29. Brookes
CHAPTER 29
brOOKES
I drift in a haze of darkness, floating through a fog of nothingness until pain—sharp, demanding, insistent—drags me back to consciousness. My head throbs like someone's taken a jackhammer to my skull, and the metallic taste of blood coats my tongue. I pry my swollen eyelids open, vision blurry as I struggle to place my surroundings.
Curtains. Sunlight shining through. Antiseptic smell. The steady beep of machines. Not a hospital, but a room. I'm in a bedroom.
For one blissful moment I can't remember why. Then everything slams back into my consciousness, along with the pain. So much pain .
Meghann. The makeup artist. The rushed photo shoot.
"We need you to fill in last minute, Brookes. The other model had a family emergency," my agency rep, Grace, told me.
How many times have I heard that line before? Enough that I didn't question it. Didn't question why my usual makeup artist wasn't there. Didn't question why this new girl—Meghann with two n's, I remember her spelling it out—insisted on taking me out the back entrance.
"There's a shortcut this way. The photographers want natural lighting from the alley for a few shots."
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
The alley. The hands grabbing me. The cloth over my mouth. The way my limbs went heavy as darkness claimed me. Then waking up in that warehouse, tied to a chair, my face already bloody from a beating I didn't remember receiving.
My fingers twitch involuntarily, and I realize someone is holding my hand. I flex my fingers slightly, feeling soft, warm skin against mine. A gentle squeeze.
The figure beside my bed jerks upright, her head snapping up from where it had been resting near my arm .
"Brookie?" Charlotte's voice cracks, exhaustion and relief battling for dominance in that single word.
I try to smile, but my face feels like it's been put through a meat grinder. "Hey, Char." The words come out slurred, barely comprehensible through my swollen lips.
Her face crumples, tears spilling down her cheeks in silent rivers. I've seen Charlotte cry exactly twice in all the years I've known her. The first time was when we successfully lobbied for the Omega Protection Act. The second was when her grandmother passed. Charlotte doesn't cry—she fights.
But now she's crying for me, and somehow that breaks something inside me that the beatings couldn't touch.
I survived. Against all odds, I fucking survived.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, painful and slightly hysterical, and Charlotte joins me, tears still streaming down her face as we laugh together. This right here is why I love this woman. You’ve got to laugh to keep from crying, or so they say.
"You look like shit," she says finally, wiping her eyes.
"You should see the other guys," I manage to croak, then wince as pain slices through my ribs. "Wait, you did see the other guys, didn't you? "
The memories are fragmented. Hazy snapshots of Senator Blaine's polished shoes stepping into my line of vision. His perfectly tailored suit. The sound of his voice—smooth and cultured, a stark contrast to the ugliness of his words.
"The bitch thought she would embarrass me tonight. Well, I'll make you pay for the sins of your friend. Ruin his pretty face."
Then fists and boots. Pain beyond comprehension. Darkness crept in at the edges, a blessing I desperately sought. Gunshots. Charlotte's face hovering over mine, her mouth moved but the words were lost in the roaring of my ears.
"What happened?" I ask, my voice a broken whisper.
Charlotte's hand tightens around mine. "You've been out for almost two days. I've been worried sick." She dodges my question, which tells me everything I need to know. Whatever happened in that warehouse—it was bad. Really bad.
"How bad is it?" I gesture vaguely at my face. As a model, my face is my livelihood. My ticket out of the gutter where society thinks Omegas like me belong. Male Omegas are rare, but in a family like mine, I was basically considered trash.
Charlotte's expression softens. "Nothing that can't be fixed. You'll still be the prettiest bitch at fashion week."
I try to laugh again but end up coughing, pain radiates through my chest. Definitely some broken ribs.
"Blaine," I manage to say when the coughing subsides. "It was Senator Blaine."
Charlotte's expression hardens, that fighting spirit I know so well flares in her eyes. "I know."
"He said—" I swallow, wincing at the rawness of my throat. "He said I was just cannon fodder. That all of us 'big-mouthed Omegas' would get what's coming to us. You especially."
Her jaw clenches. "Let him try."
I remember the coldness in Blaine's eyes as he watched his men beat me. The complete lack of humanity. "He will, Char. This wasn't random. This was a message."
"A message I received loud and clear." She leans forward, voice dropping lower. "But he's underestimated who he's dealing with. Always has."
I squeeze her hand. "We need to be careful. He knew about the photo shoot. He knew I'd be there filling in last minute. He has people everywhere."
Charlotte's eyes gleam with a determination that's always drawn me to her—from the moment she found me in the streets of Houston, half-starved and abandoned by my family who deemed me worthless when I presented as an Omega instead of the Alpha they'd predicted.
"Let him have his spies," she says, a dangerous edge to her voice that I've only heard a few times before. "I've got something better."
"What's that?"
A small, predatory smile curls her lips. "The truth." She squeezes my hand. "Rest now, Brookie. You're safe."
As I drift back toward unconsciousness, I hold onto that promise. I'm safe. For now. But Senator Blaine's words echo in my mind, a dark promise of his own.
Sooner rather than later.
The game has changed, and despite Charlotte's confidence, I can't shake the feeling that we're outmatched. But we survived. Both of us. Against the odds.
And sometimes, survival is the most powerful defiance of all.
I come to again to the low rumble of voices. The warm cadence of conversation that feels both foreign and oddly comforting in my current state. My eyelids still feel like they're weighted down with concrete, but I manage to pry them open.
Charlotte's still beside me, her fingers flying over a laptop keyboard, but we're no longer alone. My blurry vision gradually sharpens, revealing four imposing figures stationed around the room like sentinels.
The air feels thick with their presence—Alpha and Beta pheromones mingling in a potent cocktail that would normally set my Omega instincts on high alert. But strangely, I don't feel threatened. Just overwhelmed.
"Char—" The word scratches out of my throat like sandpaper.
Charlotte's head snaps up, and she immediately sets the laptop aside. "You're awake again."
"I told you if you are all in here together it would be too much." Charlotte tsks at the men, though there's no real heat behind her words.
One of the men—holy fuck he's massive, with beautiful dark skin and arms covered in tattoos—scoffs. "Brookie has to meet your pack, Harley. He's family now. "
My brain short-circuits. Pack? Did he just say pack?
"Pack?" I croak, looking at Charlotte with what must be comically wide eyes. Well, as wide as my swollen eyes can open.
Charlotte fumbles with her words, something I've rarely seen her do, then looks up at the men with a smile that transforms her entire face before turning back to me. "Yeah, Brookie. My pack. This is Teagan, Moses, Josiah, and he who is not to be named." She sticks out her tongue playfully at the large man, whose response is a rumbling growl that ripples through the room.
"She means Beaux," he says, stalking toward her with predatory grace, coming around the side of my bed to scoop her into his arms in one fluid motion.
Charlotte fucking beams, and I'm struck dumb by the sight. In all the years I've known her, I've never seen her look at anyone the way she's looking at this man—this Alpha. How, despite everything, this looks good on her. She's practically glowing, her scent reflecting contentment and something else. Something I never thought I'd see from either of us.
I never thought either of us would ever have a pack. But if anyone deserves one, it's her.
I've accepted my loneliness. No one wants a male Omega. I resigned myself to that fact years ago when my family tossed me away like garbage.
"Nice to meet you all," I manage, my voice still raw. "I get to thank you in person finally. Thank you for saving my bestie."
My gaze shifts to each of them, taking in their varied appearances but similar intensity. The one Charlotte called Teagan stands with his arms crossed, his posture screaming authority. Moses’ presence feels calmer, but no less powerful. Josiah's slender frame belies his strength and power, evident in his place within the pack.
Then there's Beaux, who's still holding Charlotte like she weighs nothing, his eyes never leaving her face. The way he looks at her makes something twist in my chest—not jealousy, but a bittersweet ache of witnessing something I've convinced myself I'll never have.
"Thank you for saving me," I add, the words inadequate for the magnitude of what they did.
"Like Beaux said, you're family." Josiah's voice is lighter than I expected, almost musical.
"It's nice to meet you as well, Brookes." Moses dips his head slightly, a gesture of respect I wasn't prepared for.
Teagan, clearly the leader of this little group, steps forward. "We're going to make sure nothing like this happens again. To either of you."
After the introductions, I listen as Teagan recounts the fallout of the shootout and rescue. Everything was written off as a random gang incident, even though everyone in this room knows differently. That's the story the NYPD fed to the public, complete with manufactured evidence and witnesses who mysteriously came forward.
Of course, Senator Blaine wasn't mentioned in any of the reports. His hands remain clean, at least on paper.
"They're fucking covering for him," I spit out, anger momentarily overriding my pain. "A United States senator orchestrates the kidnapping and attempted murder of an Omega, and they just what? Pretend it didn't happen?"
"Welcome to America," Charlotte says dryly, but I can see the fire in her eyes. She's not defeated—she's planning. And then she tells me exactly what that plan is.
My jaw drops as she outlines her strategy to expose Senator Blaine by going live and telling her story. Not just her story—our story. The story of every Omega who's suffered monstrous actions.
"Josiah has been collecting evidence for weeks," she explains, gesturing to the Beta, who pulls out a tablet and shows me files upon files of documents. "Bank records showing payments to known traffickers. Email correspondences carefully coded but explicitly discussing 'merchandise' that's clearly meaning Omegas. Surveillance footage of meetings with criminals wanted in multiple states."
"It's enough to bury him," Josiah adds, his eyes gleaming with something that looks a lot like vengeful satisfaction. "But her testimony will be what makes it impossible for people to look away."
"It's risky," Moses says softly. "He has powerful friends."
"He also has powerful enemies," Teagan counters.
Beaux, who's been unusually quiet, finally speaks. "And he's about to have three very pissed-off Alphas and a Beta publicly calling for his head." His voice drops to a growl. "No one touches what's ours."
The possessiveness in his tone should make my Omega instincts bristle. I've spent my life fighting against that kind of thinking. But there's something different about the way he says it. It's not about ownership. It's about protection. About family.
Charlotte meets my eyes, and I can see she understands exactly what I'm feeling. "We're doing this, Brookie. We're taking him down. "
And just like that, I'm all in. If anyone can take down a corrupt senator, it's Charlotte Matthews with an army at her back. I want him to pay. For what he did to me. To her. To all the Omegas he's hurt.
"Charlotte. You badass superhero-ass bitch, I love you." The words burst out of me, raw and honest.
"I love you too, Brookie." Her smile is fierce, determined. "Now let's go cause some mayhem."
The men exchange glances, and I swear I see Teagan fighting back a smile. These Alphas have no idea what they've gotten themselves into with Charlotte. But judging by the way they're looking at her—with respect, admiration, and yes, desire—they know exactly how lucky they are.
And for the first time since I woke up in this bed, I feel something other than pain and fear.
I feel hope.