Page 9 of Omega's Fever
“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. Thisis 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?”