Page 84 of Omega on Fire

"Morning, sunshine," I whisper, careful not to disturb the others.

His lips curl into a sleepy smile. "Five more minutes."

"Take all the time you need." I yawn.

His hand finds mine, squeezing once before relaxing back into semi-consciousness.

On my other side, Beaux sprawls face-down in a tangle of sheets, one arm flung across my hips. The black pepper and whiskey notes of his scent spike momentarily as he grunts in his sleep, then settle back to a warm, mellow undercurrent. The tattoos across his back, demons locked in eternal battle with angels, shift with each breath, telling stories I'm still learning to read.

Beyond him, Teagan sits in the armchair we pulled close to the nest, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug, the other holding a tablet. I want to scoff and tell him to come back to bed, but the man is hardheaded as hell. Always vigilant. Always watching. His leather-and-gunmetal scent carries notes of protectiveness that have become as essential to me as oxygen.

Our eyes meet over the rim of his mug, and something intimate passes between us without a word being spoken.

"How long have you been up?" I ask, voice still thick with sleep.

"Not long." The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Coffee?"

I nod, carefully extracting myself from the tangle of limbs. Moses stirs, his eyes opening just enough to verify that it's me moving before he settles back, unconsciously pulling Beaux closer to fill the space I've left. The casual intimacy between them makes something warm unfurl in my chest.

My bare feet make no sound on the plush carpet as I pad to Teagan's chair, leaning down to accept the mug he offers. Our fingers brush, sending tingles along my nerve endings. I breathe in the rich aroma of freshly ground dark roast, because ofcourse he wouldn't settle for anything less, before taking a sip.

"Any news?" I nod toward the tablet in his hand.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Nothing we need to deal with right now."

Which means yes, plenty of news, none of it good.

Six weeks since my video went viral. Six weeks of rabid media coverage, protests in the streets, riots in some cities. Six weeks of death threats, attempted break-ins, and round-the-clock security. Six weeks of watching from this penthouse as the world grapples with the uncomfortable truths I forced into the open.

"Let me see."

He hesitates, then hands over the tablet with a resigned sigh. The screen shows live coverage of a protest outside the Alpha Association headquarters in Chicago. Signs bearing my face and slogans like "JUSTICE FOR OMEGAS", “CHARLOTTE FOR PRESIDENT!” and "NO MORE SILENCE" fill the frame. The crowd is massive, stretching for blocks.

"Turn up the volume," I request, perching on the arm of his chair.

The reporter's voice fills the space:

". . .day seventeen of continuous protests following whistleblower Charlotte Matthews' explosiverevelations about systemic Omega abuse, abduction and trafficking. Multiple Government officials have now been arrested, with more indictments expected. Meanwhile, Congress has fast-tracked legislation to strengthen Omega protection laws. . ."

I mute it again, handing the tablet back to Teagan. "Faster than I expected."

"People were ready for change." His fingers find mine, interlacing them. "You just gave them permission to demand it."

"Not everyone's happy about it." I nod toward the window, beyond which we know paparazzi and death-threat-spewing traditionalists alike have been camped out for weeks, held at bay only by the building's exceptional security and the pack's reputation.

Teagan's thumb traces circles on my palm. "Not everyone needs to be."

From the nest, Moses' deep voice rumbles, "Some people deserve to be unhappy."

I turn to find him propped up on one elbow, watching us with those dark, observant eyes that never miss a thing. His cornrows are slightly disheveled, softening his usually stoic appearance. It makes my heart twist in ways I'm still learning to navigate.

"Look who's finally joining the land of the living," I tease.

His lips quirk. "Bold of you to assume I was ever asleep."

The movement disturbs Beaux, who groans dramatically, rolling onto his back and flinging an arm over his eyes. "If you're all going to insist on talking, at least make it interesting."

"What qualifies as interesting to you at"—I glance at the clock—"seven thirty-eight in the morning?"

---