my knees when the door is shoved open from behind me.
Instead of face-planting right into the concrete, I fall into the warm cloud of caramel.
Holy shit.
Beckham Knight is cradling me against his chest.
Why does it feel like heaven?
I never really got the appeal of Beckham Knight before this. Sure, his music is good, but good enough for him to have the cult-like following he has?
But I get it now.
Oh boy, do I get it.
“Holy shit, are you okay?” He stares at me with wide blue eyes that glitter like diamonds. I’m sure there’s some headline out there talking about that.
Wow, he’s gorgeous.
His blond hair is swept up and away from his face with deliberate precision, with the exception of the few strands that refuse to stay tamed, falling perfectly over his forehead. His nose delicately slopes down to a pair of flushed, full lips.
I wonder for a split second whether they were flushed because they were kissing or because he just had his lips wrapped around that alpha’s cock.
That thought dies as Beckham stumbles back from the wave of hungry paparazzi who are flowing into the alleyway, their cameras poised.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
The lights are so blinding, so sharp, so all-consuming. They come from all directions. There’s no escape.
The world spins around me, and I feel like I’m going to slam into the cold concrete beneath my bare feet and die.
“Back off! Can’t you see she’s hurt?” he growls, surprisingly fierce for an omega, tugging me closer into his chest.
The paparazzi start screaming questions.
“Beckham! What are you doing with her?”
“Have you two been a thing before tonight?”
“Mr. Knight, do you know what happened to the omega?!”
Their questions become indistinguishable from each other, rising in a wave that crashes over my entire body.
“Enough questions!” Eli—the alpha—snarls, getting between the two of us and the crowd of paparazzi, urging us backward.
“I’m sorry,” I whimper, hiding my face from all the flashes by burying it in Beckham’s t-shirt.
I take a deep breath of him and suddenly, my head doesn’t hurt anymore.
“Sorry? Don’t be fucking sorry,” he murmurs. “Let’s just worry about getting out of here. You’ve gotta stay with me, okay?”
“Mhmmm,” I hum, my eyes fluttering shut.
And then… the world goes dark.