10. Charlotte
CHAPTER 10
CHARLOTTE
I 'm floating. Drifting on a cloud of something soft and warm. There's a cocoon around me, not suffocating but protective. My body feels heavy and light all at once, like I could sink through the mattress or float to the ceiling.
Scents drift in and out of my awareness. Rich, comforting, and distinctly Alpha. But not threatening. Not like the cell.
Cold concrete against my back. Heavy boots approaching.
I flinch, but another scent wraps around me. Leather and gunmetal with a hint of something woodsy. It settles over me like a weighted blanket, anchoring me to the present. And there's another, summer rain and fresh linen. Then frankincense and myrrh, black pepper, deep and spicy.
Pack. My mind whispers the word before I even know what it means.
Warmth spreads from my chest outward, instinctively responding to these scents. They're talking, these Alphas and a Beta, their deep voices a rumble that vibrates through my bones.
"—worried about the trauma of bonding," one says, voice like gravel over velvet.
The term jolts me, drags me through time and space to?—
The gun. The flash. Blood splattered across my face, hot and metallic. Someone screamed. Was it me?
I thrash against invisible restraints, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wants to escape. My limbs are lead weights, useless against the memories assaulting me.
"Charlotte, you're safe." A voice cuts through the fog. "You're safe now."
But I'm not. I'll never be safe again. The heat, the horrible burning heat is coming for me again. I can feel it crawling under my skin, ready to consume me.
Hands on my body. A needle in my arm. "Let's see how wet you get for me, little Omega."
"No!" I scream or try to. It comes out as a hoarse whisper. My nails dig into something soft and fleshy and I hear a sharp intake of breath.
"Doc, she's fighting again," someone says, strain evident in their tone. "What do we do?"
"Give her space," a clinical female voice responds. "There are drugs in her system slowly working their way out of her. Her body is confused, traumatized."
I manage to open my eyes, but everything is a blur of colors and shadows. Faces hover above me, concerned expressions swimming in and out of focus.
"Will she—" A pause. "The heat they forced on her?"
The doctor's sigh is heavy with what sounds like pity. "The compounds they used are aggressive. There will be aftershocks, possibly another full heat within the next couple of weeks. It's critical that she feels safe, that she has control. This environment is new to her. She will seek out familiar scents, but her conscious mind needs stability."
I want to tell them I'm right here, that I can hear them discussing me like I'm some broken thing to be fixed. But the words won't come. Only a whimper escapes my throat as another flash of memory hits me .
Darkness. The drip of water somewhere distant. The cold metal chains against my wrists.
My body jerks upward, a scream building in my throat. Strong hands press me back down, gentle but firm.
"I'm sorry, Sweetness," a deep voice murmurs, laced with distress. "This will help."
A sharp prick in my arm. Cool liquid spreads through my veins.
"No more," I manage to rasp. "Please, no more drugs."
"It's just to help you rest," the voice soothes, and there's something about it that makes me believe him. "Just rest now."
The edges of the world blur further, the scents of the pack growing stronger as my consciousness fades. Their voices drift around me like leaves on a stream.
". . .should take shifts watching her. . ."
". . .fever's rising again. . ."
". . .hope she doesn't hate us when. . ."
The darkness claims me once more, but it's different this time. Softer. Safer. I surrender to it, letting it pull me under like a gentle tide.
When I finally claw my way back to full awareness, I'm staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. Cream-colored with delicate crown molding. Sunlight filters through gauzy curtains, casting the room in a warm glow. I'm in a bed that feels like it's made of clouds, wrapped in sheets that smell of lavender and fresh air.
Not my bed. Not my room.
But for the first time in what feels like forever, I don't immediately panic.
Instead, I take inventory. My body aches in places I didn't know could ache. My throat feels raw, like I've been screaming for days. Maybe I have. The memories are fragmented, shattered like glass across the floor of my mind. Dangerous to step on, to examine too closely.
The room is dimly lit, a soft ambient glow lining the baseboards like a runway guiding me through unfamiliar territory. The king-sized bed beneath me feels like an island in a sea of plush pillows and comfy furniture. Everything is tasteful, elegant, and expensive. Nothing like the cold concrete cell where?—
No. Don't go there.
My fingers trace the silky sheets, anchor me to the present. I'm here, not there. Wherever ‘here’ is.
The drapes are drawn tight, and suddenly they feel suffocating. Like they're hiding something from me—or hiding me from something. I need to see. Need to know where I am .
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and immediately regret it when the room tilts sideways. My muscles tremble, protesting as I push myself to stand on wobbly legs. Like a newborn colt, I stumble forward, one hand outstretched to steady myself against whatever I can find.
My nightgown—when did I get a nightgown?—flows around my thighs as I make my way to the window. The fabric is soft, expensive. Someone dressed me. Someone touched me while I was unconscious.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, I feel protected? The scents from earlier still linger in my nostrils. Alpha scents. Pack scents. Centering myself I reach the window and grip the heavy drapes with both hands. For a moment, I hesitate. What's waiting for me on the other side? Another prison? Another nightmare?
Only one way to find out.
I pull back the drapes with one swift motion and immediately squint against the assault of daylight. My eyes are sensitive, too used to darkness, I guess. But I force them open because of what I see.
The New York skyline sprawls before me, a concrete jungle gleaming in the morning sun. Skyscrapers reach toward the heavens like steel and glass fingers. Tiny yellow cabs crawl like insects far below. People, so many people, scurry along the sidewalks, going about their daily lives.
I press my palm against the cool glass. New York? I was in Houston. How the fuck did I end up in New York?
My breath fogs the window as I lean closer, mesmerized by the normality below. All those people, rushing to meetings, grabbing coffee, arguing on phones. Living. Just living. While I'm up here, trying to remember how to breathe without feeling like my lungs are filled with broken glass.
I wonder if they know. If any of those tiny figures below saw my face on the news. ‘Omega Rights Activist, Charlotte Matthews, Missing’. Did they notice? Did they care? Or did they just keep moving, keep breathing, while I was—a sob catches in my throat. I swallow it down, refuse to let it escape. Not yet. Not until I know where I am. Who brought me here. Why I'm dressed in silk instead of chains.
My reflection stares back at me from the glass—a ghost of the woman I used to be. My dark skin is sallow, my eyes sunken. My curls hang limp around my face. But I'm alive. Somehow, against all odds, I'm alive.
"Okay, Charlotte," I whisper to my reflection, my voice raspy from disuse or screaming or both. "One breath at a time."
I inhale deeply, counting to four. Hold. Then release slowly to the count of seven. An old trick Brookes taught me for anxiety attacks.
Brookes. My parents. Do they know I'm alive? They’ll be worried sick. Especially Brookes, he’s alone without me.
The thought of him waiting, hoping, possibly grieving, makes my chest contract painfully. I need to find a phone. Need to let him know I'm okay. My parents have probably rallied the entire community. I need to?—
The soft click of a door opening behind me freezes me in place. I'm not alone. I turn, my body tenses instinctively at the sound of the door. My heart hammers against my ribs as I brace for. . .well, I don't know what.
I inhale the scents. A wall of them crashes over me like a tidal wave: leather and gunmetal, woody and spicy, so rich and intoxicating I nearly stagger backward. Then the others follow: summer rain and fresh linen; frankincense and myrrh with black pepper and whiskey. Each distinct yet somehow harmonizing together like a perfectly composed symphony.
My body responds before my brain can catch up, a warmth blooming low in my belly, spreading outward until my fingertips tingle with it. My knees go weak, not from fear, but from something else entirely—something primal and instinctive that I've never felt before.
The door frame fills with the largest man I've ever seen. Six-foot-something of solid, tattooed muscle. Dark brown skin stretched over a face that looks carved from stone—all sharp angles and intensity. Of course, he's gorgeous. His hazel eyes lock on mine, and the world narrows to just this moment, just this man.
Behind him three others file in, each radiating the same powerful energy but with their own distinct presence. Four men. Four scents that somehow feel like mine. What the actual fuck?
A laugh bubbles up from my chest—a strange, unhinged sound that surprises even me. It morphs into something between a cackle and a sob, echoing off the elegant walls of this prison or sanctuary or whatever the hell this place is.
"You've got to be kidding me," I wheeze between bursts of laughter. If I wasn't so sore, I'd be doubled over and slapping my knees. "Four of you? Really? The universe has a sick sense of humor." I wipe tears from my eyes, whether from laughter or hysteria, I can't tell. "I survive being kidnapped only to find myself surrounded by?—"
"Ms. Matthews," the first man, the one with the leather and sandalwood scent, interrupts, his deep voice resonating through the room. "I apologize for the circumstances of our meeting. My name is Teagan Hudson. These are my packmates, Moses, Beaux, and Josiah."
The formality of his tone only makes me laugh harder. "Ms. Matthews? I've been drugged, kidnapped, rescued, and apparently transported across the country, and you're calling me Ms. Matthews?"
His jaw tightens slightly, but his gaze remains steady. "Charlotte, then. We retrieved you from a compound in New Mexico four days ago. You've been recovering since then. This is our pack house in New York."
The laughter dies in my throat. "Four days? I've been here for four days?"
Teagan, no, too formal. What did I hear them calling him through my pain haze? Trigger , yes, that's it. Trigger nods solemnly. "Your condition was unstable. Your body needed time to recover from all the drugs they pumped through your system and the trauma, well, I don't need to tell you what you've been through. But our physician has been monitoring you closely."
My hand finds the windowsill behind me, needing something solid to grip onto. "How did you find me? Why New York?"
"Dez Savoy contacted us." The name registers, Mercy, Faith, one of Freeya's packmates, the security mogul who's been a vocal supporter of my advocacy work. "We believe this threat is far from neutralized. It wasn't safe to take you home."
"Brookes," I gasp, the thought hitting me like a punch to the gut. "Does he know? Is he okay? What about my parents? What about Mercy, Freeya and Faith?"
"Your roommate and your parents have been informed that you're safe," the one called Josiah, the Beta from his scent, steps forward. "We asked them to keep quiet about your location for security reasons. Your parents were not happy with the delay in the information about your recovery. I don’t want to be alone in a room with your mother any time soon,” he teases. “But your bestie was the worst of all. He's been colorfully vocal about his concerns, but he understands the gravity of the situation. Dez has informed Mercy, Faith, and his mate, Freeya, of your safe return. "
I nod, picturing Brookes giving these men hell. At least he knows I'm alive. At least all the people I care about know I’m alive. That's something.
"There's a lot we need to discuss, Charlotte," Trigger says, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. "About what happened. About what comes next.”
I study each of their faces, these four strangers whose scents, despite everything, fill me with contentment, and I really think I need my head examined but for now I'm going with it. These four men risked their lives to save mine. These four who, if my body's reaction is anything to go by, are somehow meant for me.
"Yeah," I agree, straightening my spine, finding my footing. "There's a lot I need to tell you, too. Starting with who the fuck is behind this, because this wasn't just about me. It was about sending a message to every Omega and their supporters fighting for basic rights."
Trigger’s eyes darken, and a dangerous energy ripples through the room as all four men go still, suddenly looking less like saviors and more like predators.
"Then let's talk," he says simply.