16. Charlotte
CHAPTER 16
CHARLOTTE
I ’m not sure what I expected from virtual therapy in a luxury penthouse with skyline views and a bulletproof security system. This feels surreal. Like I'm living the life I would have had if things had been different, if my parents hadn't raised me the way they did, encouraging my independent spirit, to fight for the betterment of my designation. Like I sought a pack and all the trappings that being entangled with multiple men entailed. Although, I don't feel that around Teagan, Moses, Beaux, and Josiah. With them I feel nothing but free.
The screen flickers to life on the new laptop Beaux practically wrestled me to the ground to accept. I mean, the man doesn't understand the word no. He just pats me on the head and kisses my forehead whilst shoving new things at me daily. At this point, I open my door in the morning with my arms outstretched in acceptance of his many offerings.
A woman appears, mid-40s maybe, locs tied back, warm brown eyes framed by gold-rimmed glasses. She’s not smiling, but her energy is soft. Grounded.
“Charlotte,” she says, voice low and even, like velvet. “It’s good to meet you. My name is Dr. Eliza Monroe. Take your time, there’s no pressure to talk before you’re ready.”
I stare at the blinking cursor in the corner of the screen. My mouth is dry. Teagan's office feels too quiet despite the hum of Josiah’s server tower down the hall.
“Is it okay if I’m not okay?” I ask, voice smaller than I mean it to be.
Dr. Monroe nods, no hesitation. “Absolutely. There’s no expectation for you to be okay today. Or tomorrow. You survived something catastrophic. Being here at all is more than enough for now.”
My throat tightens. “They keep telling me I’m strong. That I fought. That I survived.” I press my fingers to my temples. “But some days it doesn’t feel like surviving. It feels like I’m waiting to break apart.”
“Because survival isn’t always a clean line,” she says. “Sometimes it’s messy. Loud. Quiet. Angry. Numb. It doesn’t look one way. Tell me, Charlotte, how are you surviving right now?”
I pause. Then: “I joke. I shut down. I pretend like I’m fine so no one worries too much. Because if I fall apart, they’ll feel obligated to fix me. And I don’t want that.”
She tilts her head. “You don’t want to be seen as broken.”
“Exactly,” I reply, nodding my head adamantly.
“And what if I told you that your pain doesn’t make you broken? That being traumatized doesn’t erase your worth or your strength?”
My throat feels tight again. I look down at my hands, clenched in my lap.
“I feel confused,” I whisper. “My body still responds to them. To the guys, I mean the pack. I crave their touch sometimes and it makes me feel disgusting. Like, how dare I want that after what happened?—”
“You’re not disgusting,” she interrupts gently but firmly. “Charlotte, your body is responding to safety. To presence. That doesn’t invalidate your trauma. It means part of you is still alive, still capable of connection. That’s powerful.”
I breathe, shaky and uncertain. “But what if my heat comes? I’m terrified. I don’t know what I’ll do. What they’ll do. They say I’m safe, but part of me. . .part of me is bracing for pain. For those memories to tarnish something that could be more.”
Dr. Monroe is quiet for a moment, then says, “Consent doesn’t disappear because of biology. Neither does safety. If your heat comes, what matters is that you get to decide what happens. Not instinct. Not past trauma. You.”
The weight of those words presses against my chest. A small, fragile flicker of power I almost forgot I still had.
“I’m scared they’ll see me differently,” I admit. “That I’ll lose control and they’ll just act. And I won’t stop them. Because maybe I’ll want it. But also, maybe I won’t.”
Dr. Monroe nods slowly. “Then your next step is simple: talk to them. Create boundaries before your heat comes. Set the terms while you still feel grounded. And Charlotte. . .”
“Yeah?”
“You are allowed to want. To feel. To choose. Desire doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
Talk to them. I nod. Yes, that I can do. I know that they will listen because they've been listening the entire time I've been here. They are just as worried as I am and, in a sense, it gives me hope.
DEACON
The faint sound of Charlotte thanking someone draws me to a halt outside Teagan's office. I hover near the doorframe, not wanting to interrupt what sounds like the tail end of her therapy session. I'd promised to collect her once she was done, take her through some basic self-defense training. Something practical to help her feel more secure.
"You've done exceptionally well for our first session, Charlotte," Dr. Monroe's voice carries through the door. "I'll see you next week, same time."
"Thank you, Dr. Monroe. Really." Charlotte's voice is softer, a little rough around the edges. "I think I needed this more than I realized."
The call disconnects with a soft electronic tone. Then silence, followed by a sniff, unmistakable. My hand freezes mid-air knuckles an inch from the wood. A long, shuddering breath follows. She's crying.
My chest tightens. The urge to burst in, to comfort her, rises like a tide. But I know better. Charlotte hates being seen as vulnerable, despises the way we all hover when she shows any sign of distress. The last thing she needs is me witnessing her raw aftermath.
I step back, count to thirty in my head. Give her time to compose herself.
When I finally knock, it's with purpose. Firm, confident, normal, as if I'd just arrived.
"Come in." Her voice sounds steady.
I push the door open with my usual easy smile. Charlotte sits cross-legged in the leather office chair, hair piled high in a messy bun that somehow looks perfect on her. The red and black yoga pants mold to every dip and curve, and I try not to focus on them. Her face is flushed, eyes rimmed with red, but I pretend not to notice. This is what she needs from me right now, normality, not concern.
"Morning, sunshine." I lean against the doorframe, arms folded. "Ready for some training?"
She swivels in the chair, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "I thought Beaux was on Charlotte-duty as soon as the sun rises." Her mouth quirks up. "Where's my morning offering? He usually shows up with something ridiculous by now."
I chuckle, the sound low in my chest. "Sorry to disappoint. The gift-bearer is handling some security updates with Teagan. You're stuck with boring old me today. "
"You're not boring." She stands, stretching her arms overhead. The movement reveals a sliver of skin at her waist. I avert my eyes, keeping my expression neutral despite the pull I feel. "So, what's on the agenda? More of those breathing techniques?"
"Actually." I straighten up, meeting her gaze directly. "I think it's time we taught you how to shoot."
Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly. "A gun? You're serious?"
"Dead serious." I nod toward the hallway. "We have a range directly below the penthouse. If you're comfortable with it, I'd like to start today."
Charlotte goes still, considering. Her fingertips tap against her thigh in that nervous rhythm I've come to recognize. Then something shifts in her expression—a hardening, a decision being made.
"I want to learn," she says finally, voice firm despite the lingering redness in her eyes.
The determination in her tone makes my chest swell with something dangerously close to pride. This woman survived hell and came out fighting. She sniffs the air imperceptibly and I know she smells the scent I'm giving off, but it can't be helped. It's hard to keep my instincts in check around her and I quickly rein it in. The last thing she needs is me pushing towards something she's not quite ready for. Like my tongue licking the bare skin of her stomach, to see if she really tastes like honey and cinnamon, a sweet treat just for me.
"Nothing helpless about you, Charlotte." I push off from the doorframe, careful to maintain a respectful distance. "But knowing how to protect yourself is a power no one can take from you."
Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, but it's genuine. "Then let's do this. Teach me everything."
She walks past me toward the door, and I catch the subtle honey-cinnamon scent that's uniquely hers. It's getting stronger every day, strong enough to make my chest rumble and my balls ache with need. I almost want to lock her away and steer clear but I can't. We can't. This thing between us is happening and I'd rather face it head on than run from it. So, I push down my need for her and focus on the now, because I have a feeling none of us will be in the right state of mind soon.
CHARLOTTE
I trail down the hallway behind Moses, studying the breadth of his shoulders beneath the tight black t-shirt. The man is a walking contradiction—gentle eyes in a warrior's body, soft-spoken with hands that could snap someone in half. When he reaches a secured door, his fingers dance across the biometric panel.
"Welcome to our little arsenal," he says as the door slides open with a pneumatic hiss.
Little is not the word I'd use. The room stretches before us, gleaming metal and precision engineering displayed like some high-end boutique for death. Glass cases line the walls with rows of pistols, rifles, and things I can't even name. The air smells clean and slightly metallic.
"Jesus," I whisper. "You guys expecting the apocalypse or just really dedicated to overcompensation?"
His laugh is soft, rumbling. "In our line of work, being prepared isn't paranoia, it's survival."
My heart skips as he moves deeper into the room. Something about watching him in this space, where his expertise is so evident, makes my mouth go dry. It's the competence, I tell myself. Nothing to do with how his jeans hug his thighs when he bends to unlock a display case.
"We'll start simple." He retrieves a sleek black handgun. "Glock 19. Reliable, manageable recoil."
I eye the weapon with a mixture of fascination and unease. "I've never shot anything before. Unless you count water guns at summer camp."
"Everyone starts somewhere." Moses gestures toward an elevator door at the far end of the room. "Range is through here."
The shooting area is surprisingly state-of-the-art, sound-dampening panels, individual lanes with electronic target systems. He leads me to the farthest lane, setting the gun and a box of ammunition down on the shelf.
"First rule: always assume a gun is loaded." His voice shifts subtly, taking on a teacher's cadence. "Second rule: never point it at anything you don't intend to shoot."
I nod, trying to absorb everything as he walks me through basic safety, loading, and unloading. His hands move with practiced efficiency, breaking down complex movements into digestible steps. By the time he hands me the unloaded weapon, I'm less intimidated.
"It's heavier than I expected," I mutter, adjusting my grip.
"Most people say that." He steps closer. "Here, let me show you the proper stance."
Moses positions himself behind me, and suddenly I'm hyperaware of every inch where our bodies aren't touching. The nearness of him sends electricity skittering across my skin. He reaches around, arms caging me as his hands cover mine.
"Slight bend in your elbows," he instructs, his breath warm against my ear. "Don't lock them. Feet shoulder-width apart."
I swallow hard, trying to focus on his words instead of the solid warmth of his chest a whisper away from my back. The gun feels more natural in my hands with his guidance, and when he finally steps back, I almost sway toward him, missing the contact.
"Now we'll try with live ammunition."
He loads the magazine, explains the safety one more time, then steps back. I raise the gun, trying to remember everything he just taught me.
"Breathe," Moses reminds me. "Squeeze, don't pull."
The first shot startles me despite the ear protection. The kick is manageable but surprising, the power traveling up my arms. I fire again, and again, finding a rhythm. When the magazine empties, Moses presses a button that brings the target forward.
"Damn, Charlotte." Surprise colors his voice. "You're a natural."
I stare at the paper target. Not all my shots hit center mass, but they're far better clustered than I expected. Something fierce and proud swells in my chest.
"Let's go again," I say, unable to hide my smile.
We go through several more magazines, Moses occasionally correcting my form with light touches that linger longer than necessary. Each time his fingers brush my skin, heat blooms beneath the contact. By our third round, I'm hitting the target consistently.
"Try this," Moses says, stepping in behind me again.
This time when he presses against my back, there's no pretense of space between us. His body envelops mine completely, warm and solid. His arms wrap around, adjusting my stance though I no longer need the help. We both know it. This is something else entirely.
"You're doing beautifully," he murmurs, his lips close to my ear.
The timbre of his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I lower the gun, setting it carefully on the shelf. Something electric crackles in the air between us, anticipation, need, warning.
Moses turns me in his arms, his eyes dark with unmistakable hunger. He lowers his face to my neck, inhaling deeply.
"Charlotte," he groans, the sound vibrating against my skin. "You smell different today."
His lips brush the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. The touch ignites something molten in my core. I arch into him involuntarily, gasping when his teeth graze my pulse point.
"We shouldn't," I whisper, even as my hands clutch at his shirt.
"Tell me to stop, and I will." His voice is strained, his control visibly slipping.
Instead of answering, I rise on my tiptoes and press my mouth to his. The kiss explodes between us—not tentative, not gentle. His lips are firm, insistent. When his tongue slides against mine, I moan, clutching him tighter. He tastes like coffee and cinnamon gum, his scent wraps around me like a prayer, frankincense and myrrh flooding my senses.
Moses backs me against the wall, one hand cupping my face while the other grips my hip. His touch brands me through the thin fabric of my yoga pants. I bite his bottom lip, drawing a growl from deep in his chest that makes my knees weak.
"I've thought about this," he confesses against my mouth. "About you. So much. "
I snake my hands under his shirt, desperate to feel skin. His abdominals tense beneath my fingers. "Me, too," I admit.
Our mouths clash again, teeth and tongues battling for control. He lifts me effortlessly, and I wrap my legs around his waist, gasping at the hardness pressing against my center. The friction is delicious torment even through our clothes.
Something flutters in my belly, a warning signal trying to break through the haze of desire. A building pressure that doesn't feel quite right.
"Moses," I pant, pulling back slightly. "Wait."
He immediately loosens his grip, concern replacing desire in his eyes. "What's wrong?"
A sharp cramp doubles me over before I can answer. I slide down his body, clutching my abdomen as another wave hits—stronger, hotter.
"Charlotte?" Moses sounds alarmed now.
"I think—" I gasp as heat floods my system, sudden and overwhelming. My skin feels too tight, my clothes abrasive against hypersensitive nerves. "Oh God."
Realization dawns in Moses’ eyes as my scent shifts, intensifying. He takes a deliberate step back, nostrils flaring.
"Your heat," he says, voice strangled. "It's starting."
The cramping pain morphs into something else—urgent, primal need clawing through my insides. Slick warmth gathers between my thighs as another wave crashes over me. I've never experienced anything this intense, this consuming.
"Moses," I whimper, reaching for him even as my rational mind screams to stop, to think.
His eyes are nearly black now, pupils blown wide, but he keeps his distance. "We need to get you upstairs. Now."
My heat has arrived. And I am so completely, utterly fucked.