Page 4 of Omega’s Fever (Prime Match #2)

Milo

The courtroom doors slam shut behind me with enough force to echo down the marble hallway. My legs barely hold me upright. I stumble to the wall, palm flat against cold stone, and try to remember how breathing works.

In. Out. In. Out.

Except every inhale brings more of his scent. Cedar clings to my clothes and the inside of my nostrils like I’ve been branded. My omega blood purrs at the thought while the rational part of me is horrified.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

A courthouse security guard hovers nearby, hand resting on his radio. He probably thinks I’m having a medical emergency. He’s not completely wrong.

“Fine.” The word comes out strangled. “Just need a moment.”

He raises an eyebrow, unconvinced and I manage a shaky smile. “Can I call someone for you?”

“No!” The word comes out more forceful than I intend. No one can know about this.

I push off the wall and force my feet to carry me down the hall to the bathroom. I shoulder through the door and barely make it to the sink before my knees threaten to give out.

The faucet squeaks as I wrench it on. I cup my hands under the stream and splash my face with cold water. It doesn’t help. My reflection in the spotted mirror shows a stranger. My cheeks are flushed and my pupils are dilated. I’m panting like I’ve run a marathon.

Or like I’ve been fucked.

The thought sends another wave of heat through my body. More slick dampens my underwear. My suit pants are dark gray, thank god. Nothing shows. Yet. But every single alpha or omega I come across is going to be able to scent it.

“Get it together, Warren.” My voice echoes off the bathroom tiles. “You’re a professional. Act like one.”

Professional. Confident. Competent.

Except professionals don’t look at their clients and have to hold back the urge to bend over the desk in a busy courtroom.

Professionals definitely don’t stand in courthouse bathrooms trying not to come in their pants from that scent alone.

The interview room. I have to go to the interview room.

The thought of being trapped in a small space with Kellen Hayes makes my stomach flip but running away isn’t an option. Anne would have my head. The judge already made it clear he won’t accept any delays.

I straighten my tie, smooth down my hair, and practice my courtroom face in the mirror. Professional. Confident. Competent.

The illusion lasts exactly as long as it takes to walk down the hall to the interview room.

The guard at the door barely glances at my credentials. “He’s already inside. You need anything, there’s a button by the door that’ll call the security room for an escort when you’re done with him. He’s cuffed down so you shouldn’t have to worry about anything.”

I nod and he unlocks the door and saunters off.

I take yet another moment to try to compose myself before opening the door. Kellen Hayes is inside that room, waiting for me. There won’t be any cameras. Attorney-client privilege means what happens in that room stays between us. Oh no, do not think about that.

I turn the doorknob.

My alpha sits with his back to the wall. The jumpsuit stretches across his chest as he breathes, slow and measured like he’s counting each inhale.

Our eyes meet.

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. This close, without the buffer of a courtroom between us, his presence fills the space.

This close, he’s even more intimidating. The man is enormous. He’s not just tall but broad and built like someone designed him for violence and decided to add extra muscle just to be sure. The fluorescent lights catch on the scars along his knuckles.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just watches me with dark eyes that seem to catalog every tremor in my hands, every hitch in my breathing.

I drop into the chair across from him before my legs give out. I fumble with the clasps on my briefcase. My hands won’t stop shaking.

“Mr. Hayes.” My voice cracks on his name. I clear my throat and try again. “I’m Milo Warren. I’ll be representing you going forward.”

He nods once. Everything about him radiates a kind of coiled stillness that makes my omega instincts go haywire. This is an alpha who doesn’t need to posture or growl to establish dominance. He just is.

“I apologize for...” I gesture vaguely between us, unable to put words to what happened in the courtroom. “That was unprofessional.”

His nostrils flare slightly. Testing my scent. The muscle in his jaw tightens, but he stays silent.

Right. Okay. Focus on the case.

I pull out the witness list with trembling fingers.

The paper rustles too loud in the small room.

“I’ve reviewed your file. This is your second trial after the mistrial six months ago.

Several witnesses failed to appear for the first trial, but the prosecution seems confident they’ll testify this time.

Do you have anything to add? Any new witnesses we may need to consider?

I’ll need to file anything new by Friday. ”

Nothing. Not even a shift in expression.

The room grows warmer. My suit jacket feels far too tight. I tug at my collar, loosening my tie just enough to breathe. The movement draws his gaze to my throat. His pupils dilate.

Fuck.

“The charges are serious.” I force myself to keep talking, keep being professional even as slick soaks through my underwear. “Human trafficking, racketeering, assault. The prosecution will push for maximum sentences on all counts. If convicted, you’re looking at twenty to life.”

Still nothing. He sits there like a statue carved from pure testosterone, watching me flounder.

The pheromones in the room thicken until breathing feels like drowning. “Is there anything you want to add to your defense? Any evidence that wasn’t presented in the first trial?”

Silence.

“Ms. Sutter has said she won’t consider a plea bargain but that is likely just a power play. Would you be willing to accept one?”

Dark eyes watch me with unnerving intensity.

“Mr. Hayes, I need you to work with me here. The jury selection is Tuesday. That’s only a few days to prepare. If you have information that could help your case—”

“No.”

The single word hits me hard. His voice is deep and rough. My thighs clench involuntarily.

“No?” I hate how breathless I sound. “No to which question?”

“All.”

Heat flashes through me, part arousal and part anger. I’m fighting to maintain professionalism while drowning in pheromones and he can’t even be bothered to speak in complete sentences?

“Look, I understand you’ve been through multiple attorneys. I know this process is frustrating. But I’m trying to help you here.”

His eyes narrow slightly. Still watching. Still silent.

“The prison.” I flip through pages, searching for anything to fill the suffocating quiet. “Are you safe in general population? Your file mentions several altercations. As your attorney, if there are threats to your safety, we can petition—”

“I’m fine.”

Two words this time. Progress.

Except I’m not fine. I’m the opposite of fine. My skin feels too tight, too hot. Every breath brings more of his scent and the slick between my thighs has gone from uncomfortable to genuinely concerning. If this keeps up, I’ll leave a wet spot on the chair.

I shift positions, trying to relieve the pressure. The movement sends a fresh wave of my own pheromones into the air.

His hands clench on the table. The handcuffs rattle against the metal ring holding them in place.

“Mr. Hayes—”

“Kellen.”

I blink. “What?”

“My name is Kellen.” Each word seems dragged from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Right. Kellen.” His name tastes dangerous on my tongue. “Is there anything else? About the case, I mean. Anything at all that might help?”

He leans back in his chair, creating a few precious inches of distance between us. It doesn’t help. If anything, the new angle gives me a better view of how the jumpsuit stretches across his thighs.

Fuck. Focus.

“They’ve already decided I’m guilty.” His voice carries no emotion, just stated fact.

“You don’t know that. With the right defense strategy—”

“You think I did it.”

The words stop me cold. “I... what?”

“You looked at my file. Saw the charges. Made up your mind before you walked in here.” He tilts his head, studying me.

Heat floods my face for an entirely different reason. He’s not wrong.

“My job is to provide you with the best defense regardless of guilt or innocence.”

“Bullshit.” The profanity makes me flinch. “Your job is to go through the motions so the court can say I had representation. We both know how this ends.”

“If you’re so certain, why not try for a plea deal? Sutter said they won’t offer but—”

“Because I didn’t do it.”

I sit back, and this time I really look at him. He meets my gaze and I look away.

“Tell me what happened.”

He laughs, short and bitter. “It’s not complicated. In fact, it’s all in the file. I fight for a living. Nothing illegal about that. I fought at The Pit. One night, the owner says he can’t be in for some bullshit reason and asks if I can cover for him for the night. That’s the night we get raided.”

It’s the most words I’ve had from him since I walked into the courtroom.

“You’re claiming you were set up.”

He shrugs. Our eyes lock across the table.

The air between us vibrates with tension.

My professionalism is hanging by a thread.

Every instinct screams at me to bare my throat, to submit, to let this alpha claim what we both know he wants.

My heat isn’t due for another week, but my body doesn’t seem to care about schedules. It knows what it wants.

Who it wants.

“You’re sweating,” he observes.

Damn him for pointing that out. “It’s warm in here.”

“And you’re squirming.”

“The chair is uncomfortable.”

“And you smell like—”

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp, desperate. “Just... don’t.”

He falls silent again, but his eyes stay locked on mine. His gaze tracks the flush spreading down my neck, the way my breath comes too fast. This is torture. Exquisite, unbearable torture.

I try to return to the file but the words blur together. All I can focus on is him. The way his chest rises and falls. The flex of muscle when he shifts position. The heat radiating from his body across the narrow table.

And all that bastard does is sit there while I go absolutely insane. It’s too fucking much.

“Do you not have anything to say?” The words explode from me. “I’m here trying to help you, trying to do my job, and you just sit there like...”

“Like what?” His voice drops lower, dangerous.

“Like you don’t even care what happens to you!”

“Maybe I don’t.”

He stops. Swallows hard. The handcuffs rattle as his hands clench and unclench.

“What?” I lean forward without meaning to. “What do you want?”

Our faces are inches apart now. I can see flecks of gold in his dark eyes. His pupils are blown wide. I want to surrender.

“Milo.” My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a curse combined. “What do you want me to say?”

The last thread of my control snaps. What do I want him to say? There’s only one thing and I can’t control it anymore.

The words just spill out as my most personal thoughts are no longer confined to my brain. “I want you to tell me that you want to fuck me. At least admit that this is happening.”

The silence that follows feels eternal. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare at him and wait for whatever comes next. I can’t believe I just said that.

His eyes widen, genuine surprise flickering across his features before something darker takes its place. His nostrils flare. His hands flex against the restraints. When he speaks, his voice is pure gravel.

“Alright. I want to fuck you.”