28. Joker
CHAPTER 28
JOKER
I 'm a particular kind of fucked up. The kind that can watch a man bleed out on the floor and still crack a joke while I'm applying pressure to the wound. It's my defense mechanism—humor in the face of horror. Makes the monsters seem less monstrous. Makes the blood seem less red.
Right now, though? Even I don't have a punchline.
"Doctor's ten minutes out," I tell Charlotte when she asks, my fingers still flying across my tablet screen. What I don't tell her is that I pinged Dr. Mitchell five minutes ago with our emergency beacon. She's already en route, because that's what she does—comes running when we call. No questions asked, just steady hands and a medical bag that's seen more blood than most battlefields .
Same doc who patched Charlotte up after we found her. Same doc who doesn't flinch when Beaux comes in with a knife wound or when Moses needs stitches without anesthesia. The kind of professional who understands that sometimes medical ethics take a backseat to staying alive.
Charlotte just nods, distant, disconnected. Like she's hearing me through water.
I hover in the doorway, watching as Teagan and Moses carry Brookes into a guest room. They move with careful precision, laying him across the bed like he's made of glass. He's still out cold, breathing shallow, face a mess of purple and red.
Charlotte follows them in, ghost-like in her tactical gear. She's ditched the guns and vest but still looks ready for war. Her bare feet don't make a sound against the hardwood. She hasn't said much since we loaded up in the SUV. Since she realized Brookes wasn't just roughed up—he was deliberately broken.
The soft lamplight makes the room feel warm, safe. It's a lie. Nothing about this situation is warm or safe.
She collapses into the chair beside the bed like gravity's suddenly tripled. First thing she does is take his hand, thumb rubbing slow circles against his skin. It's automatic. Instinctive. The kind of touch that speaks of years, of history, of something deeper than friendship.
Teagan catches my eye, gives a slight nod, and then he and Moses slip out. Back to command mode. Coordinating with Beaux, who's currently bandaging his own arm after catching a stray bullet. Lucky bastard only got grazed. With the number of shooters on the street tonight, I'm calling that a win.
The cleanup's going to be a nightmare, but the warehouse district is isolated enough that we have time before NYPD shows. That's Teagan's problem anyway. He and Dez will handle the official narrative.
I stay put. Silent. Still. Watching. Waiting. Data compiling on my tablet while I monitor Charlotte's micro-expressions. My brain catalogs everything—the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her hands, the way she keeps swallowing like there's something stuck in her throat.
Brookes looks like shit. It's not random damage. The bruises on his face form a pattern. Split lip. Eye swollen shut. Broken cheekbone, probably. His designer shirt's been methodically shredded, blood dried at the collar. Pants torn precisely at the knees. This wasn't rage. This was calculated. Someone making a point, taking their time.
Senator Blaine has so much to answer for that my spreadsheet's about to crash from the data load.
"If I'd just taken a car home that day, none of this would've happened," Charlotte whispers suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice cracks something open in my chest. "No kidnapping. Just us watching trashy TV while eating Chinese." A small sniff. "That was the plan, remember? I promised I would check in with you every day and I didn't do it. I failed you."
I stay quiet. She's not talking to me. Not really. Just bleeding words to keep from drowning.
"I’m all he has," she continues, thumb still moving in that hypnotic circle. "Not all of us have loving parents. I was lucky. I have two Beta parents who love me, support me, expect nothing but great things from me. Whatever those great things may be, like parents should. But he had nothing. When we met, he was scared and alone. Two Omegas. Our little family of two."
Family. The word hits me in the solar plexus. Makes me think of Teagan, Moses, Beaux. The only family I've ever known. My pack. My home. I glance down at my tablet where I'm assembling Blaine's dossier—every dirty lead, every shell company, every quiet payment, every fucking loophole the bastard's slithered through.
"He was a message," I murmur, my voice low. "Blaine hurt him to hurt you. Set the warehouse as a trap. It was all just too easy. Too clean. I should have seen it."
She blinks at me, and I can practically see the gears turning behind her eyes. The slow unraveling of the puzzle.
"The gala, the invite, the timing—it was all a setup," she says slowly.
"You were his loose thread," I reply.
"And Brookes?—"
"Collateral," I say. The word tastes like ash. "Or bait. Maybe both."
She shakes her head, jaw tight. "He wanted to wipe us out."
"Yeah." My voice is hard now. I can't soften it. "You, the pack, Brookes, everyone connected to your cause. Wipe the slate clean. Paint you as a radical Omega corrupted by a pack of violent Alphas. Seeing pictures of us with you at the gala will confirm that. He will find a way to spin it that way. "
Her gaze returns to Brookes. Something shifts in her, softens and hardens all at once. She brushes hair from his face, then leans down, pressing her forehead gently to his temple.
"I would never have let them keep you," she whispers. "You hear me, Brookie? I would've burned the world to find you."
His lashes flutter, but he doesn't wake. Not yet.
We sit in silence again, the only sound coming from Brookes' raspy inhales and exhales. My tablet pings. Dr. Mitchell's here.
"The more I dig, the further down the rabbit hole this goes. Blaine is just the front man. This is, like you said, much bigger than we thought. Taking down Blaine is just the start," I say, breaking the quiet.
Charlotte looks up at me, something dangerous flickering in her eyes. "Then we don't stop until we get them all. I know there are more lost Omegas out there. The compound I was held in isn't the only one. But Blaine, taking him down, exposing him will be the first domino to fall."
Then they'll all come tumbling down after him. The rest will go running scared, and that's where we come in.
"I want them all," she says quietly. "Everyone involved. "
The door opens before I can respond. Beaux saunters in, arm freshly bandaged, eyes focused on Charlotte as he picks her up, sits and places her on his lap. Blood spatter still dots his neck, a stark contrast against his tattoos.
"How's our model?" he asks, wrapping his arms tight around Charlotte and pulling her back against his chest. "Still pretty?"
I roll my eyes, but inside I'm grateful. Trust Beaux to cut through the tension with a chainsaw.
"Fuck off," Charlotte says, but there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion.
"That's no way to talk to your savior, Harlequin." He winks at her, but his eyes are serious when they flick to Brookes. "He's going to be okay. Doc's on her way up."
Dr. Mitchell arrives like a hurricane in scrubs—efficient, precise, and carrying enough medical supplies to perform field surgery. Which, let's be real, is basically what she's doing.
I step back against the wall, tablet still in hand, watching as she transforms the guest bedroom into a makeshift triage unit. She doesn't ask questions about how we found him or why we didn't take him to a hospital. That's why we keep her on retainer .
"Josiah, I need more light," she commands, snapping on latex gloves.
I flick the overhead on without a word. Beaux stands and places Charlotte back in her seat beside the bed then moves to stand against the wall with me to give Dr. Mitchell room to work. Charlotte never budges from Brookes' side, her gaze following each action as if she's committing a routine to memory. Dr. Mitchell works around her, respecting the invisible tether between them.
"Help me remove his clothes," the doctor instructs Charlotte gently. "We need to assess all injuries."
My stomach clenches as they peel away the remnants of what was probably a four-figure shirt. The fabric sticks to dried blood in places, making Charlotte wince as she helps ease it away. What's revealed underneath is worse than I expected, and I've seen some shit.
Brookes' ribcage is a fucking Rorschach test of black and purple. Deliberate boot prints visible in some places. Cigarette burns dot his shoulders in a pattern—not random, but methodical. The rope burns at his wrists are deep, suggesting he fought hard against restraints. There's something almost artistic about the damage, like whoever did this considered it a craft. Torture.
Dr. Mitchell clicks her tongue. "Three ribs broken, possibly four. Severe contusions. Mild concussion based on pupil response. Dehydration." Her clinical assessment continues as she cleans wounds, applies ointments, wraps bandages.
I'm cataloging everything—every mark, every injury—adding it to my mental database. This is evidence. This is motive. This is why Senator Blaine's political career is about to get cut short.
My tablet pings with an incoming message from Moses: Found seven more storage units registered to Blaine's shell company. Checking them now .
I send back a thumbs-up emoji. Not my usual style, but I don't trust myself with words right now.
When Dr. Mitchell finally straightens up, she's hooked Brookes up to an IV of fluids and pain medication. She hands Charlotte a bag of pills with strict instructions, most of which I doubt Charlotte even hears. Her eyes haven't left Brookes' face, watching for any flicker of consciousness.
"He'll wake when he's ready," the doctor says, packing up. "The body knows what it needs."
After she leaves, I return to my post at the doorway. I don't offer Charlotte platitudes or reassurances. Just presence. Sometimes that's all you need—the knowledge that someone's standing guard while you fall apart.
Teagan appears at my shoulder, voice low. "She needs to clean up."
I nod. It's true. Charlotte's still wearing the tactical gear from the raid, now stained with Brookes' blood. Her hands are sticky with it.
"Charlotte," Teagan says, using his Alpha voice but keeping it gentle. "Let's get you cleaned up."
She looks up, dazed, like she's forgotten where she is. "I can't leave him."
"Just for a few minutes," Beaux says. The Alpha reeks of whiskey and black pepper, his scent deliberately strong to comfort her. "I'll carry you there and back, Harlequin. Promise.”
Somehow, she agrees. Beaux scoops her up like she weighs nothing, and I'm left alone with the unconscious Omega.
"You have to wake up," I tell him flatly. "She's planning for war. She needs you."
Twenty minutes later Charlotte returns in fresh clothes, her hair damp. She looks almost like a different person—soft sweatpants, oversized T-shirt, bare feet. The warrior washed away, leaving the woman beneath.
She climbs onto the bed without a word, careful not to jostle Brookes. Not fully lying down, just curled on her side with his arm tucked against her chest. Her eyes close, but I know she's not sleeping. Just breathing. Trying to find her center in the chaos.
All we can do now is wait for Brookes to wake. And when he does, I have a feeling he's going to have a lot to say.
Me? I've got work to do. This is just the beginning of bringing down the entire fucking house of cards.