Chapter Ten
Mark
One Month Later
Per usual, my stomach is twisted into equal parts dread and eager anticipation at the thought of facing Ava in court.
We wrapped up jury selection last week, and today marks opening statements in a high-profile case involving a wealthy omega heiress.
She was caught purchasing illegal heat suppressants, and the media has been swarming since day one.
I tried to get out of prosecuting it. Everything about this case screams headache.
The defendant’s family has the kind of money that makes enemies, and if I plan to campaign next year, antagonizing potential donors is not exactly strategic.
On top of that, I hate the suppressant ban.
If the government would properly fund research into omega heat cycles, we could have safe, legal suppressants and avoid this entire circus.
But Harvey is on my ass. As the DA, he isn’t technically my boss, because I hold an elected office. But you know what the mayor has power over? My office’s budget. He’s already made vague threats that if I don’t fall in line, he’ll halve it, and I’ll be forced to lay people off.
Lately, his behavior has escalated. Not just toward me, but toward Ava as well.
His fixation on her has crossed into something that feels unhealthy.
He has even threatened to scrap his NYTV project, though I think he’d have a riot on his hands if he tried to cancel it now.
It’s obvious he resents the growing attention Ava and I attract.
At this point, we are practically New York celebrities.
The press has labeled us the city’s “golden enemies,” and audiences love watching us tear into each other in court.
And despite our total inability to stay away from each other outside the courtroom, we fight harder there than ever.
We are playing a dangerous game. If I were a better man, I would end it or disclose the conflict to the bar and force Ava to stop taking cases in my jurisdiction.
But that loops straight back to the NYTV problem.
I cannot buy this level of publicity, and it makes me less dependent on wealthy donors.
It eases my conscience in some ways. In others, it makes it far worse.
I shift in my chair, rotating my shoulder and neck to get a crick out from how I’ve been leaning over the documents I was reading.
The gouges on my skin pull and protest. I know the cops have dubbed her the viper, but honestly, she should be the one to be called the tiger.
Or at least some kind of feline, the way she’s constantly scratching or biting me when she’s in the throes of a really good orgasm—not to be confused with the orgasms I chase like Captain Ahab after his prey.
No, those are rarer, but something happens to her scent when she comes like that, and my inner alpha craves it like a drug.
I can usually coax those out of her if I can get about four or five regular ones first.
I shift for an entirely different reason now, my cock hardening at even the briefest thought of that scent or the way she looks when she comes undone. I never mind the bites or scratches, because I’d probably sell my soul to keep having access to her.
Hell, I’m not entirely certain I haven’t already. I’ve deleted her number more times than I can count. It never sticks. One late-night text is all it takes, and we fold like we always do.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting it. Lately, I’ve been finding myself wishing for a way to bridge the gap between us. Maybe we could be more like friends with benefits than enemies that fuck.
Sometimes, I’ll spot her talking to someone else, less guarded than normal and laughing. The jealousy that rips through me is so fierce that I have to count backward from ten to keep myself from ripping whoever it is apart. She never laughs like that with me.
Or even worse, when she falls asleep after a particularly enthusiastic romp.
It’s only happened a handful of times, but I always just end up lying there watching her sleep, like some kind of creeper.
She just looks so… serene. Her beautiful, freckled face relaxed, long ginger lashes fanned across her cheeks, lips plumped from my kisses, hair a mess from my fingers.
It’s those moments when I worry I'm so far over my head that I’m doomed and probably more than a little in love with her.
Course, then the minute she wakes up, she opens that fucking mouth and bolts, and all those thoughts go out the window because I’m ready to strangle her again.
I glance at the clock and realize I need to get across the street if I want to beat her to the courtroom. Another one of our silent competitions. I think I’ll probably win today; she looked exhausted earlier, and I saw her get in her car, so I figure she either ran home or to her office for a nap.
Part of me wants to preen that I wore her out, while another part worries over her.
There’s an equal chance she went and did something stupid between cases, because she never takes care of herself.
Her fridge is always practically empty, and I can probably count on one hand how many times I’ve seen her with water instead of an energy drink.
I push open the door to the courtroom and grin when I see I’ve arrived first. I know it’s stupid, but I don’t care.
I hear the click of her heels on the floor behind me.
I barely managed to beat her. I glance at her and am immediately annoyed by the way my heart skips a beat.
The sunlight is streaming in from the high windows, and it hits her hair just right, which she has taken down out of the chic bun it was in earlier.
Now it’s loose and flowing over her shoulders, the reds and golds shining in the light like a beautiful sunset.
I hate when she wears it loose in court. It’s next to impossible to not think about how she looks when she’s riding me and it flows over her breasts and bounces with my thrusts. My cock will be half-hard all afternoon, and it makes me scowl.
Sometimes I think she does it on purpose.
I’d thought about trying to crack a small joke with her today. Work on bridging that gap. But now I’m pissed off and horny. So instead, I say, “Nice of you to join us, counselor,” in a voice snarky enough that it nearly makes me wince.
Her eyes narrow, and her chin tilts upward. Shit. She’ll be a brat now for sure.
“Sorry, I was on a lunch date with this hot alpha, and I guess I lost track of time,” she purrs.
It’s a lie. I’m almost certain of it, but I can’t guarantee it, and it only adds fuel to my anger.
We’ve never officially talked about being exclusive, though we haven’t been using protection for a couple of weeks now.
One night, she silently handed me paperwork showing her STI results and information about her IUD.
The next time I saw her, I handed her mine, and that was that.
“Oh, good. Well, let him know that if he needs any pointers, he can contact me. I can fill him in about that thing you like where I finger you with one hand and grip your throat with the other,” I deadpan.
Her eyes widen and her mouth falls open.
Honestly, I’m also a little shocked. We’ve never directly talked about it before, and certainly not in the courthouse.
I can’t get the idea of someone else getting to experience whatever that scent is out of my head, and my alpha side wants to throw her over the table and claim her right there.
That’s not a possibility, though, so I’ll just remind her. No one fucks her like I do. No one can, and no one ever will again.
I turn away from her, trying to get myself back under control. That last thought was far too possessive.
I must have really taken her by surprise, because she doesn’t snap a retort at me.
As she takes her seat, I steal a glance, and it almost makes me smirk.
A blush is staining the pale skin beneath her freckles, and the way she has her full bottom lip between her teeth tells me that there’s a part of her that enjoys being reminded in public.
Too soon, we are no longer alone. Her client joins us, and the rows behind us fill.
We rise as Judge Carter enters, and I swallow a sigh.
I’m going to lose this case. Ava is going to push the birth control angle, and it’ll land.
Carter’s a woman and old enough to remember when betas also didn’t have access to it.
Not to mention that the jury has a majority of women.
I’d burned through my peremptory challenges, and sometimes the random draw just tilts the scales.
I knew this case was hopeless from the get-go. Harvey is a damn fool. He’ll probably end up slashing my budget regardless, so I ought to just plea it out.
I’m getting a headache.
I give my opening statement. It’s short and drives home the point that I won’t have any issue meeting the burden of proof.
On paper, this should be an open-and-shut case—the defendant was caught red-handed with illegal suppressants.
But nothing is open and shut when there’s a sympathetic defendant and a defense attorney like Ava.
Ava squeezes her client’s hand before standing. Normally, I’d roll my eyes at the performance, ice queen that she is. However, I’ve seen her with other omegas enough to know it’s genuine. With them she is warm, friendly, and open.
Surprisingly, that is the opposite of how I feel when I’m around an omega, which makes no sense, since I’m supposed to be biologically predisposed to want to care for and nurture them.
Truth be told, I think I’m a broken alpha.
Omega scents are too cloying, and they leave me feeling more choked than turned on.
“The state,” Ava starts her opening, “is going to try and convince you that my client, a young woman with no criminal history, was caught with contraband. What they will fail to do is prove that those pills were anything illegal at all.”