31. Deacon
CHAPTER 31
DEACON
Two Weeks later
T his is Jenna Cross with World Stream News, bringing you breaking news: Senator Justus Blaine, longtime proponent of the controversial Omega Protection Act, has been arrested by federal agents following a series of damning revelations that have sparked global outrage. The arrest comes two weeks after Omega Activist, Charlotte Matthews, broadcast her harrowing account of abduction and abuse—an exposé that went viral within hours and has since sparked protests in every major city across the country.
We’re all gathered around the main screen, Charlotte curled up beside Beaux on the couch, with his arm wrapped around her protectively. Josiah sits cross-legged on the floor with a laptop balanced on one knee, Teagan stands, arms crossed, behind the couch. Close and watching the television intently. Brookes is swaddled in blankets in the armchair, legs tucked underneath him. He’s healing slower than any of us like, but he’s here. Awake. Watching.
The room goes quiet.
The screen cuts to shaky footage of the FBI storming Senator Blaine’s Washington, D.C. office. The camera zooms in on the smug bastard being led out in handcuffs, his suit wrinkled, and his face flushed with indignation. Reporters shout questions, their voices blending into chaos, until one finally breaks through the noise.
“Senator Blaine! Do you deny the allegations?”
“Were you involved in the Omega trafficking ring?”
“What do you say to Charlotte Matthews’ accusations?”
He stops, turning to the camera with forced calm and that smug, patrician smile that makes my fists twitch.
“This is a mistake,” he says, voice clipped and polished. “All I’ve ever wanted was to protect the citizens of this country. That woman, Charlotte Matthews, is a dangerous radical. A terrorist. She’s slandering my good name with fabricated lies. And when the truth comes out, you’ll all see?—"
The feed cuts, returning to the anchor, who’s already reporting on protests, investigations, and leaked dossiers. Joker leans back with a satisfied smirk.
“Guess the feds didn’t appreciate their inbox being flooded with Blaine’s greatest hits.” I chuckle as Joker shoots me a wink.
Charlotte says nothing, but I watch her lips press together, her spine straightening, pride and fury flickering across her face like lightning.
She did this. We all played our part, but she struck the match.
I think of my sisters. Sweet, obedient Omegas raised in a system designed to keep them tame. Trapped in their designations by expectation, by tradition, by fear. If they ever wanted out, if they ever reached out to me and said they wanted more, that they wanted out, I’d burn the whole fucking system down for them. My family be damned.
And Charlotte, she’s given them a voice, whether they know it yet or not .
I rise and cross the room, standing in front of her as she looks up at me with tired but steady eyes.
I clear my throat. “Charlotte,” I say, my voice lower than usual, “thank you.”
She blinks, caught off guard. “For what?”
“For saying what needed to be said. For surviving it all and still choosing to fight. For giving them hope. My sisters. . .you might have saved them and so many others. You’ve made that choice feel possible.”
Her eyes glisten, and for a second, she looks like she might cry but she just nods, gripping my hand tightly.
“You don’t owe me anything, Moses,” she whispers.
The moment hangs between us, heavy with unspoken weight. I feel the pull to say more, to tell her about growing up watching my sisters have their identities crushed under the heel of ‘tradition’, but the words lodge in my throat. Some wounds still bleed when exposed.
Breaking news—we’re now getting reports that multiple arrests are being made across six states in connection with Senator Blaine’s trafficking network.
The anchor’s voice snaps our attention back to the screen. Footage shows raid after raid, mansions with manicured lawns, penthouse apartments, even a yacht being stormed by tactical teams.
“Holy shit.” Teagan uncrosses his arms, stepping closer to the TV. “Is that?—"
“Senator Hoffman. Mayor Grant. Judge Ellis.” Josiah taps furiously on his keyboard, his scent of rain and clean linen sharpening with excitement. “They’re taking down the whole network.”
“They’re taking down the visible part,” Charlotte corrects, “We all know the operation goes deeper than this.”
I study her profile and all I see is greatness. Most people only see the softness of her curves, missing the titanium beneath. Not me. I recognized it from the moment we found her.
The news continues its relentless parade of arrests, each face more prominent than the last. Men who’ve graced magazine covers and fundraising galas now walk with heads ducked, expensive suits exchanged for the universal shame of handcuffs.
“Your inbox is blowing up,” Joker tells Charlotte without looking away from his screen. “Every news outlet from here to Tokyo wants an interview.”
“Let them wait.” Beaux wraps his arms tighter around Charlotte’s shoulders until she’s complaining about not being able to breath. “She’s earned a fucking break.”
“—No. No. No!”
Charlotte’s voice rises above the sizzle of chicken in the cast iron, effortlessly hitting notes that have Josiah laughing beside her as he tries to keep up. She bumps her hip against his, spatula waving dramatically in the air like a conductor’s baton. The kitchen is bathed in afternoon light, transforming the ordinary into something, something I never knew I needed until now.
Butter and garlic perfume the air, mingling with the earthy scent of rosemary and thyme. I inhale deeply, letting it wash over me. The aroma of spiced chicken mixing with Charlotte’s honey-cinnamon scent creates something entirely new. Something like home.
“Stop stealing the potatoes!” Charlotte swats at Josiah’s hand with a dish towel. “They’re not even done yet!”
“Quality control,” Josiah argues, his rain-clean scent brightening with amusement. “Very important step in food preparation. ”
“Yeah? And what quality are you controlling by eating half of them?” she teases.
“The quality of my happiness.” Joker replies, skirting away from another towel swipe.
Their laughter blends together, filling corners of the house that have known only silence and strategy meetings. I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. Charlotte’s wearing one of Beaux’s old shirts, it hangs off one shoulder and falls to mid-thigh over her leggings. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, a few curls escaping to frame her face. No makeup. No pretense. Just her. Perfection.
Across from me, Brookes watches them with a small smile playing on his lips. The bruises have faded to yellow-green shadows, but the slight wince when he shifts tells me his ribs are still tender. His modelesque features are slowly returning to their former glory, but there’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. A wariness. A knowledge no one should have to carry. I understand that burden all too well.
“You ready to go?” I ask him, keeping my voice low.
He nods, gaze still fixed on Charlotte. “Yeah. It’s time.” He hesitates. “She’ll be okay, right? Without me? ”
The question holds weight far beyond the simple words. I study him for a moment. “She’s got us,” I say finally. “And you’ve got a direct line anytime. Day or night.”
Relief flickers across his face. “Good. That’s good.”
At the entrance to the dining room, Dez leans toward Teagan, his voice a quiet rumble as they discuss security details. “All three have military backgrounds. Vetted personally. Thorough background checks that would make the CIA blush.”
“Living arrangements?” Teagan asks, all business despite the domestic scene unfolding around us.
“Rotating shifts. One always on premises, the others nearby. They understand the assignment.” Dez’s expression hardens. “And they understand what happens if they fail. We’re going to leave to meet them after lunch.”
I’ve known Dez Savoy long enough to know that’s not an empty threat. The man trained us all, after all. His reputation in our circles is legendary—the security expert who’s never lost a client. Until Charlotte’s case, which is likely why he’s taking Brookes’ protection so personally.
Charlotte appears at the table, setting a steaming plate in front of Brookes. Her fingers linger on his shoulder, a touch both protective and comforting. “Eat before Joker gets handsy with your mashed potatoes.”
Brookes snorts, but there’s affection in the sound. “As if I’d let him.” He picks up his fork and digs in anyway, the first bite drawing a small sound of appreciation from his throat.
Charlotte’s gaze meets mine across the table, and something passes between us—something unspoken but understood. We’re both watching over him in our own ways.
Dez and Teagan join us at the table as Josiah and Charlotte bring the remaining dishes. Beaux pulls out Charlotte’s chair with unexpected gentleness, his usual manic energy tempered in her presence. The simple domesticity of it catches in my chest.
“Remember when we hit that cantina in Juárez?” Josiah launches into a story, gesturing wildly with his fork. “And Motley tried to order in Spanish?”
Beaux groans dramatically. “We agreed never to speak of that again.”
“No, you agreed. The rest of us made no such promises.” Teagan’s smile is rare enough that it transforms his entire face.
“What happened?” Charlotte leans forward, eager for the punchline .
“Let’s just say he propositioned the priest instead of ordering tacos,” I deadpan, earning a burst of laughter from the table and a dinner roll thrown at my head by Beaux.
“The language of love is universal,” Beaux defends himself with a grin.
“Pretty sure blasphemy is too,” Josiah counters.
Brookes laughs, wincing slightly as he holds his side, but the joy in his eyes is genuine. “You guys are insane.”
“You’re just figuring that out now?” Charlotte nudges him gently, affection evident in every movement.
I watch them across the table, the easy way they communicate without words, finishing each other’s sentences, inside jokes flowing between them like a private language. The bond between them reminds me of what pack truly means. Not just blood, not just designation, but choice. Choosing to stand beside someone through hell and back.
The realization hits me with startling clarity as I look around the table. No one’s wearing a tactical vest. No earpieces. No weapons within reach. No one’s positioned with sight lines to all entrances. For the first time in longer than I can remember, we’re not soldiers, we’re just people sharing a meal. Laughing. Living. It’s a fragile peace, but peace all the same.
I catch Charlotte’s eye again, and this time she holds my gaze a moment longer. The corner of her mouth lifts in a small, private smile that sends warmth spreading through my chest. In this moment, with afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows and the scent of home-cooked food filling the air, I can almost believe in something beyond survival.
This is our life now and we have Charlotte to thank for that.