Page 8 of Knot Their Starlet

“You did it,” he murmurs softly, his voice sending a shiver down my spine the same way a rough caress would. “Always knew you would.”

My stomach does a whole back handspring in my abdominal cavity. I blame it on the alcohol I’ve been nervously sipping at all night.

Not the allure of Eli’s alpha-ness.

I can’t find Eli alluring. We’re friends.

Good enough friends that he helps me through my heats, but that’s only because the Omega Center Network doesn’t offer heat services to male omegas yet. I guess they don’t have a whole lot of volunteers for that sort of thing. Which means I’m shit out of luck whenever my heat rolls around.

Well, I would be—if Eli didn’t step up to the plate.

A pang of guilt makes my stomach roil again. Shit, am I going to throw up?

I can’t throw up.

I can see the headlines now.

Male omega too emotionally fragile to handle fame.

I’d make people feel even weirder about my designation than they already do.

A strong hand claps down on my shoulder, dragging me out of my anxious thought spiral.

“Take a breath, Beckham. You’re lucky the cameras can’t smell,” Everett, the record label executive who signed me, says. The words are harsh, but his tone is even and reassuring.

He’s right. My burnt caramel scent is a whole lot more burnt than caramel right now.

I take a deep breath and give him a jerky nod. I need to get my shit under control.

His lips quirk up in a proud smile as he runs a hand over his salt-and-pepper beard.

“Good. You deserve this. You’re changing history right now, I hope you know that.” He offers me one last shoulder squeeze before gently nudging me towards the stage. “Now go represent all the male omegas out there.”

Great.

No pressure.

No fucking pressure at all.

The lights from above get more and more blinding as I step up onto the stage.

A beta actress I remember watching at the local movie theater in the small town Eli, Leo, and I grew up in beams as she hands over the trophy.

My trophy.

For Best New Artist.

At the Grammys.

Okay, I was wrong.

This is a whole lot of fucking pressure.

Even more so when I see the timer counting down, indicating how much time I have on the stage to say what I want to say.

Sweat beads on my brow as the stage lights beat down on me from above. All the faces in the crowd morph, and I cling to the trophy like it’s my lifeline.

It’s funny. I can rock a stage when I’ve got a guitar in my hand and my songs to sing.