Page 110 of Unhinged

He turns to the mirror, picks up a comb, and runs it through his hair, slicking it back into that perfect vintage style that drives me absolutely feral. Cool. Casual. Like he doesn’t know he’s ruining me.

“Oh, umm... just trying to figure out what to wear tonight.” I dip down and grab the boxers, shoving them into my bra like a teenager stuffing her training bra.

“I mean, the whores usually wear barely anything ‘cause, well, they’re there to fuck the brothers. Other guests wear whatever—dresses, skirts, jeans. Whatever you want, Gidge.”

“Okay. That was not helpful but... also kind of helpful.”

I sit on his bed, hook the shirt with my foot, and drag it closer until I can snatch it up. He turns and sprays his cologne on like I’m not being a complete creep.

“Wear whatever you want. You’ll be stunning. And, well... you’re off-limits, anyway.”

I roll my eyes. “How could I forget?”

As I walk past him, he grabs my arm and kisses me. I whimper, and my scent floods the room. My skin feels wrong under my shirt, like every inch of me is too aware. My scent’s spiking, I know it is, and the way Acid’s nostrils flare when hekisses me? Yeah. He knows too. I’m radiating pheromones like a goddamn beacon.

My brain tries to hold on to reality, but all I can picture is his sexy, tattooed, naked body and the way he felt under me.

Nope. Abort mission.

I bolt back to my room and finish building the comfiest, coziest, most scent-drenched omega fort ever made. Acid. Arrow. Gears.

Their combined scent hits me like a wave and I can’t fight it. Don’t even try. I’m wrapped up in their shirts like some scent-addicted freak, buried in all these blankets like it’ll hold me together. It’s not even sundown and I’m already a mess.

That’s when it hits me.

Two things, actually.

One—my heat is coming. I’m nesting.Fuck. Me.

And two—this terrifying, overwhelming truth that slams into my chest like a freight train.

I want them.

Not just the sex. Not just the protection. I want them. I want to be their omega. In their pack. I don’t know when it happened or how, but it’s there, loud and brutal and clawing at my insides.

Goddamn it.

They want me to be their omega. But what does that even mean, for someone like me? I’m no docile breeder. I’ve killed with my own hands. I don’t know how to kneel without thinking about the weight of a blade in my boot. But god help me, I want to belong to them, anyway.

I close my eyes, trying to find one single reason why I shouldn’t give in. Why I shouldn’t belong to them.

I can’t find one.

Shit.

I need to talk to them. About everything. About my heat. Aboutthis. Might as well call a pack therapy session at this point.

But first—the party.

The club needs it... or so Arrow said over cheese fries. Who am I to come in and fuck that up? Besides, just because I’m falling for my alphas doesn’t mean I’m not still me. And there’snoway I’m missing the looks on their faces when Franko shows up.

Swinging my legs off the bed, I stand. Time to get ready.

I skip the shower—I want to keep smelling like them. I curl my hair, pin the sides back so it’s not in my face, then pull on leather pants, a black tank, and a ridiculous white fur coat that’s been begging to be worn for weeks.

Looking in the mirror while doing my makeup, I almost look like a mafia omega instead of a biker babe. But fuck it—the coat slaps.

Boots on, lips glossed, I head out of my room.