Page 80 of Claimed By the Psychos

The garage is exactly what you'd expect, organized to the point of obsession, tools that cost a small fortune, and vehicles that definitely aren't street legal. Bane leads me to a military vehicle that looks like it's seen better decades, maybe fought in wars that aren't in history books yet.

"Transmission's fucked," he says, popping the hood. "Can't get it to engage properly."

I lean in, immediately seeing the problem. The whole engine block is falling apart. This thing's been dead longer than it'sbeen alive, but I grab a wrench anyway, start poking around like there's something to save.

"This is a lost cause," I tell him, but I keep working because my hands need something to do. So does my brain.

"I know." He leans against the workbench, arms crossed, watching me with those hazel eyes that see too much. "But it seemed like you needed to get out of there."

"I was fine."

"Sure you were." He's quiet for a moment, just the sound of metal on metal filling the space. "She's doing well here."

My hand slips, the wrench clanging against the engine block. "Yeah."

"Must be different from what you're used to. Having backup."

I straighten up, meeting his gaze directly. "What's your point?"

"No point. Just an observation." He picks up a socket wrench, examines it like it holds some ancient knowledge. "How long have you two been together?"

"Seven years." The words come out before I can stop them. Something about the garage, the mundane task of pretending to fix something unfixable, makes it easier to talk. "Met her at the worst place imaginable."

"And where's that? If you don't mind my asking," he adds.

My jaw clenches. "The Serpents' Den. Ever heard of it?"

"No."

"Point for your character, I guess." I go back to the engine, needing something to focus on besides the memories clawing at my throat. "It was... imagine every nightmare about omega trafficking rolled into one building. The owner, Evan, he had particular tastes. Liked them young, broken, scared."

"Sounds like hell." I don't look up, but I can hear the disgust in his voice and imagine it's echoed on his face.

"It was." I pull out a part that's more rust than metal, examine it like it matters. "But I found an angel there."

The memory hits me sideways—Juniper, brought in kicking and screaming and biting anyone who got close. They'd drugged her, beaten her, tried everything to break her, but she kept fighting. Even when they threw her in the hole for a week with no food, she came out swinging.

"I'd been there my whole life," I continue, surprising myself with the honesty. "My brother owned the place, but I didn't exactly get special treatment. Though I guess it depends on your perspective."

Bane's knuckles are white where he's gripping the wrench, but he doesn't interrupt.

"Juniper was different from the others. She saw things, heard voices, but she also saw through the bullshit. Saw through my act." I laugh, but it's bitter as burnt coffee. "I was supposed to keep an eye on her. She was my brother's favorite, an 'honor' that came with a fate worse than death."

"But you got her out."

"I got us both out." The distinction matters. "Took three years of planning, gathering resources, learning skills. But I promised her we'd leave together or not at all. And I keep my promises."

"But that's not all you promised."

I look up sharply, but there's no judgment in his eyes. Just understanding. Knowing.

"No," I admit. "It's not."

The need for revenge burns in my chest like acid, eating away at everything soft, everything good. Evan's still out there, still running his empire of misery, still breathing when he should be choking on his own blood.

"I want him dead," I say simply. "My brother. I want to watch the light leave his eyes. Want him to know it was me who took everything from him."

"Understandable."