Page 33 of Omega’s Fever (Prime Match #2)

Kellen

The first thing I notice is the smell of disinfectant. It makes me think I’m back in prison, but it’s mixed in with vanilla which is confusing.

The second thing I notice is the pain—a dull throb in my chest that spikes when I try to breathe too deep.

The third thing I notice is Milo.

He’s asleep in a chair beside my bed, one small hand wrapped around mine.

His head rests at an awkward angle that’s going to leave him sore. There are dark circles under his eyes, deeper than before, and his clothes are wrinkled like he’s been wearing them for days.

The fourth thing I notice is the beeping and the machines. I’m in a hospital bed. I’m not strapped down to it either. There are no cuffs. No guards that I can see.

I try to speak, but my throat feels like sandpaper. The small sound I manage is enough though. Milo’s eyes fly open.

“You’re awake.” His voice cracks on the words. “Oh god, Kellen, you’re awake.”

He’s on his feet instantly, hands fluttering over me. “How do you feel? Are you in pain? I should call the nurse. They said to call when you woke up. But first—water? Do you want water?”

“Milo.” It comes out as a rasp, but it’s enough to stop his frantic movements. “Breathe.”

A laugh bubbles out of him, half-sob, half-relief. “You’re telling me to breathe? You’re the one who got shot. You’re the one who—” His voice breaks completely. “You almost died. You threw yourself in front of a bullet for me and you almost died.”

“Worth it.” The words hurt to say, but I need him to hear them. “How are—”

“I’m fine. We’re all fine.” He grabs a cup from the bedside table, guides a straw to my lips. The water is heaven on my raw throat. “Damon’s got a concussion and some bruised ribs. Penelope wasn’t hurt at all.”

I take another sip, studying his face. “How long have I been here?”

“Three days.” His hand finds mine again, squeezes tight. “They had to do surgery to repair the damage. There was... there was so much blood, Kellen. I thought—”

“Hey.” I turn my hand in his, interlace our fingers. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

“You’re okay,” he repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself. Then, stronger: “You’re okay.”

He reaches for the remote on the bed rail. “The nurse said to call, but first—you need to see this.” He flips on the TV mounted on the wall, already tuned to a news channel.

The headline scrolling across the bottom makes me blink, sure I’m reading it wrong: CRIME BOSS COBB SEWELL KILLED IN SHOOTOUT WITH FEDERAL AGENTS.

“What—”

“Shh, listen.” Milo turns up the volume.

The anchor is a polished blonde who looks genuinely excited about her story.

“—released evidence reveals the depth of Sewell’s criminal enterprise.

Documents obtained by prosecutors show involvement in human trafficking, money laundering, and racketeering spanning over a decade.

We go now to our correspondent at the courthouse. ..”

The scene shifts to a familiar building, reporters clustered on the steps.

“Thanks, Sharon. The evidence against Cobb Sewell is overwhelming. Financial records, security footage, and witness testimony paint a picture of a man who controlled a vast criminal network while maintaining a facade of legitimate business.”

They flash a photo of Cobb on screen—an old one from some charity event, him in a tux with that shark smile. It’s strange to see him there, named and exposed, when for so long his name was something whispered in corners.

“Among the evidence,” the reporter continues, “are detailed financial records showing money laundered through multiple shell companies, including legitimate businesses used as fronts. The investigation has already led to dozens of arrests, with more expected as authorities work through the mountain of documentation.”

“They’re using everything,” I say, amazed. “All the evidence you found.”

“Every bit of it.” Milo’s smile is fierce with satisfaction. “Turns out when the main suspect is dead, people are much more willing to pin crimes on him. Especially when there’s irrefutable proof.”

The news cuts to another talking head, this one identified as a legal expert.

“What we’re seeing here is the dismantling of one of the city’s longest-running criminal enterprises.

The evidence is so comprehensive, so detailed, that prosecutors are calling it a ‘gift-wrapped case.’ The real question now is how many others will be implicated as the investigation continues. ”

“This evidence,” the anchor asks, “where did it come from?”

“That’s the interesting part,” the expert says, leaning forward.

“Sources indicate it was provided by the defense team of Kellen Hayes, who was originally charged with running the operation. It appears Mr. Hayes was set up to take the fall for Sewell’s crimes.

The attempted murder of Mr. Hayes and the witnesses who were prepared to testify seems to have been a last desperate attempt by Sewell to protect himself. ”

“Speaking of that,” the anchor transitions smoothly, “we have breaking news on the Hayes case.”

The feed switches to Victoria Sutter standing outside the courthouse, looking over the moon.

“In light of the evidence provided and the events of three days ago, the District Attorney’s office is dropping all charges against Kellen Hayes.

It’s clear from the documentation that Mr. Hayes was not involved in the criminal enterprise and was, in fact, intended to be what we call a ‘fall guy’ for Cobb Sewell’s operation. ”

I stare at the screen, trying to process the words. “Dropped? All of them?”

“All of them.” Milo’s grin could power the city. “You’re free, Kellen.”

The news continues, but I’m not listening anymore. Free. The word doesn’t feel real. After months of knowing I was going to prison, of accepting it, planning for it—I’m free.

“Wait,” I say as something occurs to me. “Cobb’s dead? Really dead?”

“Really dead.” Milo’s expression darkens. “You don’t remember?”

I try to think back, but everything after the gunshot is fuzzy. “I remember him pointing the gun at you. Remember getting between you. After that...”

“You killed him.” Milo says it matter-of-factly, but I can see the tremor in his hands. “After you were shot, you just... I’ve never seen anything like it. You got up and you went for him. Broke his neck with your bare hands. Then you collapsed.”

The memory surfaces slowly, like something rising from deep water. The pain of the bullet. The rage at seeing him threaten Milo. The satisfying crack of vertebrae separating.

“Good,” I say, and mean it.

Milo studies my face, then nods. “Good,” he agrees.

On screen, they’re interviewing one of Cobb’s former associates, his face blurred for protection.

“Everyone knew Sewell was the real boss,” the man is saying.

“But nobody would say it. Too dangerous. He had people everywhere—cops, judges, prosecutors. If you crossed him, you didn’t live long enough to testify. ”

“But now they’re all talking,” I observe. “Now that he’s dead, suddenly everyone’s brave.”

“Funny how that works.” Milo changes the channel, finds another news station covering the same story. This one is focusing on the financial crimes, showing charts and graphs of money movement. “My uncle made the news too.”

The anchor is explaining Kenneth Haymore’s role as Cobb’s accountant, how he legitimized the dirty money through various businesses. There’s a photo of him being led away in handcuffs, looking smaller than I remember. Older. Defeated.

“They arrested him yesterday,” Milo says. “Conspiracy, money laundering, tax evasion. He’s looking at twenty years minimum. He had no idea I’d copied everything. Thought he was being so clever, manipulating both of us.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, because I know it must hurt. Whatever else Kenneth was, he raised Milo. “Are you okay?”

“I’m processing,” Milo admits. “It’s... complicated.

He was never a good guardian, but he was all I had.

Finding out he was part of this, that he was willing to let you rot in prison to protect himself.

..” He shakes his head. “I trusted him. Not with everything, but with enough. And he would have let you die. He would have let me die.”

Before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He glances at it and grimaces. “Anne. Again. That’s the sixth call this morning.”

“What does she want?”

“What do you think?” He shows me the screen full of missed calls and texts. “Now that I’m connected to the biggest criminal case in years, suddenly I’m valuable again. She’s been texting about what a great opportunity this is for the firm, how we can leverage the publicity.”

“Are you going to answer?”

He looks at the phone for a long moment, then sets it aside. “No. I don’t think I am.”

“No?”

“No.” He takes a deep breath, and I can see him gathering courage.

“I know we haven’t talked about it,” he rushes on.

“About what comes next. But I’ve had three days to sit here and think while you were unconscious, and I realized something.

I don’t want the life I was building. The corner office and the billable hours and the constant need to prove I’m good enough.

I want...” He pauses, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest tight.

“I want whatever life we can build together. You, me, and the baby. Whatever that looks like.”

I study his face, this brilliant, brave omega who threw away everything he’d worked for to save me. “You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” He laughs, the sound a little watery. “Which is terrifying, honestly. I’ve had a plan my whole life. College, law school, make partner by thirty. Now I have no idea what comes next and somehow that’s... freeing?”

“We’ll figure it out together,” I tell him, echoing words I’ve said before. But this time, there’s no seven-year prison sentence hanging over us. This time, it’s actually possible.

His phone buzzes again. Anne’s name flashes on the screen.

“Answer it,” I say. “Tell her.”

He picks up the phone, takes another deep breath, and swipes to answer. “Anne.”

I can hear her voice, sharp and immediate. “Finally! Milo, where are you? We need you in the office immediately. The publicity from this case is incredible. I’ve already had three major clients call asking specifically for you—”

“I quit.”

The silence on the other end is deafening.

“I’m sorry, what?” Anne’s voice has gone dangerously quiet.

“I quit.” Milo’s voice is steady now, sure. “I’ll send a formal letter, but consider this my notice. I’m done.”

“You can’t be serious. After everything I’ve done for you—”

“You told me to throw the case,” Milo interrupts. “You told me to let an innocent man go to prison because it was easier. Because it was expected. You cared more about billable hours than justice.”

“I was being practical—”

“You were being complicit.” His knuckles are white where he grips the phone, but his voice stays level. “I’m done.”

“Milo—”

He hangs up. Stares at the phone for a moment like he can’t believe what he just did. Then he starts laughing, bright and surprised.

“I just quit my job.”

“You did.”

“I have no idea what I’m going to do now.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

He kisses me then, careful of my injuries but thorough enough to make my heart monitor spike. When he pulls back, we’re both breathless.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you too.” I catch his hand, press it flat against my chest so he can feel my heartbeat. Still going, despite everything. “We’re going to be okay.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, settling back in his chair but keeping our hands linked. “We are.”