Page 26 of Omega on Fire
"Fuck off, J," I growl, but there's no heat behind it. We all talk shit. It's what makes us family.
Deacon, our reluctant peacemaker, steps between us. "We'll be in Teagan's office setting up. Don't overwhelm her."
I straighten, offense prickling across my skin. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means," Trigger cuts in, "that we need her calm and focused. Not traumatized all over again because you can't control your fucking mouth."
My jaw tightens. They're not wrong. I'm not exactly known for my bedside manner.
"I'm capable of basic human decency," I mutter. "I'll get her to your office without permanent psychological damage. Promise."
Joker makes a skeptical sound but backs away with the others, leaving me alone in the hallway. The silence settles uncomfortably around me.
Truth is, I volunteered for escort duty because I can't shake the image of Charlotte's face when I put that bullet between her captor's eyes. The way she flinched. The spatter of blood across her cheek. The hollow emptiness that flooded her gaze.
Do I regret killing that piece of shit? Fuck no. I'd do it again. Slower next time.
But I hate that I added another nightmare to her collection. I've seen that haunted look before—in my own reflection after particularly brutal missions. In the eyes of civilians caught in the crossfire. That look stays with you.
The door opens suddenly, and Charlotte standsthere, eyes widening when she sees me. She's traded the hospital gown for black leggings and an oversized t-shirt that practically swallows her curvy frame. My nostrils flare involuntarily. Deacon's scent, clean incense and myrrh, clings to the fabric. Fucking choir boy.
Something possessive and primal coils in my gut. I want to strip that shirt off her and replace it with one of mine, mark her with my scent instead. I want everyone who comes near her to know she's protected.
Get a fucking grip, Motley.
"Hey," I manage, straightening up. "Ready for the inquisition?"
Her fingers tighten on the doorframe, eyes narrowed, lips pinched like she wants to say something that would cut me off at the knees, and I see it then. The fire. The same fire I feel deep down in my own dark soul, and I swoon a little as she tilts her head to speak.
"Is that what this is?"
I wince. "Bad joke. Just a debrief. Trigger wants to hear everything firsthand."
She steps into the hallway, keeping a careful distance between us. Smart girl.
"Lead the way," she says quietly.
I gesture down the corridor. "Grand tour on the way? Might make the walk less awkward."
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Sure."
I talk more in the next five minutes than I have all week, pointing out rooms as we pass. "Kitchen's through there, fully stocked, industrial grade everything. Joker's a stress baker, so there's always something worth eating. Gym's downstairs—weights, bags, mats, whatever you need. That door leads to the pool. Indoor-outdoor setup, heated year-round."
She nods, taking it all in. I can't tell if she's actually interested or just humoring me.
"This place is excessive," she finally says.
I grin. "Wait 'til you see the weapons vault."
"Is that supposed to make me feel safer or more terrified?"
"Both, probably." I wink.
We round the corner toward Trigger's office, and I slow my pace. Now or never.
"Look," I start, my voice dropping lower. "About what happened at the compound. . ."
Charlotte stops walking, her spine stiffening. "You mean when you executed a man right next to me?"
