Page 42 of Omega on Fire

"You've done exceptionally well for our first session, Charlotte," Dr. Monroe's voice carries through the door. "I'll see you next week, same time."

"Thank you, Dr. Monroe. Really." Charlotte's voice is softer, a little rough around the edges. "I think I needed this more than I realized."

The call disconnects with a soft electronic tone. Then silence, followed by a sniff, unmistakable. My hand freezes mid-air knuckles an inch from the wood. A long, shuddering breath follows. She's crying.

My chest tightens. The urge to burst in, to comfort her, rises like a tide. But I know better. Charlotte hates being seen as vulnerable, despises the way we all hover when she shows any sign of distress. Thelast thing she needs is me witnessing her raw aftermath.

I step back, count to thirty in my head. Give her time to compose herself.

When I finally knock, it's with purpose. Firm, confident, normal, as if I'd just arrived.

"Come in." Her voice sounds steady.

I push the door open with my usual easy smile. Charlotte sits cross-legged in the leather office chair, hair piled high in a messy bun that somehow looks perfect on her. The red and black yoga pants mold to every dip and curve, and I try not to focus on them. Her face is flushed, eyes rimmed with red, but I pretend not to notice. This is what she needs from me right now, normality, not concern.

"Morning, sunshine." I lean against the doorframe, arms folded. "Ready for some training?"

She swivels in the chair, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "I thought Beaux was on Charlotte-duty as soon as the sun rises." Her mouth quirks up. "Where's my morning offering? He usually shows up with something ridiculous by now."

I chuckle, the sound low in my chest. "Sorry to disappoint. The gift-bearer is handling some security updates with Teagan. You're stuck with boring old me today."

"You're not boring." She stands, stretching her arms overhead. The movement reveals a sliver of skin at her waist. I avert my eyes, keeping my expression neutral despite the pull I feel. "So, what's on the agenda? More of those breathing techniques?"

"Actually." I straighten up, meeting her gaze directly. "I think it's time we taught you how to shoot."

Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly. "A gun? You're serious?"

"Dead serious." I nod toward the hallway. "We have a range directly below the penthouse. If you're comfortable with it, I'd like to start today."

Charlotte goes still, considering. Her fingertips tap against her thigh in that nervous rhythm I've come to recognize. Then something shifts in her expression—a hardening, a decision being made.

"I want to learn," she says finally, voice firm despite the lingering redness in her eyes.

The determination in her tone makes my chest swell with something dangerously close to pride. This woman survived hell and came out fighting. She sniffs the air imperceptibly and I know she smells the scent I'm giving off, but it can't be helped. It's hard to keep my instincts in check around her and I quickly rein it in. The last thing she needs is me pushingtowards something she's not quite ready for. Like my tongue licking the bare skin of her stomach, to see if she really tastes like honey and cinnamon, a sweet treat just for me.

"Nothing helpless about you, Charlotte." I push off from the doorframe, careful to maintain a respectful distance. "But knowing how to protect yourself is a power no one can take from you."

Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, but it's genuine. "Then let's do this. Teach me everything."

She walks past me toward the door, and I catch the subtle honey-cinnamon scent that's uniquely hers. It's getting stronger every day, strong enough to make my chest rumble and my balls ache with need. I almost want to lock her away and steer clear but I can't. We can't. This thing between us is happening and I'd rather face it head on than run from it. So, I push down my need for her and focus on the now, because I have a feeling none of us will be in the right state of mind soon.

CHARLOTTE

I trail down the hallway behind Moses, studying the breadth of his shoulders beneath the tight black t-shirt. The man is a walking contradiction—gentleeyes in a warrior's body, soft-spoken with hands that could snap someone in half. When he reaches a secured door, his fingers dance across the biometric panel.

"Welcome to our little arsenal," he says as the door slides open with a pneumatic hiss.

Little is not the word I'd use. The room stretches before us, gleaming metal and precision engineering displayed like some high-end boutique for death. Glass cases line the walls with rows of pistols, rifles, and things I can't even name. The air smells clean and slightly metallic.

"Jesus," I whisper. "You guys expecting the apocalypse or just really dedicated to overcompensation?"

His laugh is soft, rumbling. "In our line of work, being prepared isn't paranoia, it's survival."

My heart skips as he moves deeper into the room. Something about watching him in this space, where his expertise is so evident, makes my mouth go dry. It's the competence, I tell myself. Nothing to do with how his jeans hug his thighs when he bends to unlock a display case.

"We'll start simple." He retrieves a sleek black handgun. "Glock 19. Reliable, manageable recoil."

I eye the weapon with a mixture of fascinationand unease. "I've never shot anything before. Unless you count water guns at summer camp."

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