Page 212 of Claiming the Pack's Omega

"What in the world are you talking about?" He huffs

I'm not nearly as experienced in a courtroom as Theo is, but I don't even need our bond to be able to tell how surprised he is. Looks like Mr. Buckland here isn't put on the defensive very often.

"They're my scent matches, Mr. Buckland," I say. Even though I'm addressing him, I know I'm speaking to the entire audience right now. I start undoing the top button of my blouse. "They're also my bonded mates."

Gasps ripple through the courtroom as I tug the shoulder of my blouse down to reveal the bondmarks on my neck. I make sure to do so on the side that faces the judge so he gets to see them too.

"The circumstances that brought us together were unconventional, but I don't think even you would say that those circumstances should keep scent matches apart. Do you have any more questions for me, Mr. Buckland?"

His face grows red as he sputters.

It's a glorious sight, seeing him so angry he can't even string together a single sentence. His partner clears his throat and gestures for Mr. Buckland to return to their desk. After a couple of seconds of their fervent whispering, the judge clears his throat.

"Is there any issue with the defense?" The judge asks. He sounds exasperated, which doesn't seem like a very good sign, at least for the defense.

Theo, on the other hand? He's trying to hide his smirk.

Mr. Buckland makes one last comment to the other defense lawyer before he stands tall, tugging at the lapels of his suit jacket to straighten it out.

"Yes, apologies, your honor," he says, clearing his throat. "We're ready to continue."

"Good, we do not have all day."

The skin around Mr. Buckland's eyes tightens as he bites his tongue before he turns his fiery gaze towards me. He returns to pacing back and forth in front of the witness stand.

"Regardless of your status with the Northside pack, this case is about omega trafficking. Some incredibly serious accusations have been brought against some of the most esteemed members of our society. These are people who have helped shape the Northside into the powerhouse that it is."

He's gone back to monologuing for the audience. There's no question there for me to answer. I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes.

"Ultimately," Mr. Buckland continues. "You've said very clearly that you chose to work the job that you did. You've said that many of the other girls you worked withchoseto work these jobs. When I imagine trafficking, I imagine an omega being kidnapped and whisked away into the night. That's not what's happening here. Based on that definition, you were never trafficked, correct?"

I want to punch him in the face. I want to throw myself over this witness stand and tear him apart.

"Are you kidding me?" My voice is dripping with disgust. I'm holding onto the last threads of professional decorum by the tips of my fingers.

"You've complained that I've been asking unclear questions, Ms. Carver. I would argue that question was as straightforward as I could make it."

Yeah, right, he gave a whole speech before asking me a stupid question.

"By that narrow definition, no, I wasn't trafficked," I grit out. "But by the normal definition, which includes coercion as well as force, yes. I was. So were all those girls. Do you know how much the minimum wage is, in the Southside of Riverwell?"

"I don't think it's appropriate for you to be asking me questions, Ms. Carver, that's not how things work around?—"

"Seven twenty-five an hour," I snap, interrupting him. "I'll tell you, right here and now, there aren't very many people on the Southside making much more than that. Do you know how hard it is to survive on seven dollars and twenty-five cents an hour? Fucking hard. Almost impossible, considering how ridiculously high the cost of living is because of the legislation that you Northside fuckers have passed over the past decade and a half."

"Language!" Mr. Buckland snarls. "I will not be disrespected in this courtroom, I?—"

"I'll use whatever fucking language I want," I snap, glaring at him. "Do you know how much the club I worked for charged for my time?"

I shake my head as a bitter laugh leaves my throat. I don't know why I'm bothering to ask questions they won't know the answers to.

"Three hundred and seventy-five bucks an hour. You know how much of that money I saw? A hundred at most. If a Southside omega chooses not to register with the Northside, our career opportunities are already limited. We can't apply for any of the scholarships for any form of higher education, which means we're all stuck working in the Southside. And Northside fuckers like you know that. The only people who can afford to see girls like me were Northsiders."

It's my turn to monologue now. No one seems to know what to do with my reaction. The audience in the pews are starting to whisper to each other. I guess they've never seen an omega as pissed off as I am right now.

There's nothing small or demure about me. If it would get my point across better, I'd pull a page out of Milo's book and fighttooth and nail—literally—but for now, I guess I'll have to settle for yelling at them all.

"I know what you're doing. You're trying to blame the existence of these clubs on the Southside omegas who work there, but I'm not going to let you do that. Because Iknowthat's not the truth."