Page 43 of Claimed By the Psychos

Alarms shriek behind us, the compound vomiting red light and angry voices. So much for our head start.

"Fuck the vehicle." I grab her hand, pulling her toward the tree line. "We run."

We plunge into the forest, branches tearing at our clothes, roots trying to trip us with every step. My leg screams with each impact, stitches definitely tearing now, leaving a blood trail any competent tracker could follow blindfolded. But Juniper's hand in mine keeps me moving, her presence the only anchor I need in this world.

Behind us, voices echo through the trees, professional and organized. They're not shooting—yet—which means they want us alive. That's both good and bad. Good because we're not immediately dead. Bad because it means they'll keep coming.

"Felix," Juniper gasps, pulling me behind a massive pine trunk. "Your leg?—"

"Is fine," I lie through gritted teeth, though the warm blood soaking through the scrubs suggests otherwise. "We need to keep moving."

She studies my face with those eyes that see too much, then nods. No arguments, no insisting we stop. She knows what I know—stopping means capture, and capture means discovery, and discovery means something worse than death for someone like me.

So we run, deeper into the wilderness, two damaged souls doing what we do best.

Surviving.

Chapter

Eighteen

CARLISLE

The warehouse squats in the industrial district like a festering wound made out of rust. I tap my fingers against the helicopter's window in time with Vivaldi's Winter playing through my AirPods, watching the structure grow larger as we descend.

Something's wrong.

Not with the mission. That's textbook omega trafficking ring, the kind of righteous violence that usually has me vibrating with adrenaline.

No, what's wrong is that we left them alone.

"I still think this is a mistake," I tell Bane for the third time, pulling out one earbud. The classical music continues in my left ear, a pleasant counterpoint to the violence we're about to unleash. "Leaving them with minimal guard? That's asking for trouble."

Bane's scarred jaw clenches, a tell that means he's tired of my shit but knows I might have a point. "We've got six guards on site, Carlisle. They're not going anywhere."

"Six guards who've never dealt with professional killers." I lean back in my seat, twirling one of my favorite knives betweenmy fingers. The blade catches the moonlight filtering through the window, and I imagine it's already wet with blood. "You saw what she did to me at the Rut Room. That little omega alone is more dangerous than half the alphas we've put down."

"Which is why we have guards," Bane repeats, using hisI'm the leader and this discussion is overvoice.

Elias glances up from his medical kit, those calculating eyes taking in the quiet competition for dominance going on between us. "Carlisle has a point. They're resourceful."

"They're also injured and have nowhere to go," Archer adds from the pilot's seat, though even he doesn't sound entirely convinced. "Felix can barely walk."

I laugh, the sound sharp enough to cut skin. "Felix managed to fight off three military-trained alphas while bleeding out. You really think a limp is going to stop him?"

And there's something else about Felix that sets my teeth on edge. Something beyond the obvious. The way he moves, the way he smells, the way he looks at Juniper. There's a secret there, simmering beneath the surface. I've been watching him through the security feeds for days now, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell, and I'm close to figuring it out. So fucking close.

"We have a job to do," Bane says, effectively ending the conversation. "Twelve omegas need our help. Juniper is secure at base, so right now, that's our focus."

Of course it is. Bane isalwaysfocused on the mission. But I can't shake my obsession. Our scent-matched omega and her mysterious partner, alone in our compound with guards who think they're babysitting instead of containing two of the most dangerous people we've ever encountered.

The helicopter touches down on the warehouse roof with barely a whisper. I follow the others out into the night air, adjusting my tactical vest and checking my blades one moretime. Seven of them, each one perfectly balanced, each one thirsting for blood. The warehouse below us pulses with activity, guards walking predictable patterns, the occasional scream filtering up through the ventilation system.

"Standard breach pattern," Bane orders through comms. "No survivors except the victims."

We rappel down like spiders descending on prey. The first guard doesn't even have time to scream before my blade finds the sweet spot between his third and fourth vertebrae. He drops like a marionette with cut strings, and I catch his body before it hits the ground, dragging it into the shadows.

This is what I'm good at. This is what I was made for. The kill, clean and perfect, a work of art that no one will ever fully appreciate except me.