Page 65 of Claimed By the Psychos

The common area upstairs is mercifully empty, which is good because I might actually kill someone if they look at me wrongright now. My eyes land on the bar setup in the corner, because of course these assholes have a fully stocked bar in their vigilante compound. The bourbon calls to me like an old friend, amber salvation in a crystal decanter.

I grab the entire bottle. Fuck glasses. Fuck propriety. Fuck everything.

"Planning to drink that whole thing yourself?"

Elias's voice makes me freeze mid-pour, the bottle hovering over my lips. He's standing in the doorway looking perfectly put together as always, silver hair catching the light like he's posing for a medical journal cover. Those blue eyes track my movements with clinical curiosity that makes me want to throw the bottle at his head.

"Yes," I say flatly, taking a long pull straight from the bottle. The bourbon burns going down, familiar and comforting in its destruction.

"At least let me get you a glass." He moves behind the bar with the ease of someone who's done this before, pulling out two tumblers from underneath. "Drinking from the bottle is so... uncivilized."

"I'm not civilized." Another swig, longer this time. "I'm a killer pretending to be a person."

"Aren't we all?" He pours himself a measure of the bourbon I've already claimed, then slides an empty glass toward me. When I don't take it, he shrugs and sips his own. "Though I prefer to think of myself as a person who sometimes kills. The distinction matters."

"Does it?" I finally pour some bourbon into the glass he offered, if only to have something to do with my hands that isn't strangling him. "Dead is dead. Doesn't matter what pretty words you wrap around it."

We drink in silence for a moment, the only sound the clink of glass and my barely controlled breathing. I can stillhear Juniper's laugh in my head, see the way she looked at Carlisle with genuine interest instead of the wariness she usually reserves for alphas.

"Can I ask you a question?" Elias asks, because apparently he has a death wish.

"You can do whatever you want. Doesn't mean I'm going to answer."

He blows a puff of air through his nostrils. "Fair enough. I was just going to ask about Juniper. She… sees things, doesn't she? Things that aren't there."

My grip on the glass tightens enough that I'm surprised it doesn't shatter. There's no judgment in his voice, only faint concern, but it's a sore topic nonetheless.

"You don't have to answer," he says quietly. "It was just a question. I have a brother who deals with something similar, and I know it can be exhausting."

"She's not a fucking burden," I snarl.

"I meant for her," he says quickly, holding up his hands. I search his face for deception, but find only sincerity there. "It's not easy, not knowing which reality you can trust. On top of everything else you've both been through."

The words hit different than I expect. Not dismissive or patronizing, just... observant. "You don't think she's crazy?"

"I think she experiences reality differently than most people." He refills both our glasses without asking. "The hallucinations, the voices—they're symptoms. No more a reason for moral condemnation than a fever or a broken bone."

I considers his words, taking another swig of bourbon. "She sees things," I say carefully. "Hears things. But sometimes, it's hard to tell what they are. Sometimes they seem to know things."

He listens thoughtfully, nodding. "She perceives things others don't." Elias leans against the bar, studying me with those too-blue eyes. "Seems to go hand in hand."

"You believe in that sort of thing?" I ask doubtfully. I'm not sure whatIbelieve and it's saved my life more times than I can count, but he's a doctor. Or something like it. A man of science. I'd expect more skepticism.

Elias shrugs. "Whether that's heightened intuition manifesting as hallucinations or something else entirely... Omegas are naturally intuitive."

The bitter laugh that escapes me is louder than I intended. Oops.

"It wasn't a slight." His voice stays frustratingly calm. "I don't see being an omega as a weakness. If anything, the omegas I've known have been remarkably strong. They have to be, to survive in a world that treats them like property."

I scoff, the sound bitter as burnt coffee. "Pretty words from an alpha who's never had to live it."

"You're right. I haven't." He takes another sip, thoughtful. "I won't pretend to understand what you've been through. But I'd like to, if you're willing to share."

"Why?" The question comes out more aggressive than intended. "So you can psychoanalyze me? Add me to your collection of interesting case studies?"

"Because you're our scent match." The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. "Because whether you accept it or not, that means something. And because I can't help you if I don't understand the cause of your distress."

I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Distress. That's a clinical way to put it."