27. Jax
Chapter 27
Jax
“ T hey’re running the story.”
Stone’s voice pulls my attention from the security feed I’ve been watching for the last hour—a habit I can’t seem to break, even though the Ashgraves have their own people monitoring our perimeter now. The six small screens show different angles of our property: the front gate, the driveway, the back gardens, the tree line at the northern edge where our land meets the state forest.
All clear. For now.
I turn to face Stone, who’s standing in the doorway of my study holding his phone. “Which outlet?”
“The Weekly Whisper.” His expression suggests what he thinks of the publication—a trashy tabloid known more for alien abduction stories and celebrity affairs than anything resembling legitimate journalism. “Their reporter took the bait. Picked up the drive from the park bench exactly where we left it.”
I nod, relief and disappointment warring within me. Relief that the first phase of our plan is in motion; disappointment that it had to be a tabloid rather than a legitimate news source. “Any sign of law enforcement presence during the pickup?”
Stone shakes his head. “None. No plainclothes officers, no unmarked vehicles. Nothing.”
“Damn it.” I push away from the desk, frustration coiling tight in my chest. “If Heath’s inside person doesn’t think the drive is worth retrieving?—”
“They still might,” Stone interrupts, his calm a counterpoint to my agitation. “The Whisper journalist has already started dropping hints online about their ‘explosive exclusive.’ Says they’ll publish the full story on Monday.”
I check my watch—it’s Friday afternoon. “Three days. That gives Heath’s person the weekend to panic and make a move.”
“Exactly.” Stone moves further into the room, leaning against the edge of my desk. “We just need to be patient.”
Patience. Not my strongest virtue, especially not now, knowing Heath is still out there, that her network might still be operational, that my pack might still be in danger. The need to act, to eliminate the threat, to secure what’s mine pulses through me like a second heartbeat.
“Where are the others?” I ask, needing to account for each member of my pack—a compulsion that’s grown stronger since the incident at that facility.
“Finn’s cooking something. What he’s really doing is dancing on the island.” Stone chuckles at that. “Ren and Hailey are on the lawn.” A slight smile touches his lips. “Another self-defense lesson.”
I stiffen. “They’re outside…”
“Yes, but they’re not alone, Jax. You hired security, remember?”
Yeah, well…
“I should check on them,” I say, already moving toward the door.
Stone’s hand on my arm stops me. “Jax.” Just my name, but I hear the gentle reprimand in it. “They’re fine. The house is secure. The grounds are monitored. You need to give them space to breathe.”
I know he’s right. Logically, I know this. But logic has little power against the visceral memory of Ren locking me in that air duct while he faced those betas alone, of the hours not knowing if he or Hailey was alive or dead, of seeing Ren bloodied and barely conscious, of nearly losing everything that matters.
“I just need to see them,” I insist, pulling away from his grasp.
Stone sighs but doesn’t try to stop me again. “At least try not to let them see how worried you are. It’s not helping them recover.”
The criticism stings, but I can’t deny its truth. My anxiety, my hypervigilance, my need to control every variable… I know these aren’t healthy responses, know they’re born from my guilt and fear rather than a realistic assessment of the current threat. But knowing doesn’t make it easier to stop.
I find Ren and Hailey on the lawn as promised, though not quite in the scenario I expected. Rather than practicing throws or strikes, they’re seated cross-legged in the grass, facing each other, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on their knees.
Meditation? From Ren, who’s always preferred action to introspection?
I pause in the doorway, not wanting to disturb whatever is happening between them. The change in Ren over the past few days has been remarkable—the rigid wall he maintained between himself and the rest of us is crumbling visibly. Especially with Hailey, as if he’s finally permitted himself to accept the bond between them.
“You can join us,” Ren says without opening his eyes, his awareness of his surroundings as sharp as ever despite his apparent relaxation. “It’s quite nice.”
Hailey’s eyes flutter open, finding me in the doorway with a small smile. “Hey,” she says, her voice soft, especially without walls surrounding her. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I assure her, moving down the steps. “Just checking in. What are you two working on?”
“Centering techniques,” Ren explains, opening his eyes as well. “Helps maintain focus, make better decisions.”
I raise an eyebrow, surprised. “That’s…typically part of your training regimen?”
A shadow of his old defensiveness flickers across his face before smoothing away. “I’m adapting,” he says simply.
“It’s helping,” Hailey offers, reaching over to squeeze Ren’s hand briefly—another casual touch that seems to come more naturally to them now. “With the nightmares, too.”
The mention of nightmares tightens something in my chest. She hasn’t said much about them, but I’ve heard her in the night—the small, distressed sounds, the way she sometimes jolts awake, gasping for breath.
“Good,” I say, meaning it despite the persistent urge to take control, to fix everything myself. “That’s…good.”
Ren studies me with those penetrating ice-blue eyes, seeing more than I’m comfortable revealing. “The plan?” he asks, changing the subject with his typical directness.
“In motion,” I confirm. “A tabloid took the bait, planning to publish Monday. Now we wait to see if Heath’s person makes a move to suppress the story.”
Hailey’s brow furrows, a worried look crossing her features. “But…what if one of Heath’s other lackeys goes after it and not the police guy?”
Ren shakes his head. “The USB has files on it that reference sealed evidence.” He grins. He was the mastermind who thought of that part. “At least, evidence that should be sealed. The mole has to be the one to contain this. Anyone else wouldn’t know which records to falsify.”
Hailey grins, leaning in to press her nose against his. “You’re so smart.”
I can’t believe my eyes, but Ren blushes.
Hailey rises gracefully from the grass, brushing non-existent dirt from her leggings. “So we’re on standby until then?”
“More or less. The Ashgraves have people watching the tabloid’s offices. If anyone suspicious approaches, they’ll let us know.” I struggle to keep my tone casual, informative, rather than commanding. “Stone and I will take shifts with them for the stakeout.”
“I should be there too,” Ren says immediately, predictably. “Three sets of eyes are better than two.”
“And me,” Hailey adds, her chin lifting in that stubborn way that now both frustrates and endears. “It’s my false story that’s supposed to draw them out. I should be part of the operation.”
“Absolutely not,” I say before I can stop myself, the words sharper than intended. “It’s too dangerous.”
Her expression hardens. “I want to help. I’m not made of glass, Jax.”
“I didn’t say you were, but?—”
“But what?” She steps closer, challenging me directly in a way she never would have dared just weeks ago. “But I’m an omega? But I’m still recovering? But you’re afraid?”
The last accusation lands like a slap to the face. Yes, I’m afraid. Terrified, in fact, of losing any of them again. Of failing in my duty to protect. Of watching my pack shatter a second time.
“All of the above,” I admit, forcing myself to hold her gaze despite the urge to assert dominance, to shut down the conversation with an alpha command. “And yes, I know that’s my problem, not yours. I’m…working on it.”
The honesty seems to disarm her. Her expression softens, and she reaches for my hand. “I know you are. We all are. But part of that work is letting me make my own choices, take my own risks.”
Ren watches our exchange with uncharacteristic patience, no longer the first to escalate situations with his sharp words and sharper temper. When he finally speaks, his tone is measured, reasonable.
“What if we compromise?” he suggests. “Hailey stays in the SUV with one of us at all times. Close enough to be involved, far enough to maintain a safety buffer.”
It’s a sensible solution. The old me would have rejected it outright, insisting on complete control. The new me is trying—struggling, but trying—to find balance.
Fuck.
“And Finn?” I ask, already knowing what the answer will be.
“Where Hailey goes, I go,” comes Finn’s voice from the doorway, confirming my expectation. He’s standing there with flour on his nose, clearly having overheard at least part of our conversation. “Someone has to keep you alphas from doing something unnecessarily heroic and stupid.”
The mild joke eases some of the tension in my shoulders. Even I manage a small smile.
“Fine,” I concede, knowing when I’m outnumbered. “But no unnecessary risks. And at the first sign of serious danger, you both return to the house immediately.”
Hailey nods, a triumphant gleam in her eye that suggests she knew she’d win this argument all along. “Agreed.”
The next three days pass in a tense holding pattern. We establish a rotation for the surveillance of the tabloid’s offices. True to our agreement, Hailey and Finn join us but remain in the vehicle.
The tabloid’s offices are located in a converted warehouse in the city’s arts district, surrounded by galleries and small design firms that empty out after business hours.
By Sunday evening, there’s still been no sign of anyone suspicious approaching the building. The journalist who took our planted drive has been in and out several times, working late as they prepare Monday’s “exclusive,” but otherwise, the situation has remained frustratingly quiet.
“Maybe they’re not taking the bait,” Stone suggests. “The tabloid might not seem credible enough to warrant intervention.”
I check my watch—11:37 PM. Less than twelve hours until the story is scheduled to go live. “Or they’re waiting until the last possible moment. When there’s less chance of witnesses.”
Stone nods, acknowledging the possibility. “Either way, we should consider our next move if nothing happens tonight.”
I’m about to respond when movement near the entrance of the tabloid catches my attention. A figure approaches the building, moving with the purposeful stride of someone who doesn’t want to linger in the open too long. Male, average height, wearing a dark jacket with the collar turned up despite the mild evening, a baseball cap pulled low over his face.
“We’ve got company,” I murmur, nodding toward the entrance.
Stone shifts, his posture instantly alert. “Looks like our patience is finally paying off.”
We watch as the figure pauses at the door, glancing around before producing what appears to be a key card. Not breaking in, then—using authorized access. Interesting.
“Is there security footage in that building?” I wonder aloud.
Stone scoffs quietly. “Doubtful. It’s a tabloid operating on a shoestring budget. Most of these converted warehouses have minimal security beyond basic alarm systems.”
The figure disappears inside, the door closing behind him. I start the car, moving it to a position with a clearer view of both the front entrance and the alley that runs along the side of the building, offering a potential secondary exit.
“Should we go in after him?” Stone asks, his hand already moving to the door handle.
I consider our options, weighing the risk of confrontation against the need to identify Heath’s inside person. “Let’s wait. See what he does, how long he stays. If we spook him too early, we might not get what we need.”
Stone nods, settling back to wait with the practiced patience of a predator. Minutes tick by—five, ten, fifteen. Just as I’m beginning to wonder if we’ve missed something, the side door to the building opens, and the same figure emerges, moving more quickly now, something clutched in his hand.
“He’s got something,” I observe. “Time to move.”
We exit the vehicle silently, splitting up to approach from different angles. I take the more direct route, crossing the street at an angle that will intercept the figure before he reaches the main road. Stone circles wide, positioning himself to cut off any retreat toward the alley.
The figure spots me just as I close to within twenty feet. Now that we’re on level ground, I realize it’s a beta. He’s a small frail guy who looks as vulnerable as an omega would. I almost feel sorry for what we’re about to do.
The moment he spots me, he freezes momentarily, then turns to run—directly into Stone’s imposing form, which has materialized at the entrance to the alley.
“Evening,” Stone says, his deep voice deceptively casual. “Bit late for a visit to the newspaper, isn’t it?”
“Excuse me?” The man’s voice is incredulous. “Get out of my way. I’m on police business, and you don’t want trouble. I’m a police officer.” He tries to sidestep, but Stone’s hand shoots out, gripping his arm firmly.
“Oh, I know what you are. I think my brother and I would like a word.”
In the dim light from the street lamps, I can now see the man’s face more clearly—middle-aged, with sharp features and the alert, wary eyes of someone accustomed to assessing threats. He’s still clutching something in his hand—a small object that looks like a USB drive.
“Let me go,” he demands, his voice carrying the authoritative tone of someone used to giving orders. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“Oh,” I counter, stepping closer, “I think we do, detective.”
His eyes widen slightly at the use of his title—a confirmation as good as any verbal admission.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, attempting to pull away from Stone’s grip. “I’m just leaving work.”
I almost laugh. Didn’t he just say he was an officer of the law?
“At the Weekly Whisper?” I ask, my tone making it clear I know he’s lying. “Funny, I didn’t realize the police department had relocated.”
The detective’s expression hardens, his free hand moving toward his waist where I suspect he’s carrying a concealed weapon. Stone notices the movement as well, twisting the detective’s arm behind his back in a smooth, practiced motion that immobilizes him without causing serious pain. He’s strong, but Stone is bigger.
“I wouldn’t,” Stone warns quietly. “This conversation can stay civil, or it can get very uncomfortable. Your choice, detective.”
“What do you want?” The man asks, the bravado fading from his voice.
“The truth,” I reply simply. “About your relationship with Veyra Heath. About the evidence you’ve been tampering with. About your role in protecting her operation.”
He goes very still at the mention of Heath’s name. “I don’t know who that is.”
“Let’s not waste time with denials,” I suggest, nodding toward the object in his hand. “What’s on the drive? The files Hailey Ironwood supposedly left detailing Heath’s operation? The ones the Whisper is planning to publish tomorrow?”
A flicker of uncertainty crosses his face—the first crack in his professional facade. “How do you know about that?”
“Because we’re the ones who planted it,” Stone informs him, his grip remaining firm. “A carefully crafted trap that you walked right into, detective.”
The detective’s expression shifts rapidly from uncertainty to calculation. “You can’t prove anything. And you’ve just assaulted an officer of the law. When my colleagues hear?—”
“Colleagues like the police captain?” I interrupt. “Or the Head of Police? I wonder how many of them are on Heath’s payroll, too.”
It’s a shot in the dark, but his reaction—a momentary widening of the eyes, a subtle tensing of his shoulders—tells me I’ve hit close to the mark.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he insists, but there’s less conviction in his voice now.
“I think we do,” I counter, stepping closer. “We know about the evidence that’s disappeared from the case files. The witness statements that were altered. The surveillance footage that mysteriously corrupted. All to protect Heath and her operation.”
He says nothing, his jaw tightening stubbornly.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I continue, my voice dropping to ensure our conversation remains private. “You’re going to tell us everything—how you’re connected with Heath, what she’s asked you to do, what evidence you’ve destroyed. In return, we ensure that when this all comes crashing down—and it will—you’re offered protection.”
“Protection?” He scoffs.
“From me,” comes a soft, almost musical voice from the shadows.
The detective stiffens instantly, his head whipping around toward the sound. A tall figure emerges from the darkness of the alley—Connor Ashgrave, his pale, almost colorless eyes gleaming in the dim light like chips of ice. He moves with the fluid grace of a man who has never needed to rush, never needed to assert dominance through obvious displays of strength.
“Connor,” I acknowledge.
The detective’s reaction to Connor is immediate and visceral—a sharp intake of breath, a sudden stillness that speaks of recognition and fear. Interesting. He knows who Connor is.
“Detective,” Connor greets, his melodious voice incongruously gentle for someone who carries such an aura of danger. “How unexpected to find you here, so far from your jurisdiction, engaged in what appears to be...evidence tampering.”
“Ashgrave,” the detective manages, his voice suddenly hoarse. “This isn’t what it looks like?—”
“Isn’t it?” Connor interrupts, moving closer with unhurried steps. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks very much like a law enforcement officer destroying evidence related to a federal investigation. An investigation, I might add, that has become of particular interest to my family.”
The detective’s eyes dart between us, calculation and fear warring in his expression. “I’m just doing my job?—”
“Your job?” Connor repeats, his soft voice somehow more menacing than a shout could ever be. “Is your job to protect human traffickers, detective? To shield those who kidnap and sell omegas? To obstruct justice when it threatens your…benefactors?”
Each question makes the detective flinch despite Stone’s restraining grip.
“You don’t understand,” the detective insists, desperation creeping into his voice. “Heath has reach. People everywhere. If she thinks I’ve crossed her?—”
“Heath is in Venezuela,” Connor states with calm certainty, “believing herself beyond the reach of American justice. And perhaps she is, for now. But her network here? Her collaborators? They are very much within our reach, detective.”
“What do you want from me?” the detective asks, defeat beginning to seep into his posture.
Connor smiles—a small, cold expression that never reaches those pale eyes. “The same thing my associates here want. The truth. All of it. Names, dates, methods, locations. Every piece of evidence you’ve tampered with, every case you’ve compromised, every colleague you’ve corrupted or who has been corrupted alongside you.”
“And in return?” The question is barely above a whisper.
“In return,” Connor says, “you get to live with the consequences of your choices in a federal prison rather than facing what Heath would do to you when she discovers your cooperation.” He pauses, studying the detective with clinical detachment. “And she will discover it, detective. Make no mistake about that.”
I exchange a glance with Stone. This is a reminder of how little we truly know about the Ashgraves despite their assistance.
“An FBI agent is waiting three blocks from here,” Connor continues, his voice conversational now, as if discussing the weather rather than a federal investigation. “An associate of my family for many years. Very discrete, very thorough, and very interested in what you have to say about Heath’s operation.”
The detective’s expression shifts from fear to something approaching hope. “A deal? Witness protection?”
“Potentially,” Connor concedes. “Dependent on the value and verifiability of your information. But the offer is time-sensitive, detective. It expires the moment we walk away from this conversation.”
It’s clear from the detective’s face that he recognizes the choice before him isn’t a choice at all. Cooperate or face the consequences—from Heath, from the Ashgraves, from whatever remains of the legal system he hasn’t yet corrupted.
“Not here,” he finally says, resignation evident in his voice. “Too exposed.”
Connor nods, seemingly satisfied. “There’s a diner three blocks east. My FBI contact will meet us there. You can make your statement, begin the process of… redemption.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re seated in a vinyl booth at the far end of an almost empty diner. The fluorescent lighting is harsh, but the lone waitress is keeping her distance after delivering our coffee, giving us the privacy we need. Stone sits beside the detective, effectively blocking any potential escape, while Connor and I face them across the sticky tabletop.
A man in an unremarkable suit sits at a table near the door—the FBI agent Connor mentioned, positioned to both monitor the entrance and give our conversation the appearance of privacy.
“Start talking,” I prompt, my patience wearing thin despite the change in venue.
The detective wraps his hands around his coffee mug, staring into the dark liquid as if it might offer some escape from this situation. “Three years ago,” he begins reluctantly, “I was working a case—human trafficking, supposedly. Small operation bringing omegas in from Eastern Europe. Except when I started pulling at threads, things didn’t add up.”
He takes a sip of coffee, grimacing either at the taste or the memory. “The victims didn’t match the profile. Too educated, too well-connected back home. Not the desperate, vulnerable targets most traffickers go after. And the money trail was…sophisticated. Offshore accounts, shell companies, legitimate business fronts.”
“Heath’s operation,” Stone supplies.
The detective nods. “Though I didn’t know that at the time. I just knew I’d stumbled onto something bigger than a standard trafficking ring. I was building a case, gathering evidence, when I received a visit from a woman who introduced herself as a federal agent. Said my investigation was interfering with a larger operation. Asked me to back off, let the feds handle it.”
“Heath?” I guess.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Someone working for her. I didn’t meet Heath until later. This woman…she was convincing. Had credentials, knowledge of ongoing federal operations that checked out. I believed her.”
The admission comes with a hint of embarrassment—a seasoned detective taken in by a con. “A week later, I received an envelope containing ten thousand dollars in cash. A ‘consulting fee’ for my cooperation, according to the note. That’s when I realized what was really happening.”
“But you kept the money,” Stone observes.
The detective meets his gaze briefly before looking away. “Yes. I told myself it was compensation for the case I’d been forced to abandon. Just this once. A one-time compromise.”
“But it wasn’t,” I say.
“No.” He sighs, running a hand over his face. “A month later, another request came. Small thing—overlooking an omega transport moving through our jurisdiction. Another payment, larger this time. Then another request. And another. By the time I met Heath face to face, I was already in too deep to walk away.”
Connor watches the confession with an unsettling stillness, those pale eyes never leaving the detective’s face.
“The evidence locker,” Stone prompts. “What happened to the physical evidence from the raids on Heath’s facilities?”
“Some of it disappeared completely,” the detective admits. “Documents, photographs, computer drives—anything that directly connected Heath to the operation. Other pieces I just…modified. Altered chain of custody documentation to create procedural issues that would make it inadmissible in court. Changed dates, locations, names in reports to introduce reasonable doubt.”
“And Caldwell?” I ask.
“I did the same,” the detective says before releasing a heavy breath. “Look, I didn’t want to do any of this. You have to believe me. But she has always been the one in control.”
I exchange a glance with Stone.
“What about the omega who dropped the information on this drive you stole?” I press, trying to keep my voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath my calm exterior.
The detective lets out another breath. “Heath said she was worth millions to the right buyers.”
I bite back a growl at hearing Hailey discussed as a commodity, forcing myself to remain professional, to see this through.
“I think,” the detective continues, “The omega’s new pack—your pack,” he adds, the recognition dawning in his eyes, “had interfered with Heath’s operations before. She wants you silenced.”
The confirmation of what we’d suspected sends a cold rage through me.
“I’ve told you everything,” the detective says, his voice weary now. “What happens next?”
Connor leans forward slightly, his movement subtle but immediately drawing all attention to him. “Next, you repeat everything you just told us,” he instructs, his voice carrying an undercurrent of steel, “for the official record. To my FBI associate. Every name, every detail, every connection to Heath’s operation.”
The detective eyes the FBI agent warily. “And then?”
“And then you enter protective custody,” Connor explains, “until Heath and her network are fully dismantled. You cooperate fully, testify as needed, and perhaps—perhaps—you eventually rebuild some semblance of a life free from both Heath’s influence and federal prison.”
“That’s it?” The detective sounds skeptical. “No…retribution? No punishment?”
Connor’s pale eyes narrow slightly, the only indication of emotion in his otherwise composed features. “Justice is what matters here, detective. Your punishment will come through the legal system you’ve spent your career supposedly upholding.”
I feel a flicker of surprise at how closely Connor’s words echo my thoughts from moments earlier. Perhaps the Ashgraves aren’t so different from us after all.
An hour later, the confession complete and recorded, the FBI agent leads the detective away in handcuffs, heading for the waiting federal vehicle outside. The detective looks back at us one last time, a mixture of resignation and curiosity in his expression.
“You’re not who I thought you were,” he says, his gaze lingering on Stone and me. “Who are you people, really?”
“Just concerned citizens,” I reply with cold satisfaction. “Making sure justice is served.”
Connor nods, lips quirking in what might be a smile. “Of course. Family first, always.” The way he says it suggests layers of meaning beyond the simple phrase. He pauses, those colorless eyes assessing me one final time. “You’re building something rare, you know. A pack with two omegas…” His gaze shifts to Stone. “Worth fighting for.”
He slaps Stone on the shoulder before heading off, his words lingering in my head.
Worth fighting for? My pack? Yes. Yes, it is.