Page 60 of Omega on Fire

And me? I’m on her left flank, fingers twitching from the weight of the blade strapped inside myjacket. Because I’ve got a sixth sense for bullshit and this room is marinated in it. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

It takes a special kind of asshole to rent out one of the most iconic institutions in the world for a masquerade ball. The amount of clout and corruption it takes to pull that off—next level. I'm sure I'm not the only one of us thinking this exact same thing. You don’t hold a gala here unless you want to send a message. And the Solomon Foundation’s message is clear: We’re untouchable.

Except they invited her. Charlotte fucking Matthews. So, what’s the angle? A trap? A PR stunt? A warning? I don’t like puzzles I can’t solve. Makes my teeth itch.

Charlotte’s laughing at something Josiah says, hand on his arm. I watch her closely, not because I don’t trust her to handle herself—she’s got a damn blade in special sheath inside her dress—but because I do. And then I see him. Senator Justus Blaine.

“Trigger,” I say low over comms, my voice sharp.

“I see him.” Teagan’s already moving.

Deacon tenses beside me, lips peeling back in something that might pass for a grin on a good day. “Should I start sharpening my knife or just stab him with the dull end?”

“No weapons,” Charlotte murmurs, never taking her eyes off the senator as he approaches. “Not yet.”

That ‘not yet’,it’s why I’ll follow her into hell.

The second Charlotte steps away from the semi-circle we've formed around her, I feel the shift. Subtle but wrong. Like a ripple in the air before a bomb drops. The kind of feeling that crawls up your spine when you're in hostile territory and someone's got you in their crosshairs.

Deacon's hand twitches toward his waistband. Teagan stops scanning the perimeter for just a second too long. Josiah lowers his glass mid-sip, having snatched up champagne for him and Charlotte from a nearby waiter. We all feel it—that sixth sense you develop when you've spent enough time in war zones. A predator on the move.

Senator Justus Blaine, smiling like the devil stepped out of a white-collar skin suit. His tux is tailored within an inch of its life, gold cufflinks flashing like fangs as he lifts his champagne in her direction. He glides across the marble floor like he owns the building. Hell, for all I know, maybe he does.

He stops just a few paces from Charlotte. Too close. Too fucking close.

"Ms. Matthews," he says, voice oozing smugcharm. "It's so good to see you out in the open once more. I, amongst others, am grateful that you were rescued." He scans her body and I want to snatch out his throat before he speaks again. My fingers twitch with the need. "My, my. Don't you clean up well."

Charlotte doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. She turns slowly, glass of champagne still in hand like she hasn't just been accosted by the very man who ordered her damn abduction. Her honey-cinnamon scent stays steady—not a hint of fear. That's my girl.

"Senator Blaine," she replies, voice smooth and sharp enough to slit throats. "Didn't expect to see you so soon. I would have thought you'd be hiding from me, considering."

He chuckles, but his eyes go flat. Snake eyes. "Oh, I like you. I always have. Spirited. A little mouthy, but that's charming, in small doses."

I take a step forward, just one. My whiskey-and-black-pepper scent spikes with rage. Josiah catches my arm, his rain-scented grip firm.

Blaine leans in. Too far. "You've made quite a mess lately, haven't you?"

Charlotte smiles. It's the kind of smile I've only ever seen before a kill shot. The kind I've worn myself. "You'll have to be more specific, Senator. I've made a lot of messes lately."

He laughs again, but it cracks at the edges. "Cute. But we both know this little public resurrection of yours won't change anything. The laws are in motion. The people are on my side."

Charlotte sips her wine. "Funny. I've met the people. They don't seem too fond of you, and if I'm not mistaken, my public resurrection is all thanks to you."

Blaine's smile slips. Just a twitch. Barely there. But I clock it. Military training never leaves you, I can spot a man's tell from a hundred yards out.

He steps closer. I step forward, muscles coiled tight. If this asshole blinks wrong, I will take him out. I don't give two fucks who he is. My lip ring catches between my teeth as I fight the urge to just end him now.

"Careful," Teagan murmurs behind me, the scent of leather and gunmetal washing over me. "Let her handle this."

Charlotte tilts her head. "You look nervous, Senator. Didn't expect me to show?"

"Well, of course, I expected you to show. Be a good girl, a good Omega and know your place," he says quietly, venom hidden behind civility. "I expect you to smile, keep your head down and be grateful."

Charlotte sets her glass down on the table besideher. Slowly. Deliberately. Then she steps into his space, a breath away from breaking every rule of this prim, polished affair. The dragon tattoo on my shoulder blade feels like it's coming alive, ready to breathe fire.

"Grateful?" she repeats. "I was kidnapped. Drugged. Raped. You attempted to sell me to the highest bidder."

The word lands like a thunderclap. The conversation around us dims, people instinctively inch away without knowing why. My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood.

---