25. Charlotte
CHAPTER 25
CHARLOTTE
I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains of my nest, my body deliciously sore. For a moment, I lie still, cataloguing sensations: sheets tangled around my legs, the press of warm bodies against mine, the mingled scents of four men surrounding me.
Extracting myself carefully from the tangle of limbs, so reminiscent of my heat, Teagan's arm draped across my waist, Moses pressed against my back, Beaux and Joker somehow entwined on my other side. None of them stir as I slip from the bed, their faces peaceful in sleep. This is what I want. This is what I thought I would never have.
My legs wobble slightly as I pad to the bathroom. Catching sight of myself in the mirror I see a woman staring back that looks thoroughly wrecked. I run my hands through the wild mess that is my hair and chuckle. Because, yeah, this sight looks familiar. My lips are swollen, skin marked with evidence of last night's activities.
I turn on the shower, cranking the heat until steam fills the room, and step under the spray. The hot water cascades over my sensitive skin, and I close my eyes, letting it wash over me. Last night. Christ. My mind replays fragments in vivid detail: my body being used thoroughly by Teagan and Beaux, the reverent touch of Moses’ hands, the taste of Joker on my tongue. Heat rises to my cheeks as I remember begging, pleading, demanding more. I've never lost control so completely, never surrendered so fully.
And I said I belonged to them. The thought should terrify me. I've built my entire identity around independence, around proving that Omegas don't need Alphas to survive, to thrive. Yet here I am, claimed by not one Alpha but three and my beautiful Beta.
I reach for the soap, working it into a lather as I consider the implications. This doesn't change anything, my work, my public image, my future will continue. I will just have the backing of good men by my side. Senator Blaine will use this against me but fuck him .
The bastard is smart, I'll give him that. Having the face of the Omega Rights Movement at his event creates the perfect illusion—that even radicals like me support his ‘protective’ legislation. His proposed Omega Protection Act is nothing but thinly veiled oppression, stripping away the rights we've fought decades to secure.
My hand tightens around the soap. Last night was my chance to expose him, to show the world what he really is: the monster behind the increasing number of Omega disappearances, the architect of a modern slave trade disguised as traditional values. A few people recorded our exchange, but will it be enough? Probably not after the paparazzi and their fake speculation of why I was there in the first place.
But after last night will anyone take me seriously? Will they?—
The shower door slides open, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. Deacon stands there, eyes dark with concern and something else that makes my pulse quicken.
"You're thinking too loud," he says softly, stepping into the shower without waiting for an invitation. "I could practically hear you from the bedroom."
Water sluices down his magnificent body, highlighting the defined muscles of his chest and arms. The cross tattoo on his neck seems to shift with each movement, a reminder of the faith he rejected to forge his own path.
"This changes everything," I whisper, voicing the fear that's been clawing at my insides. "The gala last night, I can only imagine what's trending about me on social media. Pictures of us. Me with a pack."
He steps closer, his hands finding my waist with gentle surety. "You know the truth. Who cares what people think? You're going to set the record straight."
"They'll say I'm a hypocrite. That I've betrayed everything I stand for." My voice catches. "The Senator will use it to discredit me, to prove his point that Omegas can't function without Alpha control."
Deacon's eyes darken, the scent of incense and myrrh intensifying. "Is that what you think happened? That we controlled you?"
"No," I answer honestly. "But that's how they'll spin it."
His large hands slide up my sides to cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "Then we'll spin it differently. You choosing us doesn't negate your message, it reinforces it. You made a choice, sweet one. Your choice."
Water runs between us, creating rivulets that trace the contours of our bodies. He's right, I realize. Choice has always been at the heart of my activism. The right to choose whether to bond, whom to bond with, when and how and if.
"Besides," he continues, leaning down to brush his lips against my forehead, "no one has to know about us, not until you're ready to tell them."
The simple certainty in his voice loosens something tight in my chest. I’ll tell my parents, of course. I’m sure my mother will want to fly to New York and make sure I’m still her daughter. But my parents will know my guys are the real deal if I’ve given them my heart. My heart. Yeah, I guess I have. Mercy, Faith, and Freeya have all been in the same boat and I’m sure they will give me that ‘I told you so’ look. Brookes though, well, my Brookie is another matter altogether. Ultimately, they’ll understand what's at stake, not just for me, but for all Omegas.
"I have a plan," I tell him, pressing my palms against his chest. "I'm going to go live and tell the world the truth. I'm going to expose Blaine, show the world what he's been doing. The trafficking ring, the kidnappings, all of it."
Concern flashes across Deacon's face. "That's dangerous, Charlotte. Blaine has powerful allies."
"So do I," I say, looking up at him meaningfully .
His expression softens, simultaneously becoming something reverent and fierce. "Yes, you do."
Before I can respond, he's kissing me, not with the desperate hunger of last night but with slow, deliberate intention. His hands slide down my soap-slick body, tracing routes that make me shiver despite the steam surrounding us.
"Moses," I breathe against his mouth as his fingers trail down my body, until he cups my pussy, finding me already wet and wanting.
"Say my name again," he growls, pressing me against the tile. The cool surface against my back contrasts with the heat of his body against my front.
"Moses," I gasp as he lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist. "Deacon."
He enters me in one smooth thrust, swallowing my moan with another kiss. The angle is perfect, hitting spots inside me that make my vision blur at the edges.
"Mine," he murmurs against my neck, establishing a rhythm that has me digging my nails into his shoulders. "Ours."
"Yours," I agree, the declaration freeing rather than constraining.
There's no frantic rush this time, just the steady build of pleasure as he moves within me, his hands supporting my weight with impossible strength. Water continues to cascade over us, washing away soap and doubts alike.
When I cum, it's with his name on my lips, a promise and a vow intertwined as one. He follows moments later, his forehead pressed against mine, eyes locked on mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
We stay like that for long minutes, connected and panting, until he finally lowers me carefully to my feet, steadying me when my legs threaten to buckle.
"Better?" he asks, a hint of masculine pride in his voice.
I swat his chest playfully but nod. "Much."
We finish our shower between stolen kisses and gentle caresses, cleansing one another with an attentiveness that almost brings tears to my eyes. By the time we step out, wrapped in fluffy towels, I feel centered again, my purpose clear.
Tonight, Senator Blaine goes down. For all the Omegas he's hurt, for all those still missing, for Reya and Patrick and everyone like them. Nothing, not even my newly formed bond will distract from that mission.
The sharp trill of my phone cuts through my thoughts. I pad into the bedroom, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood floor. Deacon follows, towel slung low on his hips, water droplets still clinging to his skin.
My phone lies on the nightstand, screen illuminated with an incoming call. Brookes' name and smiling face flash at me, and I smile reflexively at my besties image.
"It's Brookes," I tell Deacon, swiping to answer. "He's probably about to bitch me out for not checking in again."
I press the phone to my ear, voice light with the lingering pleasure of the shower. "Hey Brookie?—"
"Hello, Ms. Matthews." The voice that comes through isn't Brookes', it's deeper, cultured and too goddamn familiar.
My blood turns to ice. I know that voice. I've heard it in press conferences, on news channels, in my nightmares, last night.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important," Senator Justus Blaine continues, smooth as silk. "But I thought you might like to know that your friend Brookes is here with me. We're having quite the enlightening conversation about you."
My gaze snaps to Deacon's, panic clawing up my throat. His expression shifts instantly from relaxed to alert, body tensing at whatever he sees in my face .
"What have you done with him?" I demand, my voice barely more than a whisper.
The Senator's laugh is like oil on water. "Nothing, yet. His continued well-being depends entirely on you, Ms. Matthews. I think we have much to discuss. Much indeed. I'll be in touch."
Then he hangs up and my world comes crashing down around me once more.