Page 152 of Run Wild Omega

It’s fast. One second Rourke is holding his phone, the next he’s crumpling against the wall, his head bouncing off the plaster. Wyatt’s fist is still clenched, his knuckles split, blood on his skin. Rourke’s.

Rourke slumps. His phone clatters to the floor. His nose is broken, blood pouring down his chin, staining his white collar crimson.

He touches his face, looks at the blood on his fingers. Then he looks at Wyatt, and his expression is pure, cold fury.

“You just assaulted me,” Rourke says. His voice is thick, nasal. “In a government building.”

“Seems like it,” Wyatt says.

“I’ll drag you to jail. All of you. I’ll have charges filed before you reach the parking lot.”

“No, you won’t.”

The voice comes from behind us. We all turn.

The county clerk is standing in the doorway of the records office. She’s in her late fifties, with short gray hair and reading glasses on a chain around her neck. Her name badge reads JUSTINE FINN, COUNTY CLERK. She’s holding a coffee mug and looking at the scene with an expression of profound irritation.

“CCTV doesn’t work,” she says flatly. “Hasn’t for six months. Budget cuts. I’ve put in the work order twice.”

Rourke stares at her. “There were witnesses. People in the hallway…”

“Nobody in this hallway,” Justine says. “The building opens at ten. You were the first person through that door. The only other people in this wing are me and my deputy, and we were both in the back office.”

“This is obstruction. This is⁠—”

“This is Sweet Creek County, Mr. Rourke.” She sips her coffee. “We don’t much care for outside lawyers who come in throwing their weight around. Especially ones connected to the Ashford Pack.”

She looks at him over the rim of her mug, and her eyes are hard.

“I remember you,” she continues. “From a couple of years back. When you and your pack tried to intimidate Mara Jameson. Tried to drag her back to that abusive situation. Sheriff Reddick had words with you then. I imagine he’d have more words now.”

Rourke’s face goes white beneath the blood.

“Now,” Justine says, “I suggest you clean yourself up in the restroom and leave this building. And if I see you in my county again without a court order, I’ll call Tom Reddick myself. Are we clear?”

Rourke doesn’t move. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscles jumping.

“Crystal,” he spits.

He picks up his phone from the floor, shoves it in his pocket, and walks down the hallway without looking back. His steps are uneven, his posture rigid, and the blood from his nose is dripping onto his expensive coat.

I watch him go. My heart is hammering. Wyatt is shaking his hand out, the knuckles already swelling.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Miles says quietly.

“He was going to use the bonds against us,” Wyatt replies.

“He still can. He saw the marks. He knows.”

“Then we file. Now. Before he gets to a judge.”

Justine Finn looks at us. Her gaze lingers on me, on the flannel shirt, on the marks visible at my collar. Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her eyes warms.

“You here to file?” she asks.

“Pack registration,” Miles says. “Emergency protective clause.”

“Multi-partner bond?”