Page 75 of Omega on Fire

CHAPTER 28

JOKER

I'm a particular kind of fucked up. The kind that can watch a man bleed out on the floor and still crack a joke while I'm applying pressure to the wound. It's my defense mechanism—humor in the face of horror. Makes the monsters seem less monstrous. Makes the blood seem less red.

Right now, though? Even I don't have a punchline.

"Doctor's ten minutes out," I tell Charlotte when she asks, my fingers still flying across my tablet screen. What I don't tell her is that I pinged Dr. Mitchell five minutes ago with our emergency beacon. She's already en route, because that's what she does—comes running when we call. No questions asked, just steady hands and a medical bag that's seen more blood than most battlefields.

Same doc who patched Charlotte up after we found her. Same doc who doesn't flinch when Beaux comes in with a knife wound or when Moses needs stitches without anesthesia. The kind of professional who understands that sometimes medical ethics take a backseat to staying alive.

Charlotte just nods, distant, disconnected. Like she's hearing me through water.

I hover in the doorway, watching as Teagan and Moses carry Brookes into a guest room. They move with careful precision, laying him across the bed like he's made of glass. He's still out cold, breathing shallow, face a mess of purple and red.

Charlotte follows them in, ghost-like in her tactical gear. She's ditched the guns and vest but still looks ready for war. Her bare feet don't make a sound against the hardwood. She hasn't said much since we loaded up in the SUV. Since she realized Brookes wasn't just roughed up—he was deliberately broken.

The soft lamplight makes the room feel warm, safe. It's a lie. Nothing about this situation is warm or safe.

She collapses into the chair beside the bed like gravity's suddenly tripled. First thing she does is take his hand, thumb rubbing slow circles against his skin. It's automatic. Instinctive. The kind of touch thatspeaks of years, of history, of something deeper than friendship.

Teagan catches my eye, gives a slight nod, and then he and Moses slip out. Back to command mode. Coordinating with Beaux, who's currently bandaging his own arm after catching a stray bullet. Lucky bastard only got grazed. With the number of shooters on the street tonight, I'm calling that a win.

The cleanup's going to be a nightmare, but the warehouse district is isolated enough that we have time before NYPD shows. That's Teagan's problem anyway. He and Dez will handle the official narrative.

I stay put. Silent. Still. Watching. Waiting. Data compiling on my tablet while I monitor Charlotte's micro-expressions. My brain catalogs everything—the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her hands, the way she keeps swallowing like there's something stuck in her throat.

Brookes looks like shit. It's not random damage. The bruises on his face form a pattern. Split lip. Eye swollen shut. Broken cheekbone, probably. His designer shirt's been methodically shredded, blood dried at the collar. Pants torn precisely at the knees.This wasn't rage. This was calculated. Someone making a point, taking their time.

Senator Blaine has so much to answer for that my spreadsheet's about to crash from the data load.

"If I'd just taken a car home that day, none of this would've happened," Charlotte whispers suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice cracks something open in my chest. "No kidnapping. Just us watching trashy TV while eating Chinese." A small sniff. "That was the plan, remember? I promised I would check in with you every day and I didn't do it. I failed you."

I stay quiet. She's not talking to me. Not really. Just bleeding words to keep from drowning.

"I’m all he has," she continues, thumb still moving in that hypnotic circle. "Not all of us have loving parents. I was lucky. I have two Beta parents who love me, support me, expect nothing but great things from me. Whatever those great things may be, like parents should. But he had nothing. When we met, he was scared and alone. Two Omegas. Our little family of two."

Family. The word hits me in the solar plexus. Makes me think of Teagan, Moses, Beaux. The only family I've ever known. My pack. My home. I glance down at my tablet where I'm assembling Blaine's dossier—every dirty lead, every shell company, everyquiet payment, every fucking loophole the bastard's slithered through.

"He was a message," I murmur, my voice low. "Blaine hurt him to hurt you. Set the warehouse as a trap. It was all just too easy. Too clean. I should have seen it."

She blinks at me, and I can practically see the gears turning behind her eyes. The slow unraveling of the puzzle.

"The gala, the invite, the timing—it was all a setup," she says slowly.

"You were his loose thread," I reply.

"And Brookes?—"

"Collateral," I say. The word tastes like ash. "Or bait. Maybe both."

She shakes her head, jaw tight. "He wanted to wipe us out."

"Yeah." My voice is hard now. I can't soften it. "You, the pack, Brookes, everyone connected to your cause. Wipe the slate clean. Paint you as a radical Omega corrupted by a pack of violent Alphas. Seeing pictures of us with you at the gala will confirm that. He will find a way to spin it that way."

Her gaze returns to Brookes. Something shifts in her, softens and hardens all at once. She brushes hair from his face, then leans down, pressing her forehead gently to his temple.

"I would never have let them keep you," she whispers. "You hear me, Brookie? I would've burned the world to find you."

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