Page 11 of Omega's Fever

“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, tosubmit, 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 cursecombined. “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.”