Page 157 of Run Wild Omega

“Effective immediately. He can’t practice law in this state. Connecticut is reviewing his license as well.”

“What about the drone footage?” Tess asks. “The video that started all of it?”

“Identified the operator last month,” Daniel says. “A tourist from Texas who didn’t realize what he was filming. His legal counsel contacted ours, and he agreed to a permanent takedown and signed a non-disclosure. The original file is scrubbed from every platform we could trace. What’s left is grainy mirrors on a few fringe forums that nobody takes seriously.”

“And the doxxing?” I ask. “The address leak?”

“Same trail, different source. We traced it to an anonymous forum user in Montana. Sheriff Reddick coordinated with federal authorities on a cyber harassment complaint. The user was identified, served, and agreed to a permanent injunction. All their posts were removed, and they’re prohibited from publishing Tess’s personal information anywhere online.”

Tess’s grip on my hand tightens. I feel the tension drain out of her through the bond, a release she’s been holding for months.

“What about Morrison?” she asks. “The senator who went on TV calling for Omega restrictions?”

Daniel snorts. “His legislation died in committee six weeks ago. The Omega Advocacy Coalition flooded his office with counter-data from three independent meteorological firms and a joint statement from the National Search and Rescue Association. By the time the vote came around, he couldn’t get a single co-sponsor to back him. He quietly withdrew the bill and hasn’t mentioned your name since.”

“And the other packs?” I ask. “The Voss Collective and the Draven Group?”

“Gone,” Daniel says simply. “The moment the Ashfords withdrew and the bond registration hit the National Registry, the other two followed within forty-eight hours. Their lawyers sent formal letters of retraction to Sheriff Reddick’s office. They have no legal standing to approach Tess, and they know it. You’re off-limits. Permanently.”

The table goes quiet. The weight of everything we’ve been carrying for three months lifts in a single breath.

The Ashfords backed off the moment they realized Rourke had been freelancing. They issued a formal statement withdrawing any interest in pursuing a match with Tess. Apparently, they found another Omega. A willing one this time.

“Actually,” Daniel adds, “the Ashfords got married.”

“They got married?” Tess asks.

“Matched and bonded last month. A quiet ceremony in Connecticut. No fanfare, no media. From what I hear, it’s a business arrangement on both sides. Some Omega from a Boston finishing school who wanted the financial security and was upfront about wanting a transactional arrangement. She gets the Ashford name and money. They get an Omega who fits their PR needs.”

“That’s depressing,” Dylan says.

“It’s practical,” Miles counters from the doorway.

Everyone turns. He’s standing in the kitchen entrance, still in his field jacket, with Kyle behind him. Both of them are dusted with snow. Kyle looks uncomfortable at the threshold of a full family dinner. Miles looks like he’s been tracking data in a snowfield for six hours and needs a beer.

“The Ashford match is a legal contract disguised as a bond,” Miles continues, pulling off his jacket. “Both parties entered with open eyes and clear terms. It’s not romantic, but it’s consensual. And more importantly, it means they have no reason to look at Tess again.”

“You’re late,” Margaret says, but she’s already pulling out two more chairs.

“Telemetry calibration ran over,” Miles says, sitting down. Kyle hovers. Margaret points at the empty chair beside Dylan. Kyle sits, ambushed by a family dinner and clearly unsure how to escape.

“There’s a plate for you,” Margaret tells him. “Eat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Miles catches Tess’s eye across the table. He reaches over and squeezes her hand, and she squeezes back, and I feel it through my own bond. A triple echo. Three connections, one woman, one pack.

“Now that everyone’s here,” Henry says, standing. He lifts his beer. “I’d like to propose a toast.”

The table falls quiet. Henry Hartwell is not a man who makes speeches. He’s a man who fixes things, builds things, says what needs to be said and nothing more. The fact that he’s standing with his glass raised means something.

“Three months ago,” he says, “my daughter was pulled off a mountain with a broken leg and a dead radio. We thought we’d lost her.”

Margaret’s hand finds his arm. Her eyes are bright.

“Since then, she’s been claimed by three good men, chased by a lawyer with a broken nose, and put through more chaos than most people see in a lifetime.” Henry looks at me. At Miles. At Dylan. “And she’s come out the other side stronger than she went in.”

He raises his glass higher.