Page 82 of Omega on Fire

Charlotte says nothing, but I watch her lips press together, her spine straightening, pride and fury flickering across her face like lightning.

She did this. We all played our part, but she struck the match.

I think of my sisters. Sweet, obedient Omegas raised in a system designed to keep them tame. Trapped in their designations by expectation, by tradition, by fear. If they ever wanted out, if they ever reached out to me and said they wanted more, that they wanted out, I’d burn the whole fucking system down for them. My family be damned.

And Charlotte, she’s given them a voice, whether they know it yet or not.

I rise and cross the room, standing in front of her as she looks up at me with tired but steady eyes.

I clear my throat. “Charlotte,” I say, my voice lower than usual, “thank you.”

She blinks, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For saying what needed to be said. For surviving it all and still choosing to fight. For giving them hope. My sisters. . .you might have saved them and so many others. You’ve made that choice feel possible.”

Her eyes glisten, and for a second, she looks like she might cry but she just nods, gripping my hand tightly.

“You don’t owe me anything, Moses,” she whispers.

The moment hangs between us, heavy with unspoken weight. I feel the pull to say more, to tell her about growing up watching my sisters have their identities crushed under the heel of ‘tradition’, but the words lodge in my throat. Some wounds still bleed when exposed.

Breaking news—we’re now getting reports that multiple arrests are being made across six states in connection with Senator Blaine’s trafficking network.

The anchor’s voice snaps our attention back to the screen. Footage shows raid after raid, mansions withmanicured lawns, penthouse apartments, even a yacht being stormed by tactical teams.

“Holy shit.” Teagan uncrosses his arms, stepping closer to the TV. “Is that?—"

“Senator Hoffman. Mayor Grant. Judge Ellis.” Josiah taps furiously on his keyboard, his scent of rain and clean linen sharpening with excitement. “They’re taking down the whole network.”

“They’re taking down the visible part,” Charlotte corrects, “We all know the operation goes deeper than this.”

I study her profile and all I see is greatness. Most people only see the softness of her curves, missing the titanium beneath. Not me. I recognized it from the moment we found her.

The news continues its relentless parade of arrests, each face more prominent than the last. Men who’ve graced magazine covers and fundraising galas now walk with heads ducked, expensive suits exchanged for the universal shame of handcuffs.

“Your inbox is blowing up,” Joker tells Charlotte without looking away from his screen. “Every news outlet from here to Tokyo wants an interview.”

“Let them wait.” Beaux wraps his arms tighter around Charlotte’s shoulders until she’s complainingabout not being able to breath. “She’s earned a fucking break.”

“—No. No. No!”

Charlotte’s voice rises above the sizzle of chicken in the cast iron, effortlessly hitting notes that have Josiah laughing beside her as he tries to keep up. She bumps her hip against his, spatula waving dramatically in the air like a conductor’s baton. The kitchen is bathed in afternoon light, transforming the ordinary into something, something I never knew I needed until now.

Butter and garlic perfume the air, mingling with the earthy scent of rosemary and thyme. I inhale deeply, letting it wash over me. The aroma of spiced chicken mixing with Charlotte’s honey-cinnamon scent creates something entirely new. Something like home.

“Stop stealing the potatoes!” Charlotte swats at Josiah’s hand with a dish towel. “They’re not even done yet!”

“Quality control,” Josiah argues, his rain-clean scent brightening with amusement. “Very important step in food preparation.”

“Yeah? And what quality are you controlling by eating half of them?” she teases.

“The quality of my happiness.” Joker replies, skirting away from another towel swipe.

Their laughter blends together, filling corners of the house that have known only silence and strategy meetings. I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. Charlotte’s wearing one of Beaux’s old shirts, it hangs off one shoulder and falls to mid-thigh over her leggings. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, a few curls escaping to frame her face. No makeup. No pretense. Just her. Perfection.

Across from me, Brookes watches them with a small smile playing on his lips. The bruises have faded to yellow-green shadows, but the slight wince when he shifts tells me his ribs are still tender. His modelesque features are slowly returning to their former glory, but there’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. A wariness. A knowledge no one should have to carry. I understand that burden all too well.

“You ready to go?” I ask him, keeping my voice low.

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