Page 29 of Enticing Little Omega (Twisted Little Tales #5)

William

I knew something was wrong the second I opened the bedroom door.

The bond, once a slow thrum of contentment, now buzzed with static. Christa was awake. Not just awake— distressed. Her emotions hadn’t hit full panic, but it was close.

I followed the quiet tension down the stairs.

She was curled on the sectional, knees drawn up, one of my mugs cradled tight in her hands. Her eyes were locked on a manila folder spread open on the coffee table in front of her like it was a coiled snake, ready to strike.

“Christa?” My voice came out hoarse with sleep and worry.

She flinched, just a little. But then she looked up—and the moment our eyes met, the static in the bond shifted. Her walls dropped. I felt her fear like a punch to the chest.

“She was here,” she said, voice paper-thin. “Tracy. In the kitchen. Drinking tea like she owned the place.”

Every nerve in my body lit up.

I was at her side in two steps, crouching low to meet her gaze. “What did she do?” I demanded, while trying real fucking hard not to berate myself for not being there to protect our Omega in her time of need. "Did she hurt you, little one?"

Christa looked down at the folder. “She says she has proof. That you broke pack court laws by mating with an underage Omega. She’s going to blackmail you.

All of you. She thinks she’s got us trapped.

Or well... all of you. She was so..." Christa shuddered, “so gleeful at the thought of having the twins back under her control again.

" Her large eyes looked up at me, filled with unshed tears. "Daddy, what are we going to do?"

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. My thoughts were already racing—legal consequences, press fallout, how fast I could get Anton to prep a statement, whether Annerly could call in a favour at the Omega Centre after we helped them out with that undercover sting operation.

Upstairs, I heard Drew stir. Annerly’s mental touch snapped to full alert. Anton’s steady pulse flared hot with worry and pre-emptive anger.

I dragged in a breath and tried to calm the spike of panic in my chest, but it was too late.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs. Drew arrived first, hair wild, shirt askew. “What happened?”

Christa didn’t look away from me, didn’t move, didn’t flinch. She explained to him what happened. Steady. Controlled. Braver than I’d ever seen her. Then she said something that shook me to the core and surprised me.

“I called Marigold. Or I guess, considering the situation it's probably better to refer to her as The Tigress.”

That made the room go still.

Drew stopped halfway across the room. Annerly hovered just inside the doorway. Even Anton, silent as a ghost, stood frozen on the last step.

Christa set down the mug, folding her hands tightly in her lap. “Honey gave me her number. I called. Told her everything.” She swallowed. “Marigold said she’s been holding on to something. Evidence. She told me not to let you do anything rash. No press. No retaliation. Just… wait.”

“Wait?” Drew’s voice was sharp. “That’s her grand plan?”

Christa’s hands twitched. “She said to keep you close. Keep you quiet. And watch the news.”

I stood up slowly, walked to the far wall, and grabbed the remote. My hands weren’t shaking, but it was a near thing. Is this the thing she told the twins she had for us... the thing she wanted to share with us? If we proved ourselves? A small spark of hope built in my chest.

The TV powered on with a low click . The screen flickered, light spilling across the room. I flipped to the local news station—the one that always had a camera ready when politicians got cuffed or scandal broke.

Christa sat back on the sectional with a small, forced smile. “Boys and their giant TVs,” she muttered.

None of us laughed.

Anton came to sit on her left. Drew dropped down on her right. Annerly knelt on the floor near her feet, head bowed slightly like he was listening through the bond for any flicker of distress.

I stayed standing, remote in hand, eyes locked on the screen.

The anchor was smiling, talking about the weather.

For now.

But it wouldn’t last. I could feel it—like thunder rolling across a flat field.

Tracy had made a move. Marigold had made a counter.

Now all we could do was wait.

And hope the trap we’d walked into… wasn’t tighter than the one Marigold had laid for her.

The weather segment faded into a headline stinger.

I felt Christa's emotions heighten at the same time as I saw her tense next to Drew.

“Breaking news this hour,” the anchor said, suddenly somber. “Tracy Welch—local philanthropist and former owner of Sugarly’s Family Steakhouse franchise—has been taken into custody this morning under suspicion of fraud and will tampering related to her late husband's estate.”

A video clip played: Tracy in a grey skirt suit, hair perfect, lipstick bold—being led in cuffs through the courthouse rotunda by two uniformed officers. She looked furious. No smug smirk, no cool mask. Just the thin, brittle fury of a woman who thought herself untouchable.

Christa gasped, one hand flying to her mouth.

The anchor’s voice continued over the footage. “Investigators allege that Welch falsified documents and stole the inheritance of at least one heiress in order to seize control of multiple properties and financial accounts, including that of her late husband’s estate.”

My stomach turned to ice.

Drew muttered a curse under his breath.

Annerly leaned forward, hands clenched.

The screen cut to a live press conference. A clean-cut detective in a navy blazer stood behind a podium, flanked by two deputies. Behind them, the Omega Centre seal gleamed on the wall.

“We believe Tracy Welch acted alone, but we’re currently seeking the cooperation of a young woman believed to be her stepdaughter,” the detective announced.

“This individual was legally entitled to the inheritance that Ms. Welch attempted to claim through fraudulent means. We have reason to believe the stepdaughter may not be aware of the full extent of what was taken from her, and we urge her to come forward.”

Christa stared at the screen, breath held.

The detective looked straight into the camera. “If anyone has information about the whereabouts of this young Omega, we ask that you contact us through the secure channels listed below. She is not under investigation. She is a victim in this case.”

The screen shifted again, this time showing an old, blurry photo. A teenager, thin and pale, eyes downcast. Christa at maybe fifteen or sixteen, probably just after her dad had passed away. The image made my chest hurt.

The anchor returned, voice low. “Sources say the estate could be worth several billion in assets and holdings, including property currently under Tracy Welch’s name.”

Christa’s tea mug slipped from her fingers and hit the carpet with a soft thud. She didn’t seem to notice.

I looked around the room. No one moved. No one spoke. We were all frozen, trapped in the quiet shock of it.

Not just because Tracy had been arrested.

Not even because the detective had asked for Christa to come forward and claim what's hers.

No, what held us breathless… was the scope of it. The validation of everything Christa had endured. The doors that were suddenly opening and the truth out there, finally, in daylight. On camera.

They weren’t hunting her. They were looking for her.

And maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of the end of her being afraid.