Page 51 of Omega in Love
When Brookes was called next, my heart started pounding against my ribcage like a trapped bird.
He walked up with his shoulders square, his chin high, each step deliberate and measured. A vision of grace in a fitted slate-gray suit that highlighted the elegant lines of his body, his curls pinned neatly away from his face, revealing the delicate architecture of his cheekbones. No flash, no fashion, nothing that could distract from his words. Just Brookes, raw and brave and resolute.
He told them how he was taken from a photo shoot. How he was walking to the car when a black SUV pulled up beside him, tires screeching against asphalt. How someone grabbed him from behind, rough hands closing around his throat, and slammed his head into the brick of the alley wall with enough force to make his vision blur. How they dragged him into the car and drove him to a warehouse on the outskirts of town, a place where screams disappeared into concrete. How they beat him,he clarified with a steady voice, to break him. Because a high-profile Omega on a platform like his couldn't be allowed to keep speaking, to keep advocating, to keep existing so visibly.
He spoke of the pain. The confusion. The disorientation of waking up in darkness, tasting blood in his mouth. He didn't cry either but I think if anyone in that jury box had even an ounce of humanity left in them, they wept for him. I saw several of them flinch, one woman pressing her hand to her mouth, another looking away briefly, as if the words were too heavy to bear.
I could see Levi gripping the edge of his seat like his control depended on it, the wood creaking under the pressure of his fingers. Dante had his hand fisted on his thigh, knuckles white against the dark fabric of his pants. My own palms were pressed together, fingernails digging half-moons into my skin. Brookes just kept going, each word precise and devastating. Each word felt like a cut and also like a weapon. He wasn't testifying to relive it. He was testifying to reclaim it, to transform his pain into justice.
The prosecutor let him speak without interruption, understanding the power of his unfiltered truth. When he was done, not a single person moved for several long seconds. The courtroom was silent, suspended in the aftermath of his testimony.
That silence, I think, said everything.
The defense didn’t have a leg to stand on after their testimonies. Character witnesses, weak testimonies of Senator Blaine’s hard work for the state he represented and its citizens. It all paled in comparison to the case the prosecution had built against him. Powerful men have been given their freedom for much worse unfortunately.
Now, we wait.
We're sitting in the hallway outside the courtroom, under harsh fluorescent lights that cast unflattering shadows acrosstired faces, surrounded by too much history. The marble floors echo with footsteps, conversations hushed out of respect or perhaps fear. Charlotte's curled into Teagan's side on the bench across from us, flanked by her pack like a protective wall. Her grey pinstriped dress is wrinkled at the hem where she's been clutching it, and there's a faint smudge of mascara beneath one eye. No one points it out. No one needs to.
She's still glowing. Still unbreakable, even with the weight of everything pressing down on her shoulders.
Brookes is in Dante's lap, arms wrapped around his neck, face pressed into his shoulder where his scent is strongest, seeking comfort in the familiar cedar notes. Dante's arms encircle him completely, one hand gently cradling the back of his head, fingers threaded through short black hair. Levi sits beside them, one arm draped across both their backs like a silent shield, his presence solid and unwavering. He hasn't said much since they left the stand, just kept them close, his warm vanilla scent mingling with Dante's cedar to create a cocoon of safety around Brookes.
Brookes didn't want to go back to L.A. until he knew. Until it was finished.
He said it was closure. I believe him but I also know it's more than that. It's not just about justice. It's about survival. About proving, once and for all, that the man who hurt him, who hurt all of them, can no longer hurt anyone else. About reclaiming power that was stolen in dark rooms and silent threats.
The door opens with a heavy creak that cuts through the silence.
Every head turns, breath collectively held.
It's one of Teagan's men, Saxon, I think, former SEAL with a reputation for efficiency. Stone-faced, always wired into comms, eyes constantly scanning for threats. Today, though, hisexpression softens as he crosses the floor, boots barely making a sound on the polished marble.
"He's not walking out," Saxon says simply, voice low but carrying to all of us. "They found him guilty. All counts. He's going straight to holding."
The moment that follows isn't loud.
There's no screaming. No celebration. No eruption of triumph.
Just a quiet gasp from Charlotte, the sound of air finally entering lungs that had forgotten how to breathe.
Brookes lifts his head from Dante's shoulder, his eyes wide and shining with unshed tears.
He stands slowly, carefully extracting himself from Dante's embrace. Walks to Charlotte with measured steps, each one more certain than the last.
They meet halfway across the hall, the space between them closing like a chapter ending.
She's crying now, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. So is he, the droplets catching on his lashes before falling.
They wrap their arms around each other like two halves of a storm that finally passed, clinging with the desperation of survivors who understand exactly what the other has lost and gained. Her fingers dig into the fabric of his suit jacket, his hands splayed across her back, holding her up as she holds him.
Neither of them says anything for a long time.
They just hold on, swaying slightly in the middle of the hallway, oblivious to everyone watching.
For the first time in a long time, I see what peace looks like on their faces, unguarded, fragile, transformative.
Not perfection, not by a stretch. The lines haven't disappeared from around Brookes' eyes, and Charlotte's hands still tremble slightly as they clutch at his jacket.
