Beautifully Broken Omega: A Dark Reverse Harem Omegaverse Romance, page 14
It’s wrong on so many levels I can’t even count them.
But it also feels more right than anything ever has.
Chapter Twenty-One
KIT
I‘m exhausted.
My eyes burn from lack of sleep, and my hands shake slightly as I reach for my coffee mug in the break room. Every time I’d closed my eyes last night, I saw Griffin’s face when I ran from his office, heard the concern in Nolan’s voice as I bolted from his car. The memory of their hands on my skin, the way they’d made me feel alive for the first time in years, warred with the panic that followed.
What is wrong with me? Why can’t I stop thinking about them?
Mia sits across from me at the small folding table, stirring sugar into her coffee with tired movements. She looks as worn out as I feel, her usually bright smile dimmed by exhaustion.
“Long night?” she asks softly, glancing at the dark circles under my eyes.
“Something like that,” I murmur, taking a sip of bitter coffee that does nothing to clear the fog in my head.
Val enters the break room with her usual dramatic flair, her perfectly styled hair not a strand out of place despite the late hour. She pours herself coffee and leans against the counter, surveying us with the satisfied expression of someone who has gossip to share.
“You both look terrible,” she announces cheerfully. “Rough shifts?”
Mia shrugs. “Just tired.”
“Well, I have something that might wake you up,” Val says, her eyes gleaming with malicious excitement. “Did you know Griffin Hayes had a sister?”
My coffee cup freezes halfway to my lips. Something in Val’s tone makes my stomach clench with dread.
“Had?” Mia asks quietly.
“She’s dead,” Val says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Murdered about six years ago. Emily Hayes. She was only twenty-two, fresh out of college, had her whole life ahead of her. Beautiful girl—I’ve seen pictures. Long dark hair, those same dark eyes as Griffin.”
The coffee turns bitter in my mouth. I set the cup down carefully, my hands trembling. “How do you know this?”
Val waves her hand dismissively. “I have my sources. Anyway, she was an omega. Working as a junior editor at some publishing house downtown. She’d been dating this alpha for a few months—some guy from one of those old money families. They had some kind of argument at his penthouse, and he...” She pauses dramatically. “Well, let’s just say when they found her, it was bad. Really bad.”
My vision blurs at the edges. The way Val describes this woman’s murder, like it’s just another piece of office gossip, makes bile rise in my throat.
“That’s horrible,” Mia whispers, her face pale with shock.
“Gets worse,” Val continues, clearly enjoying our reactions. “The alpha who killed her? He walked. His daddy had connections, money, influence. The case got buried, evidence disappeared. Griffin tried everything—hired private investigators, filed appeals, even offered rewards for information. Nothing stuck.”
I can’t breathe. The break room suddenly feels too small, too hot. I think about Griffin’s gentle hands cleaning my wound, the way he’d knelt on the floor without caring about his expensive suit. The fierce protectiveness in his voice when he said he didn’t care about the vase.
I don’t give a flying fuck about that vase, Kit. You’re sitting there bleeding, and that’s the only thing in this room that matters right now.
It wasn’t an act. It wasn’t professional courtesy or damage control. It was genuine care born from unspeakable loss. His sister was an omega killed by an alpha.
“And that’s why he started this whole security company afterward,” Val continues, her voice taking on an almost admiring tone. “Like he’s trying to save everyone because he couldn’t save her. It’s actually kind of... noble, in a tragic way. Makes him even more attractive, doesn’t it?”
Something about Val’s dreamy tone when she talks about Griffin’s tragedy makes my stomach turn. Like she’s romanticizing his pain, turning his sister’s murder into some kind of attractive backstory.
“It’s not about being noble,” I say quietly, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. “He lost someone he loved.”
Val’s eyebrows rise, a speculative look in her eyes. “Interesting reaction, Kit.”
I feel heat creep up my neck, realizing I’ve said too much. Shown too much. The last thing I need is Val asking questions I can’t answer.
“I just think it’s sad,” I mumble, staring down at my coffee cup.
“Mmm.” Val studies me for another moment, then straightens and claps her hands together. “Right, enough gossiping for now. We should get back to work.”
I want to point out that she was the one doing all the gossiping, but I bite my tongue.
“Kit, could you handle the storage room on the third floor tonight? It’s gotten pretty disorganized and needs sorting.”
The storage room. I nod, grateful for the distraction from this heavy conversation. “Of course.”
“Take your time,” Val says with false sweetness. “It’s quite a mess.”
As I gather my things and head toward the door, my mind reels with everything I’ve learned. Griffin’s sister, murdered by an alpha who walked free. The security company built from grief and a desperate need to protect others. His gentle hands and patient voice when I’d fallen apart, born not from pity but from understanding.
He knows what it’s like to lose someone to violence. He knows what it means to feel helpless.
For the first time since I met him, Griffin Hayes makes complete sense. And I’ve been running from the one person who might actually understand what I’ve survived.
The thought follows me as I walk toward the storage room, my heart heavy with newfound understanding and crushing guilt.
Chapter Twenty-Two
DECLAN
Ilean back in my chair, stretching muscles that have been hunched over keyboards for the better part of six hours. The omega trafficking case has consumed my attention since dawn—specifically, breaking through the military-grade encryption on our transporter’s phone. The bastard had layers of security that would make government agencies jealous, but six hours of custom code and brute force algorithms finally cracked it open like an egg.
The data blurs together until my eyes burn from the strain. But it was worth every minute. The phone is a goddamn goldmine—communication logs with handlers, client requests, even GPS coordinates of drop-off points. We’re finally making progress—real, tangible progress that could shut down an entire network of monsters.
“Right,” I say, pulling up the decrypted files on the main screen. “The good news is that I finally cracked the encryption on our friend’s phone. The bad news is that this operation is bigger than we thought.”
Griffin and Nolan flank me at the console, both studying the data with intense focus. Sophie perches on the edge of a nearby desk, her pale blonde hair catching the harsh lights as she examines printed surveillance photos.
“How much bigger?” Griffin asks, his eyes scanning the financial records I’ve managed to decrypt.
“Massive.” I highlight a series of transactions, tracing the money flow across multiple shell companies. “We’re not just looking at local trafficking anymore. This is an international network—omegas being transported from Eastern Europe, South America, even parts of Asia.”
“Jesus Christ,” Nolan mutters, his jaw tightening as he reads over the client list I’ve compiled. “Look at all these names. This network is huge.”
“Underground sex parties for the super wealthy,” Sophie adds, her voice carrying that cold fury that always appears when we discuss cases like this. “The kind of people who think money makes them untouchable.”
I pull up the network topology recovered from the phone. “They’re sophisticated—encrypted communications, untraceable payments. But they made one critical mistake.”
Griffin raises an eyebrow. “Which was?”
“They documented everything. Client preferences, transaction details—the works.” I can’t keep the satisfaction out of my voice. “Whether for blackmail or just record-keeping, every transaction is here.”
The three of them crowd closer to the screen as I scroll through the evidence. Names, detailed descriptions of what these monsters did to helpless omegas who had no choice, no voice, no hope of escape.
“This bastard here,” I point to a file marked with a red flag, “specifically requests omegas who’ve been ‘broken in.’ Wants them traumatized and compliant.”
Sophie’s hands clench into fists. “How many omegas are we talking about?”
“Based on the financial records? At least three dozen in the past six months alone.” The number tastes like ash in my mouth. “Ages ranging from sixteen to twenty-five, all of them reported missing.”
Griffin’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch the way his shoulders tense. “Any of them still alive?”
“Unknown. The records stop tracking them after the initial... transaction.” I can’t bring myself to use the word ‘sale.’ These are people, not commodities, despite how this network treats them.
Nolan studies the client list, his blue eyes dark with barely contained violence. “I don’t recognize most of these names. They’re using aliases.”
“All of them, as far as I can tell.” I pull up a separate screen showing the financial data. “But look at the payment amounts. We’re talking about extremely wealthy clients—the kind who can afford this level of... service.”
“And they’re all going to burn,” Sophie says with quiet venom.
We spend the next hour going through the names, building target profiles and operational plans. Each file represents months of meticulous hunting, but also dozens of victims who deserved better than the system that failed to protect them.
“What about local connections?” Griffin asks, highlighting a cluster of transactions centered around Cleveland. “Anyone operating in our territory?”
I scroll through the regional data, looking for patterns in the chaos of shell companies and encrypted communications. “A few possibilities. There’s been some unusual activity at several high-end private clubs downtown, and I’ve traced some payments to—”
I pause mid-sentence, a thought hitting me like a cold slap. The victims’ fear responses, the way they’ve been traumatized and broken down...
“What if...” I start slowly, then shake my head. “No, that’s insane.”
“What?” Nolan asks, looking up from the victim profiles.
“Kit,” I say quietly. “What if that’s what she’s running from? What if she escaped from something like this?”
The silence that follows is heavy. Griffin and Nolan exchange a look, and I can see them both considering the possibility—Kit’s jumpiness, her fear of alphas, the way she seems to expect violence.
“The timeline doesn’t work,” Griffin says finally. “This network’s only been operating for less than a year. Kit’s been in Cleveland for over two years.”
“And Mrs. Winters has known her for two years,” Nolan adds. “Kit’s been working for her personally, and we trust Mrs. Winters completely.”
I nod, feeling relieved. “You’re right. Just... the fear in her eyes sometimes reminds me of the victims we’ve helped.”
“She’s been hurt by someone,” Nolan says quietly. “But not this way.”
“Hold on,” Sophie interrupts, looking between the three of us with sharp green eyes. “Why are you all analyzing some cleaning lady and speculating about her history like she’s a case file?”
We all freeze. In our discussion, we’d forgotten Sophie was there, forgotten that our concern for Kit might seem... excessive to an outside observer.
Griffin checks his watch and pushes back from the console, standing. “We need to head upstairs. We have a meeting with a potential new client in twenty minutes.”
Sophie eyes us all suspiciously as we dodge her question about Kit. “Fine, change the subject,” she says, crossing her arms. “I’ll find out eventually.”
“I’m sure you will, Soph,” I say with a resigned sigh.
Nolan stands and runs a hand through his hair. “What kind of client?”
“High-profile attorney,” Griffin replies, straightening his tie as he shifts back into CEO mode. “Represents a lot of celebrity clients, apparently. Mrs. Winters set up the meeting—said he specifically requested our services after hearing about our work through some mutual connections.”
“Rich lawyer needs protection?” Sophie guesses. “Sounds like a typical Tuesday.”
“Something like that.” Griffin checks his watch. “Declan, keep working on those records. I want every name, every transaction, every connection mapped out by tomorrow.”
“Already on it,” I assure him, turning back to the screens. “What’s this lawyer’s name, anyway?”
Griffin pauses at the door, consulting his phone. “Roman Slater.”
* * *
An hour later, while Griffin and Nolan are upstairs charming our new client, I’m still in the basement dealing with a server issue that’s making my eye twitch. The monitoring system has been throwing error codes all evening, and remote diagnostics aren’t giving me the answers I need.
Sometimes you just have to get your hands dirty.
I take the elevator to the third floor, where our main server room hums behind reinforced steel doors. My keycard grants access with a soft beep, and I step into what should be a brightly lit technological sanctuary. Instead, I’m greeted by complete darkness—the overhead fluorescents are clearly out.
Shit. I can’t work on the server panel in the dark, and my phone’s flashlight won’t provide nearly enough illumination for the detailed work I need to do.
I head to the storage room down the hall, hoping to find a proper flashlight. I push open the door and step inside. The space is dimly lit by a small desk lamp sitting on a shelf, casting warm shadows across shelves lined with office supplies and equipment.
I’m about to search for a flashlight when I realize I’m not alone. A figure moves near the far wall, and my alpha instincts kick in for a split second before I recognize the familiar silhouette.
“Kit, it’s just me,” I say quickly, seeing her nearly jump out of her skin.
She spins around, one hand pressed to her heart, her eyes wide with something that looks like panic. “Declan! You scared me.”
“Sorry for startling you,” I say quickly. As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I notice something that makes my breath catch.
She looks... transformed. Even in the soft glow of the lamp, I can see her skin has an almost luminous quality, like she’s radiating warmth from within. Her lips are fuller, deeper pink, slightly parted as she breathes. There’s something fundamentally different about her—as if she’s shed some invisible weight and finally stepped into herself.
When I breathe in, her scent wraps around me like liquid silk, making my head swim. Griffin and Nolan were right. The familiar chamomile base is there, but beneath it—just a whisper, barely detectable—is something that makes my mouth water. Vanilla, faint but intoxicating, threading through my senses until my cock hardens painfully against my pants. Every instinct I have roars to life, demanding I get closer, breathe deeper, scent her fully.
I force myself to focus, to remember why I’m here. Professional. Keep it professional.
“Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to startle you.” I gesture toward the shelves, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I’m looking for a flashlight. The server room lights are completely out and I need to fix the monitoring system.”
“Oh.” She tucks a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I was just organizing some of the supplies. I think I saw a flashlight over here while I was working.” She moves to a shelf near the back, her movements graceful in the warm lamplight. “Yes, here it is.”
She hands me a heavy-duty flashlight, our fingers brushing as I take it from her. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm, and I have to fight the urge to prolong the moment.
“Perfect. Thank you.” I hesitate, then forge ahead. “Kit... would you mind helping me? I need someone to hold this steady while I work on the server panel. It’s detailed work and I need both hands free.”
She seems to consider this for a moment, something flickering across her expression that I can’t quite read. Then she nods. “Yes, of course.”
We walk together down the hallway toward the server room, and I’m acutely aware of her presence beside me.
I swipe my keycard at the server room door and step inside, holding it open for her. The room is pitch black except for the soft hum of equipment and blinking LED lights from the server racks.
“Here,” I say, handing her the flashlight. “If you could just aim it at the access panel while I work.”
I move to the problematic server rack, popping open the access panel. The interior is a maze of cables and circuit boards, all of which need proper illumination to diagnose correctly.
“Just hold it steady right there,” I murmur, positioning her hand so the light falls across the components I need to examine.
As I start working, I realize how close she’s standing, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body despite the server room’s cool temperature.
Then her scent hits me.
The vanilla starts blooming—warm, rich, intoxicating. It’s like breathing in liquid sugar and forbidden desires, filling my lungs until I’m drowning in it. My hands still on the circuit board as the sweetness wraps around me, making my mouth water and my pulse quicken.
I force myself to focus on the task at hand—checking connections, running diagnostics—but I can feel her watching me, her gaze tracking the movement of my hands as I work.
Focus, Murphy. She’s helping you with work, not seducing you.
But I lose track of what I’m supposed to be diagnosing. The circuit board blurs as all my focus narrows to the heat of her body so close to mine, the way her breathing has quickened.
