Page 83 of Omega on Fire

He nods, gaze still fixed on Charlotte. “Yeah. It’s time.” He hesitates. “She’ll be okay, right? Without me?”

The question holds weight far beyond the simple words. I study him for a moment. “She’s got us,” I say finally. “And you’ve got a direct line anytime. Day or night.”

Relief flickers across his face. “Good. That’s good.”

At the entrance to the dining room, Dez leans toward Teagan, his voice a quiet rumble as they discuss security details. “All three have military backgrounds. Vetted personally. Thorough background checks that would make the CIA blush.”

“Living arrangements?” Teagan asks, all business despite the domestic scene unfolding around us.

“Rotating shifts. One always on premises, the others nearby. They understand the assignment.” Dez’s expression hardens. “And they understand what happens if they fail. We’re going to leave to meet them after lunch.”

I’ve known Dez Savoy long enough to know that’s not an empty threat. The man trained us all, after all. His reputation in our circles is legendary—the security expert who’s never lost a client. Until Charlotte’s case, which is likely why he’s taking Brookes’ protection so personally.

Charlotte appears at the table, setting a steaming plate in front of Brookes. Her fingers linger on hisshoulder, a touch both protective and comforting. “Eat before Joker gets handsy with your mashed potatoes.”

Brookes snorts, but there’s affection in the sound. “As if I’d let him.” He picks up his fork and digs in anyway, the first bite drawing a small sound of appreciation from his throat.

Charlotte’s gaze meets mine across the table, and something passes between us—something unspoken but understood. We’re both watching over him in our own ways.

Dez and Teagan join us at the table as Josiah and Charlotte bring the remaining dishes. Beaux pulls out Charlotte’s chair with unexpected gentleness, his usual manic energy tempered in her presence. The simple domesticity of it catches in my chest.

“Remember when we hit that cantina in Juárez?” Josiah launches into a story, gesturing wildly with his fork. “And Motley tried to order in Spanish?”

Beaux groans dramatically. “We agreed never to speak of that again.”

“No,youagreed. The rest of us made no such promises.” Teagan’s smile is rare enough that it transforms his entire face.

“What happened?” Charlotte leans forward, eager for the punchline.

“Let’s just say he propositioned the priest instead of ordering tacos,” I deadpan, earning a burst of laughter from the table and a dinner roll thrown at my head by Beaux.

“The language of love is universal,” Beaux defends himself with a grin.

“Pretty sure blasphemy is too,” Josiah counters.

Brookes laughs, wincing slightly as he holds his side, but the joy in his eyes is genuine. “You guys are insane.”

“You’re just figuring that out now?” Charlotte nudges him gently, affection evident in every movement.

I watch them across the table, the easy way they communicate without words, finishing each other’s sentences, inside jokes flowing between them like a private language. The bond between them reminds me of what pack truly means. Not just blood, not just designation, but choice. Choosing to stand beside someone through hell and back.

The realization hits me with startling clarity as I look around the table. No one’s wearing a tactical vest. No earpieces. No weapons within reach. No one’s positioned with sight lines to all entrances. For the first time in longer than I can remember, we’re notsoldiers, we’re just people sharing a meal. Laughing. Living. It’s a fragile peace, but peace all the same.

I catch Charlotte’s eye again, and this time she holds my gaze a moment longer. The corner of her mouth lifts in a small, private smile that sends warmth spreading through my chest. In this moment, with afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows and the scent of home-cooked food filling the air, I can almost believe in something beyond survival.

This is our life now and we have Charlotte to thank for that.

CHAPTER 32

CHARLOTTE

Iwake to the gentle press of Moses' chest against my back, his arm draped over my waist, the weight comforting rather than restrictive. His scent—frankincense and myrrh—wraps around me and thoughts of me on my knees for him send delicious shivers down my spine. Beyond the windows, the city stretches beneath a blanket of early morning fog, but in here, time feels suspended. Our nest—my nest—has become a sanctuary.

The massive California king mattress sits on a platform of memory foam, surrounded by pillows, blankets, and cushions in every texture. Some nights, like last night, we all pile in together after the day's chaos becomes too much. Other nights, differentcombinations of us find comfort in each other's arms while others take watch or sleep elsewhere.

There are no rules here. Just us, finding our way.

Josiah stirs beside me, his head using my thigh as a pillow, dark lashes fluttering against caramel-brown cheeks. His scent, rain and clean linen, is like a balm and I find myself wanting to sniff him constantly. Of course, he lets me, even though he is not a fan of touch all the time. I reach down, threading my fingers through his short curls, and he hums, nuzzling against my touch without opening his eyes.

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