Page 22 of Omega on Fire

"Package secured," Moses reports, even though I can see it with my own eyes, his voice softer than usual. "She's unconscious."

I exhale, unaware I'd been holding my breath. "Extraction route clear. Head for point Bravo. You've got four minutes before reinforcements breach the east entrance and when I say reinforcements, I mean the locals."

On my screen, Motley hovers over Deacon and Charlotte, his face a mask of rage and something else, something raw and vulnerable that makes me look away. I've never seen that expression on him before.

"Move out," Trigger orders. "Joker, we're coming home."

"Copy that," I reply, already wiping the system and planting our little digital goodbye present. "I'll keep the door open."

The private jet's engine hums with a steady vibration beneath my feet, the white noise almost soothing afterthe clusterfuck we just escaped. We could have lost her if I hadn’t been watching as closely as I had. Fuck. I can’t afford to spiral, so I do what I do best, I keep monitoring the situation we left behind, assisting Malcolm, Beckett, and Quincy who remained behind to aid the rest of the captive Omegas.

My fingers tap an erratic rhythm on my laptop, the code on my screen blurring as my attention drifts for the hundredth time to the sleeping figure across the aisle. Her intoxicating scent of honey and cinnamon with a hint of firewood permeates the cabin, soothing and familiar, like home.

Charlotte's curled into herself, looking impossibly small against the cream leather seat. Someone, Deacon, I think, draped a blanket over her, but she still has flecks of dried blood on her face and neck. Not hers, I remind myself, but the guard’s. The one Motley executed with surgical precision right in front of her.

No wonder she's out cold. Between the escape attempt, the rescue, and watching a man's brains paint the wall behind her, yeah, I'd check out too.

"She’s been out for a while. How long?" I ask, not looking away from her face. The worry lines between her brows haven’t smoothed out, even in unconsciousness.

"Three hours, seventeen minutes," Beaux answers immediately from where he's standing sentry beside her seat. Man hasn't moved more than three feet from her since we boarded. His fingers twitch occasionally toward her, like he's fighting the urge to touch her.

Moses circles back from the galley with a glass of water, setting it on the table beside her in case she wakes. "Her pulse is steady. Breathing normal." He hesitates, then adds quietly, "Definitely a trauma response on top of everything else she experienced."

Of course it is. Girl's probably reliving that headshot on repeat in her dreams.

"We could've handled that better," I mutter, running calculations in my head. "Probability of psychological trauma is?—"

"Don't," Moses cuts me off, stopping me from obsessing, voice gentle but firm. "We got her out. That's what matters."

I snort. "Yeah, but at what cost? She's terrified of us now."

Beaux tsks, lips pursing, eyes never leaving Charlotte's face. "Better scared of us than dead with them."

Hard to argue with that particular brand of Motley logic, so I don't try. Instead, I tune into the conversation happening at the front of the cabin where Teagan is speaking to Dez on speakerphone.

". . .can't take her back to Houston," Trigger says. "They'll be watching for her there. Dez, this compound, the money to build such a place. What she saw, what all of them witnessed. . .they will want to silence them before any one of them talks. All the captives will need protection."

Dez's response is measured. "I’m arranging this as we speak, but Charlotte, The Savoy compound is an option. Freeya and Faith are here waiting so?—"

"No." Teagan's refusal is immediate, brooking no argument. "She stays with us."

"With your pack?" Dez clarifies, a note of surprise in his voice that makes me look up sharply.

Oh shit. Our old boss has figured it out. I hear amusement in Dez's knowing voice, yeah, he's caught on to the implication alright.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Teagan asks, a challenge in his voice that would make lesser men piss themselves.

But Dez just chuckles, the sound warm and knowing. "For me? No. For her? Four apex predators circling one unclaimed Omega. I'd say you boys have your work cut out for you."

"Her safety is our priority," Teagan insists, but there's a roughness to his voice that betrays him.

Dez hums his approval. "It's the right call. Keepher at the compound until she recovers. After what she's been through, she needs stability. Protection." He pauses significantly. "Pack."

The word hangs in the air between them, loaded with meaning. I watch Teagan's shoulders relax incrementally—permission granted, approval given from the man who's been like a father to all of us.

Charlotte stirs in her sleep, a small sound escaping her lips. Instantly, three heads swivel in her direction, Moses and Beaux tensing like hunting dogs on point. I catch myself leaning forward too, something primal and protective tightening in my chest. Mine.

Fuck. We're in deep.

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