Page 126 of Claimed By the Psychos

Felix and Juniper are watching us with expressions I can't quite read. Juniper's got that little smile playing at her lips, the one that usually means she's planning something violent. And Felix... Felix looks like someone just rewrote the fundamental laws of his universe.

"I'll be damned," he says quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "You're actually?—"

"We're your pack," I tell him between hits against the door. "Your alphas. And that means something different than what your brother taught you."

Time to prove it. Even if it takes a lifetime, we'll start tonight.

The door groans, metal starting to bend under our combined assault. Whatever drugs are in our system, they're making us stronger, faster, more focused. Evan wanted to prove we're monsters, but all he's done is give us the tools to prove him wrong.

"One more should do it," Carlisle observes, stepping back to give us room.

We line up again, four alphas united in purpose, and I catch Juniper's eye just before we charge. She winks at me, mouths something that might be "my heroes" with enough sarcasm to drown in, and then we're moving.

The door doesn't just break.

It fucking explodes.

Chapter

Forty-Seven

JUNIPER

The door explodes like it's been hit by a nuclear blast, and I guess with four furious, chemically-enhanced alphas going at it, that's close enough to the truth.

Metal shrieks as it tears from its hinges, the reinforced steel folding like paper. The explosion of it sends shrapnel flying, and I duck instinctively, pulling Felix down with me as twisted metal embeds itself in the walls where our heads were a second ago.

Through the settling dust, I see him.

Evan.

And for the first time since I've known the sadistic piece of shit, he looks fucking terrified.

His eyes are wide behind that gas mask, all that smug superiority draining away like piss down his leg—which, judging by the spreading stain on his expensive pants, might actually be happening. The mighty Evan, reduced to a trembling mess by the sight of his own plan backfiring spectacularly.

Good. Let him taste the fear he's fed to others for years.

The Psychos spill into the hallway like demons unleashed, and fuck me if they don't look the part. Bane's covered in concrete dust that makes him look like some ancient war god.Carlisle's got that manic gleam in his eyes that says someone's about to die creatively. Elias moves with the intense elegance of a panther, despite the drugs in his system, and Archer—my sweet, protective Archer—looks ready to tear throats out with his teeth.

The guards flanking Evan barely have time to raise their weapons before the carnage begins.

Bane catches the first one by the throat, lifting him off his feet like he weighs nothing. The crack of the guard's neck breaking echoes off the walls, and Bane tosses the body aside like garbage. Carlisle's already on the second, his knife finding that sweet spot between ribs that drops a man instantly. Blood sprays in a satisfyingly artistic arc. I find myself admiring it like a total fangirl. We're going to have to compare notes soon.

But Felix and I aren't idle spectators. We move in perfect synchronization, seven years of partnership flowing through muscle memory.

I snatch a gun from a falling guard, and it feels like a natural extension of my body. The trigger feels like coming home as I put two bullets in the chest of an alpha reaching for his radio to call backup. Felix is beside me, fluid as water, his stolen blade opening throats with efficiency to rival Carlisle's.

"Behind you!" Archer shouts, and I spin to find another guard trying to flank us. But Elias is already there, proving that his medical knowledge works both ways. He knows exactly where to strike to drop someone instantly. The guard crumples, clutching his throat as blood bubbles between his fingers.

More guards pour in from a side corridor, but they're not prepared for what they're facing. Four alphas in chemically-induced rut should be mindless, driven by base instincts. They should be fighting each other, or trying to claim us, or at the very least be too distracted to mount a coordinated assault.

Instead, they're a perfectly united killing machine, channeling all that artificial aggression into protecting what's theirs.

Us.

I grab another weapon from a corpse. This one's got a nice heft to it, custom grip, obscenely expensive. The shadows dance around me, no longer screaming but singing, harmonizing with the violence like it's their favorite song on the radio.

Blood for blood,they whisper.Payment coming due.