Page 76 of Omega on Fire

His lashes flutter, but he doesn't wake. Not yet.

We sit in silence again, the only sound coming from Brookes' raspy inhales and exhales. My tablet pings. Dr. Mitchell's here.

"The more I dig, the further down the rabbit hole this goes. Blaine is just the front man. This is, like you said, much bigger than we thought. Taking down Blaine is just the start," I say, breaking the quiet.

Charlotte looks up at me, something dangerous flickering in her eyes. "Then we don't stop until we get them all. I know there are more lost Omegas out there. The compound I was held in isn't the only one. But Blaine, taking him down, exposing him will be the first domino to fall."

Then they'll all come tumbling down after him. The rest will go running scared, and that's where we come in.

"I want them all," she says quietly. "Everyone involved."

The door opens before I can respond. Beaux saunters in, arm freshly bandaged, eyes focused on Charlotte as he picks her up, sits and places her on his lap. Blood spatter still dots his neck, a stark contrast against his tattoos.

"How's our model?" he asks, wrapping his arms tight around Charlotte and pulling her back against his chest. "Still pretty?"

I roll my eyes, but inside I'm grateful. Trust Beaux to cut through the tension with a chainsaw.

"Fuck off," Charlotte says, but there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion.

"That's no way to talk to your savior, Harlequin." He winks at her, but his eyes are serious when they flick to Brookes. "He's going to be okay. Doc's on her way up."

Dr. Mitchell arrives like a hurricane in scrubs—efficient, precise, and carrying enough medical supplies to perform field surgery. Which, let's be real, is basically what she's doing.

I step back against the wall, tablet still in hand, watching as she transforms the guest bedroom into a makeshift triage unit. She doesn't ask questions about how we found him or why we didn't take him to a hospital. That's why we keep her on retainer.

"Josiah, I need more light," she commands, snapping on latex gloves.

I flick the overhead on without a word. Beaux stands and places Charlotte back in her seat beside the bed then moves to stand against the wall with me to give Dr. Mitchell room to work. Charlotte never budges from Brookes' side, her gaze following each action as if she's committing a routine to memory. Dr. Mitchell works around her, respecting the invisible tether between them.

"Help me remove his clothes," the doctor instructs Charlotte gently. "We need to assess all injuries."

My stomach clenches as they peel away the remnants of what was probably a four-figure shirt. The fabric sticks to dried blood in places, making Charlotte wince as she helps ease it away. What's revealed underneath is worse than I expected, and I've seen some shit.

Brookes' ribcage is a fucking Rorschach test of black and purple. Deliberate boot prints visible in some places. Cigarette burns dot his shoulders in a pattern—not random, but methodical. The rope burns at his wrists are deep, suggesting he fought hard against restraints. There's something almost artisticabout the damage, like whoever did this considered it a craft. Torture.

Dr. Mitchell clicks her tongue. "Three ribs broken, possibly four. Severe contusions. Mild concussion based on pupil response. Dehydration." Her clinical assessment continues as she cleans wounds, applies ointments, wraps bandages.

I'm cataloging everything—every mark, every injury—adding it to my mental database. This is evidence. This is motive. This is why Senator Blaine's political career is about to get cut short.

My tablet pings with an incoming message from Moses:Found seven more storage units registered to Blaine's shell company. Checking them now.

I send back a thumbs-up emoji. Not my usual style, but I don't trust myself with words right now.

When Dr. Mitchell finally straightens up, she's hooked Brookes up to an IV of fluids and pain medication. She hands Charlotte a bag of pills with strict instructions, most of which I doubt Charlotte even hears. Her eyes haven't left Brookes' face, watching for any flicker of consciousness.

"He'll wake when he's ready," the doctor says, packing up. "The body knows what it needs."

After she leaves, I return to my post at the doorway. I don't offer Charlotte platitudes or reassurances.Just presence. Sometimes that's all you need—the knowledge that someone's standing guard while you fall apart.

Teagan appears at my shoulder, voice low. "She needs to clean up."

I nod. It's true. Charlotte's still wearing the tactical gear from the raid, now stained with Brookes' blood. Her hands are sticky with it.

"Charlotte," Teagan says, using his Alpha voice but keeping it gentle. "Let's get you cleaned up."

She looks up, dazed, like she's forgotten where she is. "I can't leave him."

"Just for a few minutes," Beaux says. The Alpha reeks of whiskey and black pepper, his scent deliberately strong to comfort her. "I'll carry you there and back, Harlequin. Promise.”

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