22. Joker
CHAPTER 22
JOKER
T he Metropolitan Museum of fucking Art. That's where they're holding this circus.
It takes serious clout to shut down the Met for a private event—let alone one hosted by a foundation as disingenuously titled as the Solomon Foundation for Alpha/Omega Harmony. The name alone makes my skin crawl. There's nothing harmonious about what these people really want. They dress it up in philanthropy, but underneath the sequins and champagne. It's control. Containment. Compliance. The same bullshit wrapped in a prettier package.
And tonight, they've rolled out the red carpet for Charlotte.
I don't like it. Not one damn bit.
"Earbuds in," I murmur to the team as we exit the black SUV. The red carpet stretches out before us like a velvet noose. My fingers twitch with the urge to be back behind my monitors. "Comms on channel two. Confirm."
"Two, confirmed." Moses replies, his voice steady as always.
"Two," Beaux echoes with that edge of anticipation I've come to recognize.
"Two," Teagan says as he adjusts the cuff of his tux, eyes already scanning the entrance like he's playing chess with a ghost. Always three moves ahead.
"Two," Charlotte confirms softly, but there's iron under her voice. She walks one step ahead of us, her burgundy dress clinging to every dip and curve like it was sewn in reverence. The fabric catches the light, making her look like she's wrapped in liquid garnet.
And everyone sees it. Hell, heads turn like it's choreographed. Whispers ripple through the gathered crowd like static. Eyes flick from Charlotte to each of us—Moses in a black-on-black suit that matches his intimidating calm, Beaux with his open collar and untamed grin that's just a little too sharp to be friendly, Teagan radiating Alpha dominance like he was born for black tie combat.
And me. I'm just a Beta, but tonight I feel like the detonator in a room full of triggers. My brain catalogs every face, every movement, patterns forming in my mind like code on a screen.
She walks between us like a storm cloaked in velvet, and I feel a savage pride that borders on possessive. No Omega has ever looked more untouchable while being so clearly claimed. The rain-and-linen scent of my Beta nature mingles with the heavier Alpha notes surrounding her—a chemical warning to anyone who might approach.
And yet, this is exactly what they want, whoever sent that invitation, whoever orchestrated this event. Charlotte was invited to be seen, paraded. Like a warning. Or bait. I don't know which, and it pisses me off that I haven't figured it out yet. My algorithms should have predicted this. Something's off.
Teagan subtly brushes against my side. "Clock the pattern?"
I nod once, switching to scan mode. "Security's tight, but it's not standard private. I've got three shifts rotating in fifteen-minute cycles. That's high turnover for a non-state gala." My eyes track the movement paths, calculating probabilities. "They're nervous about something."
Teagan's gaze sweeps the perimeter. "Three armed guards by the north entrance. Two near the stairs, earpieces. Military trained. Walk patterns are tight—ex-mil or security agency."
"Agreed." I tap my wrist screen, pulling up the internal floorplan. The blue glow illuminates my fingers for a split second. "Five exits on the floor. Three viable for extraction. I'll feed the map to your smart lenses." My fingers dance across the screen, executing the command with practiced precision.
Moses grunts in approval behind me. "Anything on the comms chatter?"
"Encrypted, but sloppy. I'm already inside their system." My fingers twitch as I walk, interfacing with the tech hidden in my watch. "If they make a move, I'll know it five seconds before they do."
"Make it three," Teagan mutters. "Let's not get cocky."
He's not wrong. But I'm too wired to be humble. My brain doesn't do humble when it's processing at this speed.
Charlotte slows beside me as we enter the main hall. Her eyes sweep the space, columns wrapped in garlands of gold, soft orchestral music wafting from the raised stage in the corner, waiters in white gloves carrying champagne flutes. A masquerade ball of polished elites and predators in silk masks.
She leans toward me, her honey-cinnamon scent momentarily overpowering the stench of Alpha posturing that fills the room. "Yep, you were right, this is a trap."
"It is," I say, eyes still moving, cataloging faces, exits, threats. "But we're the ones who brought the bigger teeth."
She smiles, lips glossed and eyes smoldering behind her delicate gold mask. "You good down here with us tonight, Joker?"
I nod once. "For you? Always." The truth is, I hate being in the field. Give me a command center and six screens any day. But for Charlotte? I'd walk through hell with a gasoline suit.
I'm not behind a screen tonight, I'm on the floor. With them. With her. And that makes every second feel like it matters more. Every calculation carries weight. Every probability means something.
I still don't know what this show is for, but I'm damn sure it's not going to end the way they planned. Not while my systems are running, not while my pack is here. Not tonight.
Motley
Some people wear masks to hide. Others wear them to lie. But tonight? Tonight, everyone here is wearing a mask because they’re afraid to show what they really are: monsters in designer suits, circling the room like it’s one big game of predator and prey.
And Charlotte?
She’s the goddamn flame every moth wants to burn in.
I clock the moment she stepped out of the town car in that burgundy dress, fitted to her curves like it was stitched by sin itself. The woman doesn’t just enter a room. She claims it. And when the paparazzi’s camera flashes start going off, I feel that old instinct kick in. Not the soldier in me. Not the Alpha. The killer.
Deacon is at her right, smiling that sharp, predatory grin that says he’s just as ready to rip throats as he is to charm donors. Teagan walks ahead, scanning the security team like he’s playing chess and everyone else is still learning checkers. I catch his signal, two taps on the mic. Protocol confirmed. Exits clocked. Weapons checked.
Josiah’s eyes flick across every camera angle through the AR lenses wired to his phone. “Someone so much as breathes wrong, I’ll know,” he’d muttered before we left the penthouse.
And me? I’m on her left flank, fingers twitching from the weight of the blade strapped inside my jacket. Because I’ve got a sixth sense for bullshit and this room is marinated in it. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
It takes a special kind of asshole to rent out one of the most iconic institutions in the world for a masquerade ball. The amount of clout and corruption it takes to pull that off—next level. I'm sure I'm not the only one of us thinking this exact same thing. You don’t hold a gala here unless you want to send a message. And the Solomon Foundation’s message is clear: We’re untouchable.
Except they invited her. Charlotte fucking Matthews. So, what’s the angle? A trap? A PR stunt? A warning? I don’t like puzzles I can’t solve. Makes my teeth itch.
Charlotte’s laughing at something Josiah says, hand on his arm. I watch her closely, not because I don’t trust her to handle herself—she’s got a damn blade in special sheath inside her dress—but because I do. And then I see him. Senator Justus Blaine.
“Trigger,” I say low over comms, my voice sharp.
“I see him.” Teagan’s already moving.
Deacon tenses beside me, lips peeling back in something that might pass for a grin on a good day. “Should I start sharpening my knife or just stab him with the dull end? ”
“No weapons,” Charlotte murmurs, never taking her eyes off the senator as he approaches. “Not yet.”
That ‘not yet’,it’s why I’ll follow her into hell.
The second Charlotte steps away from the semi-circle we've formed around her, I feel the shift. Subtle but wrong. Like a ripple in the air before a bomb drops. The kind of feeling that crawls up your spine when you're in hostile territory and someone's got you in their crosshairs.
Deacon's hand twitches toward his waistband. Teagan stops scanning the perimeter for just a second too long. Josiah lowers his glass mid-sip, having snatched up champagne for him and Charlotte from a nearby waiter. We all feel it—that sixth sense you develop when you've spent enough time in war zones. A predator on the move.
Senator Justus Blaine, smiling like the devil stepped out of a white-collar skin suit. His tux is tailored within an inch of its life, gold cufflinks flashing like fangs as he lifts his champagne in her direction. He glides across the marble floor like he owns the building. Hell, for all I know, maybe he does.
He stops just a few paces from Charlotte. Too close. Too fucking close.
"Ms. Matthews," he says, voice oozing smug charm. "It's so good to see you out in the open once more. I, amongst others, am grateful that you were rescued." He scans her body and I want to snatch out his throat before he speaks again. My fingers twitch with the need. "My, my. Don't you clean up well."
Charlotte doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. She turns slowly, glass of champagne still in hand like she hasn't just been accosted by the very man who ordered her damn abduction. Her honey-cinnamon scent stays steady—not a hint of fear. That's my girl.
"Senator Blaine," she replies, voice smooth and sharp enough to slit throats. "Didn't expect to see you so soon. I would have thought you'd be hiding from me, considering."
He chuckles, but his eyes go flat. Snake eyes. "Oh, I like you. I always have. Spirited. A little mouthy, but that's charming, in small doses."
I take a step forward, just one. My whiskey-and-black-pepper scent spikes with rage. Josiah catches my arm, his rain-scented grip firm.
Blaine leans in. Too far. "You've made quite a mess lately, haven't you?"
Charlotte smiles. It's the kind of smile I've only ever seen before a kill shot. The kind I've worn myself. "You'll have to be more specific, Senator. I've made a lot of messes lately. "
He laughs again, but it cracks at the edges. "Cute. But we both know this little public resurrection of yours won't change anything. The laws are in motion. The people are on my side."
Charlotte sips her wine. "Funny. I've met the people. They don't seem too fond of you, and if I'm not mistaken, my public resurrection is all thanks to you."
Blaine's smile slips. Just a twitch. Barely there. But I clock it. Military training never leaves you, I can spot a man's tell from a hundred yards out.
He steps closer. I step forward, muscles coiled tight. If this asshole blinks wrong, I will take him out. I don't give two fucks who he is. My lip ring catches between my teeth as I fight the urge to just end him now.
"Careful," Teagan murmurs behind me, the scent of leather and gunmetal washing over me. "Let her handle this."
Charlotte tilts her head. "You look nervous, Senator. Didn't expect me to show?"
"Well, of course, I expected you to show. Be a good girl, a good Omega and know your place," he says quietly, venom hidden behind civility. "I expect you to smile, keep your head down and be grateful."
Charlotte sets her glass down on the table beside her. Slowly. Deliberately. Then she steps into his space, a breath away from breaking every rule of this prim, polished affair. The dragon tattoo on my shoulder blade feels like it's coming alive, ready to breathe fire.
"Grateful?" she repeats. "I was kidnapped. Drugged. Raped. You attempted to sell me to the highest bidder."
The word lands like a thunderclap. The conversation around us dims, people instinctively inch away without knowing why. My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood.
"I will never be grateful for survival," she continues, voice quiet but unyielding. "But I will use it. Every fucking second of it. Every ounce of pain, every scar, every time I wake up screaming—I will use it to destroy men like you."
Blaine opens his mouth, but Charlotte cuts him off, eyes blazing.
"You want me silent? You want me afraid? You should've killed me when you had me in your clutches."
The crowd has gone still. There's no mistaking the ripple now. Cameras. Eyes. Recordings. Yep, there are people with their cellphones out. Good. Let them see this motherfucker squirm .
Charlotte smiles again, but it's ice and fire all at once. I've never been more attracted to her than in this moment, her strength radiating like a goddamn supernova.
"Smile for the press, Senator," she purrs. "Your legacy's being rewritten in real time. It was nice speaking to you again. It was definitely not a pleasure."
And she turns her back on him as he curses under his breath. Like a fucking queen.