Chapter 7
Elias
The set empties around me as the day winds down.
Equipment gets packed away, lights dimmed, the chaos of filming settling into the orderly process of wrap.
I finish my last security check of the perimeter, watching from the edge of the room as Maya speaks with one of the production assistants.
Her shoulders curve slightly inward, a subtle change from the efficient confidence she usually carries across set.
The herbal blockers she's been taking are wearing off.
I can see it in the flush creeping up her neck and the way her eyes keep darting toward the gathering crowd.
The production assistant nods, makes a note on his tablet, and hurries away. Maya watches him go, her hand rising briefly to her throat. I've counted that gesture three times in the last hour. The tightness is coming back. Her time’s running out.
She's still trying to finish the day before she'll let herself acknowledge what's happening to her. Part of me admires that. The alpha in me knows she's already asking more of herself than her body is willing to give.
I move toward her without hesitation, cutting a straight line through the thinning crowd. People shift before I reach them, creating space without being asked.
“Ready to go?” I ask when I reach her. My voice is neutral, the same tone I’d use to ask about the weather or confirm the schedule for tomorrow. As if this has been arranged, as if she’s been expecting me.
She stiffens, eyes flashing up to meet mine. A muscle jumps in her jaw—once, twice—before she manages to smooth her expression. “I’m still working,” she says, her voice tight. “I’ve got at least another hour of—“
“Collins?” The second AD appears at her elbow, looking between us with obvious curiosity. “I need to confirm the prop placement for the water sequence tomorrow. Production wants it in scene fourteen instead of twelve.”
I step back slightly, giving them space without moving out of range. Maya never turns toward me, but she hasn’t forgotten I’m here. Her shoulders tighten as the conversation continues, her attention divided between the second AD and my presence nearby.
“It’s already with the props for scene fourteen. I moved it yesterday.” she tells the second AD, her voice even despite the flush creeping up her neck.
The second AD nods, making a note on her clipboard. “Perfect. You’re on top of everything as usual.” She glances at me, then back to Maya. “I’ll let you two finish... whatever this is.”
She hurries away, leaving us in a small bubble of relative privacy as the set empties around us. The moment she’s gone, Maya turns on me, her eyes hard.
“I didn’t agree to this arrangement,” she says, the words clipped. Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “You don’t get to decide for me.”
I don’t argue or interrupt. I just meet her eyes steadily and let her say what she needs to say. It's a fragile line to walk. Push too hard and she'll stop listening. Give too much ground and she'll keep pretending this isn't happening.
“You didn’t refuse,” I say when she pauses for breath. “We reached an understanding. You’re in pre-heat, Maya. You don't have to like it, but it's happening.”
Fear flickers across her face before frustration hardens into resolve. “I decide what I can handle and what I can’t.”
I nod once. “Fair enough. But being able to make that decision doesn’t make you immune to the consequences.”
She starts to argue, then stops, pressing her lips together. “I can handle myself,” she says finally. “I’ve been doing it for twenty-eight years.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m doing it anyway.”
She hears control where I mean protection. I don't know how to explain the difference without making it worse.
Her expression shifts—surprise giving way to reluctant recognition—before she looks away, checking her watch. “I have to finish the schedule for tomorrow.”
“I’ll wait. Do you have anything I can carry?” The question is out before I consider how she'll take it. My alpha wants to ease her burden. Even knowing she’ll resist it.
Her eyes narrow. “No.”
I nod, stepping back slightly. “When you’re ready, then.”
She moves away, heading for the production office at the far side of the set. I follow at a distance, close enough to keep her in sight but not so near she feels watched. It's a pattern I've maintained for months—watching from the edges, learning her routines without making my interest obvious.
She doesn’t look back, but her pace slows slightly as we walk, her shoulders dropping just a fraction. Whether she realizes it or not, some of the tension she's been carrying eases.
I’ve noticed her since the first week of filming.
Not because she’s flashy or demanding or any of the things that usually draw attention on a set.
The opposite, in fact. She’s the one who stays in the background, who solves problems before they become crises, who answers questions before people finish asking them.
She’s good at making herself invisible—at moving through spaces without disrupting them.
Three months ago, I overheard her talking to Michael, one of the PAs. They were standing by the craft table during a break, their voices low but clear.
“It’s actually an advantage,” she was saying. “Being a beta. Nobody pays attention to you, which means nobody notices when you step in to fix things. It’s like having a superpower.”
“An invisibility cloak,” Michael agreed, laughing. “The production coordinator who wasn’t there.”
“Assistant production coordinator,” she corrected, but she was smiling too. “And seriously, try it sometime. Walk into a room full of alphas and omegas as a beta. It’s like you don’t even exist. They look right through you.”
The conversation stuck with me—not just the words but the confidence behind them.
The clear sense that she‘d made peace with being overlooked, had even found a way to use it to her advantage.
That‘s when I started watching her more carefully, noting the way she moved through the set, how she kept her head down when the alphas were nearby, how she made herself small without seeming to realize she was doing it.
I understood then that she wouldn’t welcome attention from an alpha. That she’d built her life around being the supporting character, the one who keeps things running without being seen. So I held back. Kept my distance. Watched from the edges.
But her presentation changes things. Not my interest—that was already there—but the stakes. The urgency that comes with an omega in pre-heat needing protection, stability, and someone who understands what she's going through.
We’re halfway to the production office when she stops suddenly, her attention caught by something across the set.
I follow her gaze to where Adrian and Bash stand by the monitors, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.
As if feeling our eyes on them, they look up simultaneously, their expressions shifting as they register who’s watching.
Adrian straightens slightly, his eyes moving from Maya to me and back again. We hold each other's gaze for a beat, the acknowledgment needing no words. Bash’s smile fades, his eyes narrowing as he tracks the distance between Maya and me.
They know what’s happening. They’ve known since that moment in the security checkpoint when Maya’s omega responded to their presence with that soft, involuntary purr. They've been watching her since then, waiting for the right moment to step in.
But they waited too long. They were careful not to push when what she needed was someone willing to step in.
Maybe they were trying to give her room to choose. Maybe they understood something I didn't. All I knew was that every instinct I had was telling me she shouldn't be walking through this alone.
I turn away first, following as Maya resumes her path to the production office. She doesn’t look back at the actors, but her steps quicken slightly, her shoulders drawing up again. The exchange lasts only a second, but the message is clear. This isn’t just between us anymore.
It takes her twenty minutes to finish her work—to confirm the schedule, check the prop lists, and answer the last questions of the day.
I wait by the door, close enough to watch but far enough to give her space.
People glance our way, but no one interrupts.
They seem to sense the tension between us.
Finally, she’s done. She gathers her things—tablet, phone, the small bag she carries instead of a purse—and heads for the door without looking at me. I fall into step behind her, matching her pace as we make our way through the emptying set.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says without turning around. “I’m perfectly capable of getting myself home.”
“I know,” I say. “But it’s not just about capability anymore.”
She doesn’t answer, but her stride lengthens slightly, putting more distance between us. I don’t rush to close the gap. Instead, I maintain my pace as we head for the parking lot where my car waits.
The evening air is cool against my skin as we step outside.
Maya hesitates at the edge of the lot, looking toward the subway entrance fifty yards away.
For a second, I think she might bolt—might make a run for it rather than get in my car.
But then her shoulders drop slightly before she turns toward where I've parked.
I reach the car first, unlocking it with a soft beep. The sound makes her flinch slightly—another indication that her senses are heightening, the blockers wearing off completely now. I open the passenger door without asking, stepping back to give her room.
“I can get my own door,” she says, but she slides into the seat anyway.
I close the door gently and circle to the driver’s side, settling behind the wheel. The car smells like her now—that soft scent that's grown stronger with each passing day. No longer faint enough to disappear into the background. Impossible to miss.
The scent settles low in my chest, triggering an instinctive response I don't bother pretending isn't there. I force myself to focus on the road as we pull out of the lot.
“How was your day?” I ask, keeping my tone conversational. “Besides the obvious.”
She stares out the window, her profile sharp against the darkening sky. “Fine,” she says after a moment. “Busy. Normal. Until you showed up.”
She's talking more than she realizes. That's enough for tonight.
I nod, accepting the jab without reacting. “The water sequence looked complicated. Lots of moving parts.”
“Thirty-seven people, two set changes, and a practical effect that may or may not work on the first take,” she says automatically, then stops, like she’s surprised she answered at all. “Turn left at the next light.”
I follow her directions without comment, watching her from the corner of my eye.
Her breathing has evened out, the tight set of her shoulders relaxing slightly as we put distance between us and the set.
But she’s still alert, still aware of my presence in a way that has nothing to do with the confined space of the car.
“Right at the next intersection,” she says. “Then it’s three blocks down, the building with the blue awning.”
I make the turn, following her directions carefully. My attention stays divided between the road and Maya. The tightness in her throat is easing—I can see it in the way she swallows, in the gradual loosening of the muscles in her neck.
We reach her building five minutes later, a modest mid-rise with a security door and a small lobby visible through glass doors. I park in a spot across the street, killing the engine before she can object.
“I can walk myself to the door,” she says, already reaching for her seatbelt. “You don’t need to—“
I‘m already out of the car, moving around to her side before she finishes the sentence. She freezes when she sees me standing there, door open, hand extended.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice tight again.
“Walking you to your door,” I say. “Part of our arrangement.”
She doesn‘t take my hand, sliding out of the car on her own instead. “We don’t have an arrangement,” she says, the words sharp. “You decided on your own. I didn’t agree to it. That’s not an arrangement. That’s you making decisions about my life without my input.”
I nod once. “Fair. But you’re still in pre-heat, Maya. And that means you don’t walk to your door alone. Not when I can make sure you get there safely.”
Anger flashes across her face, but it doesn't quite hide the fear beneath it. “This isn’t happening,” she says, stepping past me toward the crosswalk. “I’m going to my apartment. Alone. And you’re going to get back in your car and drive away. That’s the only arrangement I’m interested in.”
She starts across the street without waiting for my response, her steps quick and determined.
I follow at a steady pace, not rushing to catch up, not stopping when she increases the distance between us.
Just maintaining my pace, keeping her in sight as she reaches the other side and hurries toward her building.
She’s at the door when I reach the sidewalk, key already in the lock. She turns when she hears my footsteps, her expression hardening as she registers that I’m still there.
“What part of ‘I want to be alone’ are you not understanding?” she demands. “I don‘t need a babysitter. I don’t need an alpha following me around making decisions about what’s best for me. I need you to back off and let me handle this my way.”
“I understand you’re upset,” I say, keeping my voice even. “And I understand you want to handle this on your own terms. But you’re not just dealing with this anymore, Maya. You’re dealing with a fundamental change in your biology, one that makes you vulnerable in ways you’re not prepared for.”
For a heartbeat, fear breaks through before her expression hardens again. “I’m not vulnerable,” she says. “I’m the same person I was yesterday and the day before and the day before that. The fact that my body's changing doesn't change who I am or what I can handle.”
“It changes what you need,” I tell her. “Not who you are.”
She shakes her head, turning back to the door. “This conversation is over. Goodnight, Elias.”
She unlocks the door, pushes it open, and steps inside without looking back. The door closes behind her with a firm click, the lock engaging with a soft thunk.
“I told you I’d stay close in the evenings,” I say, stepping closer and leaning lightly against the door frame, holding my position without pushing it further. “This is me doing that.”
She can be angry with me tonight. She can be angry tomorrow if she needs to be.
I'll still be here.