Page 11 of Daisy (Omega Chosen #3)

Hawk

M y phone buzzes against the metal workbench beside my bed at two in the morning, jarring me out of restless sleep.

I'm sprawled across the narrow cot in my room at the back of our garage, still fully clothed because that's how I sleep when the world's going to shit.

The converted warehouse space is cold this time of night, all concrete and metal that holds the chill.

Through the thin wall, I can hear Gunner moving around in his own room—he was already awake.

He always is when things get bad. Like some part of him can sense danger coming before it hits.

The phone vibrates so hard it sounds like an angry wasp.

"Fuck," I mutter, squinting at the screen. Ace's name flashes back at me, and my stomach drops. Ace doesn't call at two in the morning unless someone's dying.

"Hawk." His voice is tight when I answer. Controlled. But I can hear the edge underneath it, the kind that means he's holding back panic by sheer willpower.

"What's wrong?" I sit up, instantly alert. My bare feet hit the cold concrete floor, and I'm already reaching for my boots.

"We need backup. Now." Ace's words are clipped, urgent. "There's cops and angry alphas outside the house. They're here to take Harley back to the Omega House—or worse, hand her over to some other pack. We need to get her out, but they've got us pinned."

My blood goes cold. Harley. The omega who somehow ended up with Ace's pack after that clusterfuck of a Choosing Day.

I'd watched it on TV with Gunner, both of us cheering when she drew their names from the lottery.

After years of watching the system fuck over everyone we cared about, seeing them get their shot at happiness had felt like a miracle.

"How many?" I ask, already pulling on my leather jacket.

"Too many. And they're not just protesting anymore." His voice drops lower. "Some of these bastards are talking about taking matters into their own hands. Getting what they think they're owed."

The phone feels heavy in my hand. This is about more than just helping out a friend now. If alphas are organizing, targeting specific omegas...

"We're on our way," I tell him.

"Thanks, brother." The relief in Ace's voice is palpable. "Just need you to draw their attention long enough for us to get her out safe."

I remember the conversation we had a few days after their Choosing Day. Gunner and I had taken on some of their work so Ace and Jax could be there with their new omega. Ace had been high on adrenaline and disbelief, calling to tell me about Harley.

"She's our scent match," he'd said, his voice full of wonder. "All of us. I can't believe it's real."

I'd laughed at him then. "Come on, man. Scent matching? That's just a myth they tell beta-born alphas so we don't feel like we're doomed to turn feral. Give us false hope that we might actually find someone."

"I'm serious," Ace had insisted. "It's... it's like nothing I've ever experienced."

"What does it feel like?" I'd asked. "I still think it's a myth."

"You'll know," he'd said simply. "When you find your omega, you'll know."

At the time, I'd thought he was just pussy-drunk on his new omega. Now, hearing the desperation in his voice as he tries to protect her, I understand it's something deeper.

"Anything else we should know?" I ask, lacing up my boots.

"Yeah." Ace pauses, and I can hear shouting in the background on his end. "The whole city's losing its fucking mind. Be careful out there."

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone for a heartbeat, then knock hard on the wall between our rooms. "Gunner! We've got a situation."

His door opens before I finish the sentence. He's already dressed, keys in hand, green eyes alert and focused. Twenty-six years old and he still looks like the kid I met in that holding cell when we were seventeen—ready to fight the world for people he cares about.

"Ace needs backup," I tell him. "Cops and angry alphas outside his house. They're trying to take Harley away. We're the distraction so they can get her out."

Gunner nods once, jaw tight. He doesn't say anything, but then again, he doesn't need to. Ace and Jax are more than just business competition—they're the closest thing to family either of us has had since we aged out of the system.

If they need help, we don't ask questions.

The garage is dark except for the security lights casting long shadows between the cars we're working on. My van sits in the center bay, black and built for speed rather than looks. Gunner heads for the driver's side without discussion—he's the better driver, and we both know it.

The engine roars to life, echoing off the concrete walls like thunder. Gunner's hands are steady on the wheel as we pull out into the night, but I catch the slight tension in his shoulders. He's thinking about his sister again.

"How bad you think it is?" I ask as we navigate through the empty industrial district.

Gunner shrugs, but his scent carries the sharp edge of worry. Something that makes my own protective instincts flare.

As soon as we hit the main road toward the residential district where Ace lives, I can see the orange glow on the horizon. Smoke rises in dark columns against the night sky, and the distant sound of sirens wails through the air like a soundtrack to the apocalypse.

"Jesus Christ," I breathe, watching the city burn.

The closer we get to Ace's neighborhood, the worse it gets.

Shop windows are smashed, their contents scattered across sidewalks like broken dreams. Groups of beta-born alphas roam the streets with signs and makeshift weapons, their anger so thick I can taste it even through the van's closed windows.

But it's not random destruction. They're moving with purpose, and a lot of them seem to be heading in the same direction we are.

"Fuck," I mutter, watching another group of protesters round a corner ahead of us. "How many you think are already there?"

Gunner's hands tighten on the steering wheel, but his driving stays smooth and controlled. He weaves through abandoned cars and debris like we're threading a needle, taking shortcuts through back alleys I didn't even know existed.

I text Ace: Two blocks out.

My phone buzzes back immediately: Need distraction in 5.

"We're almost there," I tell Gunner, checking the message. "They need us to draw attention in five minutes."

Gunner floors it, and we careen around the last corner toward Ace's street. What I see makes my blood turn to ice.

At least forty alphas crowd the front of Ace's house, pressing against the fence and shouting demands. Some carry protest signs about omega rights, but others have bottles and rocks. The air thrums with aggression so thick it makes my teeth ache.

But that's not what makes my stomach drop.

It's the coordinated way they're moving. The fact that some of them have positioned themselves at the house's side exits. This isn't just an angry mob—it's a planned operation.

"They're trying to trap them inside," I realize.

Gunner nods grimly and pulls up two blocks away, positioning the van for maximum chaos. We've done this before—not for omega rescues, but for getting friends out of bad situations. Street racing, illegal fights, cops who ask too many questions. The principle is the same.

Make noise. Draw attention. Give your people a chance to run.

"Ready?" I ask, pulling out the emergency flares we keep in the glove compartment.

Gunner cracks his knuckles and grins—the first real expression I've seen from him all night. "Let's give them something to really be angry about."

What follows is ten minutes of pure, beautiful chaos.

We drive straight into the crowd, laying on the horn and revving the engine.

When they scatter, I lean out the window and light off flares, tossing them into the street where they hiss and spark like angry red stars.

Gunner executes a perfect donut in the middle of the road, tires screaming against asphalt.

The effect is immediate. Every alpha in the crowd turns toward us, shouting and pointing. Some start throwing rocks at the van. Others begin chasing us on foot.

My phone buzzes: Clear. Thank you.

"Time to go," I tell Gunner, and he doesn't need to be told twice.

We tear out of there with half the crowd following us, leading them on a chase through side streets until we lose them in the industrial district. By the time we circle back, Ace's street is empty except for scattered debris and the lingering scent of alpha aggression.

"Think they made it out?" Gunner asks, his voice rough from shouting at the crowd.

"Yeah," I say, checking my phone for updates. "Ace doesn't leave people behind."

We sit in the van for a moment, both of us coming down from the adrenaline high. My hands are shaking slightly—not from fear, but from the rush of doing something that mattered. Of protecting people we care about.

But it's more than that for Gunner. I can see it in the way his jaw is set, the way his scent carries that familiar edge of old pain.

His sister Lily. She'd perfumed as an omega when she was seventeen, and a group of elite alphas cornered her, thinking they could just take what they wanted.

Gunner got arrested trying to fight them off.

While he was locked up, they told him she'd been taken to the Omega House for her own protection, that she'd have a proper Choosing Day when she turned twenty.

We watched for her name on every broadcast. Every single Choosing Day for three years. She never appeared. Never got her chance to choose.

The system that's supposed to protect omegas made her disappear completely.

"You hear that?" I ask Gunner.

He nods, his face grim. "Explosions."

The sound is coming from the direction of the upscale district. Where the Omega House sits like a fortress, supposedly protecting the city's most valuable omegas.

"Those bastards," I breathe, understanding hitting me like a sledgehammer. "They didn't just want Harley. They're going after all of them."