Page 46 of Rescue Me

Rourke laughs. “You know I can’t. Besides, you need a break. Your voice has that edge, like you’re about two seconds from snapping.”

“I don’t need a break,” I snap, proving his point. “I need answers.”

He laughs, low and amused. “Zana, come on. Your Omega’s heat is in flux and you’re over here calling me for answers. You need to get your head straight before you burn out.”

I glance down at Ethan, who’s finally stopped fidgeting, his face relaxed against my chest, his scent still thick and tempting. “I don’t have time for that.”

“You don’t have time not to,” he counters. “Take a few days, Zana. Handle your Omega. And by handle, I mean fuck him. Get your frustration out before you snap someone’s neck.”

I groan, leaning my head back against the couch. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m right, though,” he says, smug as ever. “You’ll thank me later. Now go deal with your shit and I’ll keep digging on my end.”

He hangs up before I can argue, leaving me sitting there with Ethan in my lap, his soft breathing filling the quiet of the room. My chest tightens as I look down at him, brushing a hand over his cheek. I can’t fall apart now. Not when I’ve got so much riding on this. But maybe Rourke has a point. Maybe I need to take a breath, even just for a moment, before I lose myself completely.

I can’t help Reid if I’m out of sorts.

The moment Ethan finally drifts off in my lap, his breath soft against my chest, I ease him down onto the couch, making sure he’s tucked in with the thickest blanket we have. His scent is still warm and syrupy, lingering in the air and it takes everything I have not to start something. He needs rest before his real heat hits.

And I need space—just for a little while—or I’m going to lose my damn mind.

The office is quiet, the faint hum of the laptop filling the air as I sit down at my desk. Papers are scattered everywhere, files from cases I’ve shoved aside while dealing with this mess, but all of that feels miles away now. A ding cuts through the silence, my brows furrowing as I pull up an email from Rourke.

>>> Don’t mention this.

I snort, just one attachment staring back at me. I didn’t expect him to send me a copy of the original contract but I’ll be forever grateful. Seeing Reid’s name in neat type at the top of the document sends a pang of frustration through me.

I skim through it, noting every clause, every detail that makes my blood boil. Then I spot it—his signature at the bottom. Sloppy. Crooked. Barely legible. A far cry from the confident, sharp handwriting I’ve seen on his notes around the house.

I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. “Really, Reid?” I mutter to myself, leaning back in my chair. “That has to be the worst forgery I’ve ever seen.”

But the humor fades as I scroll further. The payment breakdown catches my eye and I feel that familiar anger bubbling up. Most of the money doesn’t go to Reid—it’s funneled straight to his parents. The same account number appears over and over, their names listed clearly in the transaction details. It’s right there in black and white.

A sinking feeling settles in my gut. Reid hasn’t mentioned them once. That silence says more than any words could.

I glance at the numbers on the screen, biting the inside of my cheek. I know I shouldn’t. I know this is crossing a line. But after years of dealing with shitty parents in court, I’ve learned that silence from a kid often hides something darker. And if I’m going to fight for Reid, I need to know what I’m up against.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I pick up my phone and dial.

The line rings, each chime stretching longer than the last, and I half-hope it’ll go to voicemail. But then someone picks up, the voice sharper than I expected.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mrs. Camden?” I ask, keeping my tone calm, even. Neutral.

“Yes. Who is this?” she replies, suspicion heavy in her voice.

“I’m Zana,” I say, leaning forward in my chair. “I’ve been helping Reid recently. I wanted to ask you a few questions about—”

Her scoff cuts me off, her tone dismissive. “Helping Reid? That ungrateful boy has no idea what help even looks like.”

I stiffen, my grip tightening on the phone. “Ungrateful?” I repeat, my tone dropping a few octaves, a growl sitting at the edge of my words. “From where I’m sitting, it looks like Reid’s been the one helping you.”

There’s a pause, followed by a bitter laugh. “Oh, you think you know everything, don’t you? Let me guess—he’s painted himself as some kind of victim? Poor little Beta, working so hard for his family? Please.”

My teeth grind together, but I force myself to stay calm. “I’ve seen the breakdown of the payments,” I say bluntly. “The Wilhelms have been sending you money every month. And yet, when I brought him back from the Wilhelms, he was bruised, underfed, and exhausted. Care to explain that?”

Her silence speaks volumes, but it’s short-lived. “That’s none of your business,” she snaps. “Reid knew what he was getting into. It was his job and he failed. That’s on him, not us.”

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