Page 6 of Knot Their Starlet

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.