28. Hailey
Chapter 28
Hailey
I t takes three days for the dust to settle after the detective’s arrest. Three days of statements, evidence collection, and tense meetings with FBI agents who look at us like we’re simultaneously witnesses, victims, and suspects in their investigation. I can feel their skepticism—why would a private pack go to such lengths to ensnare a corrupt detective? What’s our real interest in the case?
They don’t understand what it means to have your sense of safety shattered, your autonomy violated, your very identity used as a commodity. They can’t comprehend the burning need to ensure that what happened to me never happens to another omega.
But despite their suspicion, they can’t argue with results. The detective’s confession opens floodgates of information. Names, dates, locations—all the details of Heath’s operation that had been systematically erased from official records.
By the fourth day, raids have been conducted on three additional facilities similar to the one where I was held. Twenty-seven omegas rescued. The networks of transport, security, and medical support exposed. Every hour brings new developments, each one a small victory in the larger war against Heath’s organization.
I’ve been following the news obsessively, scanning the released photos of rescued omegas for a glimpse of Vi’s face. So far, nothing.
“You should try to get out for a bit,” Finn suggests gently as I refresh the news page for the dozenth time that morning. “The constant updates aren’t helping.”
He’s right, of course. My anxiety has been building steadily, making me restless and unfocused. But the thought of leaving the security of our home still sends a flutter of panic through me.
“The rehabilitation center called again,” Finn continues, sliding a mug of tea across the counter to me. “They’re still hoping you might visit. Talk to some of the survivors.”
The Omega Rehabilitation Center had reached out shortly after news of the raids broke, extending an invitation for me to meet with the rescued omegas. I’ve declined twice already, not sure I have anything of value to offer them in their trauma. But the thought of Vi potentially being among them, alone and frightened…
“Okay,” I decide, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. “I’ll go today.”
Finn’s eyebrows lift. “Really? Are you sure?”
“No,” I admit with a weak smile. “But I need to try. For Vi. If she’s there. And for myself. Hiding from it isn’t making it any easier to bear.”
His expression softens with understanding. “I’ll go with you.”
“Actually…” I hesitate, uncertain how to articulate what I’m feeling. “I think I need to do this alone.”
Concern flickers across his face. “Hailey...”
“Not completely alone,” I clarify quickly. “Someone can drive me. Wait outside. But meeting with them—I think it needs to be just me.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “I get it. But promise you’ll call if it becomes too much? We’ll be there in seconds.”
“Promise.” I reach for his hand, squeezing it gratefully. “Thank you, Finn. For understanding.”
Two hours later, I’m seated in the passenger seat of the SUV as we approach the rehabilitation center, a modern, low-rise building surrounded by gardens and tall fencing.
Jax hasn’t said much during the drive, seeming to sense my need for quiet contemplation. Stone in the back is also silent. But as Jax pulls into a parking space, he turns to me with an expression of carefully controlled concern.
“You don’t have to do this,” he reminds me. “No one would think less of you for waiting until you’re more recovered.”
I appreciate his concern, but it only strengthens my resolve. “I’m not fully recovered,” I acknowledge. “I might never be, not completely. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help others. Maybe I can.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “When did you get so wise?”
“Must be all those alpha pheromones I’m breathing in day and night,” I tease.
Jax grins before he exits the vehicle and comes around to open my door.
With a deep breath to steady myself, I exit the vehicle. Jax is like my shadow as I approach the center’s entrance. The receptionist, a friendly beta, informs someone of my arrival. Minutes later, a tall, elegant omega appears, introducing herself as the center’s director.
“Ms. Ironwood, thank you for coming,” she says, her voice warm but professional as she leads me through secure doors into the facility proper. “The residents have been quite eager to meet you.” She pauses as she reaches the second set of doors, gaze shifting to Jax and Stone, who are scanning every corner like bloodhounds. “Uh…Mr. Ironwood, I’m afraid you’ll both have to wait out here.”
Both Jax and Stone’s gaze slides to her. “Why?”
The omega flinches slightly, though she tries to hide it. “The omegas here do not react well to alphas…I’m sure you understand.”
Jax’s jaw clenches, and I reach for him. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “How many exits are in that room?”
The omega looks surprised and confused by his question. “Just this one.” She points at the door before us.
I squeeze Jax’s hands again. “I’ll be fine.” Reaching up on tippy toes, I press a kiss to his lips, a flutter going through me before I shift my gaze to Stone. He’s frowning too. I brush a laugh through my nose. They’re like two pit bulls. Tipping, I press a kiss to his lips as well.
“I have the panic button on the phone you bought me, remember?” I keep my voice low. “And the GPS tracker.”
Jax growls slightly, as if that much protection isn’t enough.
“Jax…” I frown at him, unable to hold back my pout.
“Fine,” he acquiesces begrudgingly. “We’ll be waiting here.”
I grin, turning to face the omega. “Ready.”
“Great,” she says. “This way.”
“I’m not sure what I can offer them,” I admit, nerves fluttering in my stomach. “I’m still processing everything myself.”
The omega smiles, gaze shifting between me and Jax. “Would you like me to introduce you, or would you prefer to enter on your own?” she asks.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “On my own, I think. But first—” I hesitate, then force myself to ask the question that’s been burning in me for days. “Is there an omega named Vi here? Purple hair, about my height, about twenty years old? She was at the facility with me.”
The omega’s expression tells me the answer before she speaks. “I’m sorry, no. We don’t have anyone matching that description. But we’re still identifying some of the omegas from the most recent raids. Many were too traumatized to provide names immediately.”
Disappointment settles heavily in my chest, but I nod my understanding.
With one more encouraging smile, she opens the door for me. I stand there for a moment, gathering my courage before stepping into the room. Conversations pause as heads turn in my direction, eyes widening with recognition. I feel suddenly exposed, uncertain—but then a young female omega with cropped blonde hair stands up from her place by the window.
“You’re her,” she says, her voice soft with wonder. “You’re Hailey Ironwood. The one who escaped. The one whom the papers are talking about.”
I swallow hard, nodding. “Yes. I’m Hailey.”
A ripple of whispers moves through the room, and then the blonde omega approaches, stopping a respectful distance away. “We heard about you. How you got away, how you helped bring them down.”
“I had help,” I clarify, not wanting to take credit that belongs to my pack as well. “A lot of help.”
“But you survived,” says another omega, a young male with haunted eyes. “And you fought back. That’s…that’s everything.”
Something breaks open inside me at those words—the realization that to these people, I’m not just a victim. I’m proof that survival is possible, that fighting back is possible, that there can be life after what we’ve endured.
I spend the next hour listening more than speaking, hearing abbreviated versions of their stories, answering their questions about how I’ve coped, how I’ve healed, and how I’ve built a life that doesn’t revolve entirely around being trafficked. I don’t sugarcoat the challenges—the nightmares, the panic attacks, the moments when the past feels more real than the present—but I also share the progress, the support, the gradual reclaiming of joy and connection.
“You found a pack,” one omega says, her expression carefully neutral but hope evident in her scent.
I nod, unable to suppress a small smile. “Yes.”
“I can’t imagine letting alphas near me again,” confesses another omega, a woman, perhaps in her thirties, whose name I didn’t catch. “Not after…”
“I understand,” I tell her, meeting her gaze directly. “And that’s completely fine. Healing…takes time.”
“But you did,” another presses. “You bonded with alphas. You trust them.”
“Not immediately,” I clarify. “And not easily. It took time. It took them proving, over and over, that they were different from the alphas who hurt us. That they valued me. As a person.”
As I speak, I realize how true this is—how my pack has given me space to process, to recover, to find my strength without rushing or pressuring me. Even Jax, with his protective instincts constantly on high alert, has been learning to step back, to let me set boundaries, to respect my need for independence alongside security.
Eventually, the director returns, gently reminding us of the time. As I prepare to leave, one omega approaches me, her expression more determined than before.
“Will you come back?” she asks. “Maybe next week? There are others who couldn’t join today but would like to meet you.”
I hesitate, weighing my own needs against the clear desire for connection I see in her eyes. “I’ll try,” I promise.
As I leave the center, my emotions are a tangled knot of grief, hope, determination, and lingering worry about Vi. Jax and Stone are waiting exactly where I left them, their posture relaxing visibly when they see me emerge.
“How was it?” Jax asks as they walk on either side of me like my personal bodyguards.
I consider my answer. “Hard,” I admit. “But good, I think. For them and for me.”
He nods, accepting my assessment without pushing for details I’m not ready to share. As we drive home, I stare out the window, processing the morning’s experiences, the stories I heard, the faces that in many ways mirror my own journey.
By the time we reach the house, I’m emotionally exhausted but also strangely energized, filled with a sense of purpose I haven’t felt since before my parents sold me. Connecting with other survivors has reminded me that what happened to me—to all of us—is bigger than me. It’s a systemic evil.
And Heath, the architect of that evil, is still free.
The thought follows me through the remainder of the day, lingering as I go through the motions of normal life—dinner with the pack, a movie in the living room, casual conversation about everything except the weight pressing on my mind. I participate, but part of me remains distant, preoccupied with thoughts of the omegas I met, of Vi, who is still missing, of Heath, who has yet to face justice.
That night, sleep comes, but it’s haunted by familiar nightmares—the sterile facility rooms, the clinical touch of indifferent handlers, the desperate faces of other captives. I wake with a silent scream trapped in my throat, sweat cooling on my skin in the darkness of the nest.
Beside me, the others sleep on, undisturbed by my quiet terror. All except Ren, who is absent—likely checking the security feed in Jax’s space.
Rather than wake them, rather than seek the comfort I know they would willingly provide, I carefully extract myself from the nest. Some nights, not even their presence can calm the storm inside me. Some nights, I need to wrestle my demons alone.
I pad silently through the darkened house, not entirely certain where I’m heading until I find myself standing outside one specific door—a large space with excellent natural light that Finn told me was once Ren’s studio. I’ve never seen him paint since I joined them.
To my surprise, the door is slightly ajar, a faint light spilling from within. I hesitate, then push it open further. The dust covers have been removed from the furniture, the blinds opened to reveal the night sky. A single lamp burns on a side table, casting warm light over the space.
And in the center of the room stands Ren, his back to me, staring at an empty easel.
I must make some sound, because he turns, unsurprised to find me there. “Nightmare?” he asks simply.
I nod, not needing to elaborate. He understands nightmares better than most.
He extends a hand in silent invitation, and I cross the room to join him, allowing myself to be gathered into his arms, both of us facing the blank canvas. His chest is solid against my back, his heartbeat a steady rhythm that grounds me in the present.
“I didn’t know you still came here,” I say softly, not wanting to break the peaceful quiet of the room.
“I don’t, usually,” he admits, his breath warm against my hair. “But sometimes, on nights when sleep won’t come…”
He doesn’t finish the thought, but he doesn’t need to.
We stand in comfortable silence for a long moment, both contemplating the empty easel. Then, in a voice so small I barely recognize it as my own, I make a request: “Paint something for me.”
I feel him tense slightly. “I don’t think I have the gift anymore, baby,” he whispers, face dipping into my hair. “It’s been too long.”
I shake my head, turning in his arms until my ear presses against his chest, the steady thump of his heart filling my senses. “No. It’s in here.” My hand splays over his sternum, feeling the life pulsing beneath my palm. “It’s always been in here.”
His arms tighten around me, a subtle tremor running through his frame—whether from emotion or trepidation, I can’t tell. Then, with gentle hands, he guides me to a comfortable chair positioned near the easel.
“Stay here,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead before moving to gather supplies—a canvas, paints, brushes sorted by size and type. His movements are practiced despite the years of disuse, muscle memory guiding his hands as he prepares his workspace.
When he returns to the easel, he surveys me with an artist’s eye, his gaze analytical yet intimate in a way that makes my skin warm. “The light isn’t ideal,” he comments, adjusting the lamp to cast softer shadows.
“Does it matter?” I ask, curious about his process.
A hint of a smile touches his lips. “For a good artist? Always. For me, after so long? Probably not.”
He hesitates before the blank canvas, brush poised but not yet touching the surface. I can see the moment of doubt, the fear of failure after years away from his art. Then he glances at me, something in my expression giving him courage, and begins.
The transformation is remarkable. The hesitant, uncertain energy that surrounded him moments ago gives way to focused precision. His brush moves with growing confidence, laying down initial shapes in broad strokes before refining with smaller brushes, building layers of color and texture that gradually coalesce into recognizable form.
Me. He’s painting me, but not as I am in this moment, curled in the chair, watching him work. Instead, he captures something ephemeral, a version of me I’ve only glimpsed in rare moments of peace or joy. My eyes are bright with purpose, my posture straight but not rigid.
“Is that how you see me?” I whisper, almost afraid to break his concentration.
His brush pauses, those ice-blue eyes meeting mine with surprising warmth. “It’s who you are,” he corrects gently.
Tears prick behind my eyelids at the simple certainty in his voice.
As he returns to his work, completing details with meticulous care, I find myself thinking again of the omegas at the rehabilitation center. Their haunted eyes, their hesitant voices…
“Ren,” I say softly, “they’re all afraid. None of them will speak up. I’m afraid Heath will get away.”
His brush slows but doesn’t stop completely. He doesn’t offer false reassurances or empty promises that justice will prevail. That honesty is one of the things I’ve come to value most about him.
“I’ll have to,” I continue, the thought crystallizing as I speak it aloud. “I’ll have to use my voice.”
Now his hand freezes, his entire body stiffening. “What do you mean?” he asks, his tone carefully neutral but tension evident in the set of his shoulders.
“I’ll have to speak up. Testify. Be the face and voice for those who can’t yet find their own.” The idea terrifies me—placing myself publicly in opposition to Heath, making myself visible when all my instincts scream to hide, to protect myself. But the alternative—Heath escaping justice, free to rebuild her operation elsewhere—is somehow more terrifying still.
I brace for his argument, for the protective alpha instincts to override everything else and forbid such exposure to potential danger. But Ren surprises me, as he so often does lately.
He simply nods, his gaze returning to the canvas where my likeness watches with brave, determined eyes. “Yes,” he agrees softly. “I think you will.”
His simple acceptance fills me with a quiet confidence. He sees me.
“You’re not going to try to talk me out of it?”
Ren sets down his brush, apparently satisfied with the portrait for now. “Would it matter if I did?”
“It might,” I admit honestly. “I value your opinion. All of you. But…”
“But this is your decision to make,” he finishes for me, moving to crouch before my chair, taking my hands in his. “Your trauma, your voice, your choice to use it how you see fit.”
I search his face, finding nothing but sincerity in his expression. “The others might not agree so easily.”
“Probably not,” he acknowledges with a slight smile. “Jax, in particular, will have concerns about your safety. Valid ones, given what we know of Heath’s network. But that doesn’t make your instinct wrong.”
His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, a grounding touch as he continues. “Sometimes the most courageous thing isn’t fighting or running, but simply standing and speaking truth, even when your voice shakes.” He glances at the portrait, then back at me. “That’s the strength I see in you, Hailey. That’s what I tried to capture there.”
I follow his gaze to the painting, seeing myself through his eyes. I don’t look broken at all. I look strong. Fierce.
“Thank you,” I whisper, leaning forward to rest my forehead against his. “For seeing me. For painting what I could be.”
“What you already are,” he corrects gently, his hands coming up to frame my face with careful tenderness. “The canvas just makes it visible.”