Page 151 of Run Wild Omega

“It’s my job.”

“It’s his personality,” Dylan mutters, and I laugh.

We pull into the county building’s parking lot at ten forty-five. It’s a squat, brick building with frosted windows and a flagpole out front. Government architecture at its finest.

Miles parks. We climb out. I grab my crutches from the back, and Dylan takes my elbow as I navigate the curb.

Inside, the hallway smells like floor wax and old paper. The clerk’s office is at the end, a wooden door with a frosted glass panel that reads COUNTY CLERK – RECORDS AND FILINGS.

Wyatt reaches for the handle, but the door opens before he touches it.

Jason Rourke steps out.

He’s wearing the same charcoal suit, the same polished shoes. His hair is immaculate. His expression is calm, controlled, and utterly venomous. In his hand is a manila folder, thick with papers.

He stops when he sees us. His gaze moves from Wyatt to Miles to Dylan to me, and something shifts in his eyes. A calculation. A reassessment.

“Well,” he says. “What a coincidence.”

“What are you doing here?” Wyatt’s flat, controlled tone is his medic voice.

“Filing a motion.” Rourke holds up the folder. “Subpoena for Sweet Creek Adventures’ operational records. Permit history, trail reports, guide certifications. All of it. Part of the negligence discovery process for Miller’s lawsuit.”

“That’s a fishing expedition,” Miles says. “You don’t have grounds for a blanket subpoena.”

“The court disagreed. Judge Harrison signed it this morning.” Rourke smiles. It’s the same calibrated expression from the café. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“You’re not getting those records,” Wyatt says.

Rourke raises an eyebrow. “I already have them. The clerk processed the subpoena twenty minutes ago. Your boss’s lawyer can contest it in court, but the paperwork is filed. Legal and binding.”

He takes a step toward the door. Wyatt doesn’t move.

“Get out of the way, Callahan,” Rourke says. “Or I’ll add obstruction of justice to the list.”

“There’s no list,” Miles says. “There’s a frivolous lawsuit built on media pressure, and you know it.”

“Frivolous or not, it’s proceeding. And now I have the records to build the case.” Rourke’s gaze drifts to me. His nostrils flare. Something crosses his face, a flicker of recognition, and his eyes narrow. “You smell different, Miss Hartwell.”

My stomach drops.

He can tell. The bonds. The marks. The combined scent of three men layered so thick on my skin that no amount of showering could wash it away.

“Interesting,” Rourke murmurs. “Very interesting. The last time I checked the registry, you were unbonded. Has something changed?”

“Go to hell,” Dylan says.

Rourke ignores him. He’s still looking at me, his head tilted, his expression calculating. Then his gaze drops to my neck, to the collar of the flannel shirt that’s riding low enough to expose the edge of Wyatt’s bite mark.

His smile widens.

“That’s a fresh bonding mark,” he says. “A permanent multi-partner claim on an Omega without an active pack registration on file. With the Accord’s new oversight mandates after the Academy scandals, an unregistered mark like that is grounds for an immediate state audit. I could report this right now, claim you were coerced outside the legal framework just to keep you from being pursued by other Alphas. My clients won’t be happy to know the Omega they’ve been pining after is damaged goods, but the media will eat up an illegal pack claim. I could⁠—”

“Keep talking,” Wyatt says, “and you’re going to be leaving here with a busted lip.”

“Gladly.” Rourke pulls out his phone. “I’m calling my legal team. This is going to be⁠—”

Wyatt hits him.