Page 43 of Nesting With My Three Alphas (Hollow Haven #1)

Kit

T he courthouse parking lot was busier than I'd expected for a Tuesday morning in the county seat, but then again, Marcus had always been the type to make waves even when he was drowning.

I sat in the passenger seat of Jonah's truck, watching people in suits hurry up the courthouse steps, and tried to ignore the way my hands were shaking.

Four months. Four months since our bonding, since Marcus had broken into our house in a desperate attempt to reclaim what had never really been his.

Four months of legal proceedings and depositions and lawyer meetings that had felt surreal, like watching someone else's life play out in a courtroom drama. Not to mention Kit’s second heat that thankfully hadn’t started in such a dramatic fashion.

"You don't have to do this," Reed said from the back seat, his voice gentle but edged with the protective anger that had been simmering in all three of my alphas since we'd gotten the call that Marcus's trial was finally happening. "We can turn around right now. Go home, let the lawyers handle it."

"I know," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "But I want to. I need to see this through."

And I did need to. For months, I'd been living with the knowledge that Marcus was out there somewhere, probably plotting his next move, probably convinced that money and influence would get him out of the consequences he'd finally earned.

The restraining order had been a start, but this. This was justice.

Micah's hand found mine across the center console, his touch warm and grounding. "Whatever happens in there, you're not facing it alone."

"I know that too." I squeezed his fingers, drawing strength from the steady presence of my pack. "That's what makes this different. Before, he made me feel like I had to handle everything by myself. Now..."

"Now you've got backup," Jonah finished, his own voice carrying the quiet authority that made Charlie feel safe and bad guys think twice.

The courthouse was one of those old brick buildings that had probably been impressive a century ago but now just looked tired.

Inside, the hallways echoed with the click of dress shoes and the murmur of legal conversations, all of it designed to intimidate people who weren't used to navigating systems built by and for people with power.

People like Marcus.

Our lawyer, Chloe Martinez, met us at the elevator with a briefcase that looked like it could finance a small country and a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Ready for this?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.

"As ready as anyone can be to watch their ex get what's coming to them," I said, surprised by my own boldness.

Chloe's smile became more genuine. "Good. Because he's not going quietly."

The courtroom was smaller than I'd expected, paneled in dark wood that absorbed sound and light alike.

Marcus sat at the defendant's table with two lawyers who looked expensive enough to buy their own courthouse, his posture radiating the kind of entitled confidence that had once made me question my own reality.

He looked the same. Perfectly groomed, expensive suit, the kind of understated watch that cost more than most people's cars. Everything about him screamed success and respectability, which had always been part of his armor.

But armor could be cracked.

"The defendant will rise," the bailiff announced, and I watched Marcus stand with the fluid grace of someone who'd never doubted their place in the world.

Until now.

The charges read like a litany of everything I'd been too afraid to name while I was living it. Harassment, stalking, intimidation, fraud for the fake legal documents he'd used to try to force me back to Chicago, breaking and entering, assault on Jonah, Micah and me.

Each charge felt like a small victory, validation that what had happened to me was real and wrong and punishable by law.

Marcus's lead attorney, a sharp-faced woman who looked like she specialized in making problems disappear, launched into what I assumed was their defense strategy. Something about misunderstandings and emotional distress and a man trying to reconnect with someone he loved.

Loved. The word sat wrong in the air, all sharp edges and bitter aftertaste.

"Your Honor," she continued, "my client is a respected businessman who made some admittedly poor decisions in the aftermath of a difficult breakup. He's prepared to accept responsibility for his actions and make amends..."

"Objection." Chloe's voice cut through the courtroom like a blade. "The defendant's pattern of behavior constitutes systematic abuse, not a 'difficult breakup.'"

And then came the evidence. Months of documentation that I'd barely been aware was being collected. The threatening texts, the fake legal documents, witness statements from half of Hollow Haven describing Marcus's behavior during his brief but memorable visit to our town.

Sheriff Rowe took the stand, his testimony matter-of-fact and damning. Mrs. Carrington followed, describing Marcus's intimidation tactics with the sharp precision of someone who'd dealt with bullies before and wasn't impressed.

Then it was my turn.

Walking to the witness stand felt like the longest journey of my life, even with my pack's support radiating from the gallery behind me. The bailiff administered the oath, and I placed my hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth.

The whole truth.

Chloe's questions were gentle but thorough, walking me through the timeline of my relationship with Marcus, the escalating control, the way he'd isolated me from friends and family, the fear that had driven me to pack up my life and run.

"Can you describe the defendant's behavior during your relationship?" Chloe asked.

I took a breath, finding strength in the knowledge that Jonah, Reed, and Micah were watching, that I wasn't alone anymore.

"Marcus needed to control every aspect of my life," I said, my voice gaining strength with each word.

"What I wore, where I went, who I talked to.

He convinced me that my job wasn't important, that my art was a waste of time, that I was lucky he was willing to take care of someone as. .. as damaged as me."

"And when you decided to leave?"

"He told me I'd never survive without him. That no one else would ever want someone like me." I looked directly at Marcus for the first time since entering the courtroom. "He was wrong."

Marcus's lawyer tried to paint me as unstable, as someone who'd misunderstood normal relationship dynamics, as an omega whose heat cycles had made her irrational and prone to dramatic overreactions.

It might have worked six months ago, when I still believed some of those things about myself.

"Ms. Lennox," the defense attorney said, her voice dripping with condescension, "isn't it true that you left Chicago without any attempt to work through your relationship issues? That you abandoned a comfortable life because of minor disagreements?"

"Minor disagreements?" I repeated, genuinely surprised by the framing.

"He controlled my finances, isolated me from my support system, and made me believe I was worthless without his approval.

When I finally found the courage to leave, he stalked me across state lines and broke into my home. Those aren't minor disagreements."

"But you did live together willingly for two years..."

"I lived in fear for two years," I corrected. "There's a difference."

The defense attorney pressed on, but something had shifted. Maybe it was the months of therapy I'd had, or the daily evidence of what healthy love actually looked like, or simply the knowledge that I had people in my corner who would believe me no matter what.

Maybe it was all of the above.

When I stepped down from the witness stand, I felt lighter somehow. Like I'd left something heavy behind in that chair.

The prosecution rested, and then it was the defense's turn. They called character witnesses. Business associates who testified to Marcus's professional reputation, his charitable contributions, his standing in the community.

Probably true. Completely irrelevant to the fact that he'd systematically destroyed my sense of self and then tried to force me back when I'd finally escaped.

Marcus himself didn't testify, which his lawyers probably considered a smart strategy. Let him maintain his dignity, his image as the wronged party.

Then came the closing arguments.

Chloe was thorough and devastating, walking the jury through each charge with methodical precision. She painted a picture of systematic abuse disguised as love, of a man who couldn't accept that his victim had found the strength to leave.

The defense painted Marcus as a man driven to desperate measures by heartbreak, someone whose only crime was loving too much.

Loving too much. Another phrase that sat wrong, that twisted real emotion into something possessive and destructive.

The jury deliberated for less than two hours.

"Has the jury reached a verdict?" the judge asked when they filed back in.

"We have, Your Honor."

"On the charge of harassment, how do you find?"

"Guilty."

"On the charge of stalking?"

"Guilty."

And on it went. That one word resonating through the room like a bell finally confirming my freedom.

Each guilty verdict felt like a small earthquake, reshaping the landscape of my reality. Marcus had been held accountable. His actions had consequences. The system had worked, for once.

But it was the sentencing that really broke Marcus's composure.

"The defendant will rise for sentencing," the judge said, and I watched Marcus stand on unsteady legs, his perfect composure finally cracking.