ONE
MAGIC JAZZ HANDS
Silence fell over the courtroom. “All rise.”
Oliver rose. In fact, he rosetooquickly, causing a torrent of blood to rush to his head. Clutching the back of the bench, he bit the inside of his cheek to distract from the relentless pounding in his ears. He was a police officer. A strong—moderately sized—police officer that was absolutelynotgoing to make a tit of himself during the reading of the verdict. A pale woman shuffled to the front of the jury box, her eyes downcast as though she held the weight of the world on her shoulders.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?”
“Yes, your Honour.”
With a slight nod of his be-wigged head, Judge Cartwright-Smith cleared his throat and held up a slip of paper. “Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of grievous bodily harm against the complainant Sarah Greer?”
Oliver held his breath.
“Guilty.”
Nibbling his lower lip, he did his best to stop a smile pinching the corners of his mouth.Fuck yes.
Every member of the jury avoided meeting Clinton Greer’s gaze as the verdict was read. But Oliver didn’t. Oliver’s eyesslid to the alpha who had beaten the ever-living shit out of his omega wife and their three kids. Watched as the cocky arrogance dropped from his face and onto his cheap, pleather shoes.
He listened as the judge read out the other offences, nostrils flaring as the woman said, “guilty,” to all charges. If he could have bought the jury members a drink, he would have; instead, vowing to raise a pint in their names later that evening. Clinton Greer was snarling by the end, making the prison officers tense and reach for their handcuffs.
Oliver almost didn’t notice when the phone vibrated in his suit pocket—no doubt Nancy and the rest of his team waiting for an update. He couldn’t blame them, they’d busted their balls every night to get the case ready for trial, just as he had. But they could wait. The moment was between him, Clinton Greer, and the three years Oliver spent fighting to bring the alpha to justice. The three years he’d worked with the children to tease out the many horrors their father subjected them to. But Greer was no father. He was a monster in a man’s ill-fitting suit.
Oliver let out a slow breath, giddy relief washing over him as the judge nodded. “Mr Greer. On this day, 26th January, at High Enfield Crown Court, the jury has found you guilty on four counts of grievous bodily harm and three counts of cruelty to children. You are to be remanded in custody until sentencing.”
Oliver didn’t need to hear anymore. Needn’t spend any more time breathing in the same air as that piece of shit. He slipped out of the courtroom, pushing through the heavy glass doors and into the freedom of the waiting room.
Three years of work, condensed into a three-week trial, into a three-minute reading of the verdict. It would take him a little longer than three minutes to compose his thoughts, so he stalked towards the restrooms at the end of the hall.
Weaving between the waiting room chairs, he sighed as the phone vibrated again. Reaching into his inner breast pocket, hecleared his throat and looked at the screen. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, thumb hovering over the ‘accept’ icon beneath the photograph of Nancy Purslow in a cowboy hat and swimming goggles.That had been one wild night.
However, before he could press answer, his face smashed into a rock-hard wall of cotton-silk. Reeling backwards, he dropped the phone and landed flat on his arse. It seemed he was determined to make a tit of himselfafter all.
“Sorry—” He was about to throw his hands up in apology, but the words died in his throat as his eyes trailed up the long, broad form of an alpha. The white shirt strained over powerfully built shoulders, contrasting beautifully with his tanned skin, hazel eyes and mop of black hair. The beauty of the man was quite astounding, but it was the way his lip curled back over his canines, that really gave Oliver pause. The alpha was pissed. Like, really pissed.
Oliver’s eyes slid to the black lanyard around the stranger’s neck. It read, ‘Detective Sergeant 578 Lucas White, Metropolitan Police.’ Oliver sniffed, because what it should have said was ‘paperwork-dodging, glory-hunting city boy.’ But that was just Oliver’s pre-conceived notion of the Met, of course.
Scrambling to collect the still-vibrating phone, he was about to hop to his feet and brush off his knees in an act of mock deference—as any sigma pretending to be a beta should—but the man surprised him by holding out a hand. The snarl retreated, replaced instead with a look of blank indifference. At least, it would haveseemedlike indifference were it not for one of his dark eyebrows quirking into a rather pleasing arch.
“O-Oh?—”
Huffing, Oliver took the hand that was offered and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. The alpha’s scent filled his nostrils almost immediately—wet earth and treated leather, mixed with something wholly masculine. Had Oliver beenan omega, he’d have probably deteriorated into a blushing, stuttering mess. Instead, his hand flew to his nose before he remembered where he was and who he was supposed to be. He played the gesture off as an awkward wipe of his nose, which seemed to work as the alpha released his hand.
“Apologies,” Oliver said, tucking the now silent phone back into his pocket. “Should have been looking ahead, not at my phone.”
The sergeant nodded, glancing down at Oliver’s own badge and no doubt reading ‘Detective Constable 1389 Oliver Reed, West Newton Constabulary.’
“No problem,” the man said, with a voice that was incredibly deep and impossibly smooth. “Good result?”
Oliver’s nose wrinkled, realising he’d done a piss-poor job of keeping his face trained into a neutral expression. “Yeah,” he replied, dropping his gaze only to discover that the man wore an immaculate pair of tan Berluti winkle pickers.Fancy fucker, he knows this is the countryside, right?
He was about to make a comment about expensive shoes and the countryside, but the man just stepped around him and strode towards the exit.Alrighty then.Oliver watched the man go, silently impressed by the sheer width of his shoulders as he passed through the security gate.
His phone vibrated for a third time, snapping him back to the task at hand. “Yeah, yeah. Just give me a minute, Nance,” he muttered.
Finally, making it to the bathroom, he slipped off his navy blue jacket and draped it over the top of a stall. Turning on the ancient bronze tap, he cupped his hands under the water and splashed it across his face. He did it two more times, his nerves calming with each pass. Looking up, he glimpsed himself in the smeared mirror, his face growing pink from the cold water.
