Page 22 of Unhinged
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ACID
We follow Ike to a small two-story house tucked away with no neighbors in sight. The house itself is modest—faded blue siding, a sagging porch railing, and a rusted wind chime that barely stirs in the still air. It's unassuming, easy to miss. A good hideout.
Ike parks his Raptor, kills the engine, and steps out.
He throws open the back door, then cradles Brydgett in his arms, with Judge following close behind.
Her face is pale, and her blood-soaked shirt clings to her skin like a second layer.
I can barely catch her jasmine and orange scent, and what’s left is weak—drowned in blood and sweat.
Smells like death creeping in, and I fucking hate it.
It's muted, barely there, like she’s already fading.
We park our bikes and jog after him. My heart hammers in my chest, too fast, too hard. I can feel Gears’ and Arrow's tension beside me, the bond between us crackling like static. We don't need words right now—we all know what’s at stake.
Gears steps forward. "Gears," he introduces himself with a curt nod. "We spoke on the phone earlier. This is my brother, Arrow," he gestures to his left, "and Acid," he says, nodding toward me, his face hard as steel.
Ike doesn’t pause to shake hands. He’s already moving, focusing solely on getting Brydgett inside.
A woman with tan skin and dark hair opens the front door, her eyes wide with concern.
"Ma'am." Arrow nods as she lets us in.
"Jackie, you know what to do. Lock it down and keep Judge busy, please," Ike calls over his shoulder.
"I got it," Jackie replies firmly. She locks the front door with one hand and pulls a twelve-gauge from a cabinet behind her with the other, leaning it against the wall by the door like it belongs there. The woman doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate. She’s seen things before.
"Judge, honey," Jackie coaxes gently, "why don't we go sit down and play a game? Any game you want."
Judge whispers, "Okay," before spinning back to shout, "You better save my mom, Grandpa!"
We follow Ike deeper into the house, past dimly lit hallways and into a room that smells faintly of antiseptic and old wood. He opens a door that leads to a basement, descending the steps with Brydgett still limp in his arms.
The basement is a stark contrast to the house above—bright, sterile, and organized.
A large fluorescent light hums overhead, casting everything in a harsh, clinical glow.
A metal table sits in the center, surrounded by shelves cluttered with supplies.
Ike sets Brydgett down carefully, like she's made of glass.
"What the fuck is this?" Gears snaps, eyes scanning the setup. "Why the hell do you have something like this in your basement?"
Ike spins on him, snatching a pair of scissors from the counter.
"Not that it’s any of your damn concern," he growls, "but I've patched Brydgett up before. Not to mention my fighters when they need it. Doctors are expensive, and sometimes they can’t seek trained medical attention. You should know that better than anyone. Unless your parents hit the crack pipe for far too long and actually named you Gears. I’m assuming that's a road name, which means you’re the three fuckheads my girl here’s been running from. "
"Watch your mouth," Gears warns.
"Or what?" Ike barks back. "You gonna play tough guy while your omega bleeds out in front of you? How about you pull your head out of your ass and help me save her instead?"
Gears clenches his fists, but his eyes flick to Brydgett’s face. Her breathing is too shallow, her skin too pale. He swears under his breath and steps closer to the table, eyes sharp and cold.
"What do you need?" Arrow asks quietly.
"Clean towels. Alcohol. And that red box on the shelf," Ike barks.
We move fast, working in tandem like a well-oiled machine. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but Brydgett’s ragged breathing and the low murmur of Ike’s instructions. My stomach twists when I see just how much blood she’s lost.
I step up to the table, my hands shaking as I reach for her.
Her hair is matted to her forehead, auburn strands clinging to her skin.
I gently brush it back, trying to make it right, trying to fix a fraction of the mess I’ve made.
My fingers tremble as they skim across her skin, and I tell myself it shouldn't faze me. I’ve seen worse—done worse. But this? This is my fucking omega.
I can't keep my hand steady. I shouldn't feel this. But I do.
The weight of regret presses down on me harder than the blood soaking her shirt.
"I’m sorry," I whisper, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. I’ve been a fucking idiot. A monster.
My heart aches as I look down at her pale face, the woman I’ve hurt. The woman I should’ve protected.
If she even gives me the chance, I swear I’ll spend every second showing her just how wrong I was. How much I’d give to take back every stupid decision, every asshole moment in the clubhouse basement. But I can’t undo it. Not all of it.
I swallow the lump in my throat, fighting the urge to choke on the apology that feels too small, too late.
"I’m a right asshole, a prick really," I mutter. "But not to you. Never to you, Brydgett. Not again. You deserve more. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend every damn minute of my life proving that I’m not the man I’ve been. I’ll show you. I swear I will."
I don’t look up, don’t even expect her to hear me. But I can’t stop the flood of guilt rushing through me.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to push past the suffocating remorse.
I can’t let myself break down now, not in front of her, not when she's hanging by a thread.
I brush her hair back one more time, steadying my hands.
My heart pounds like a war drum, thudding in my chest, and I let the rage simmer beneath my skin.
When she’s on the mend, when she’s safe—then I’ll let it all loose. I’ll track down the bastard who did this to her. The son of a bitch who ran her off the road, who shot her. And I’ll make him wish he’d never taken a breath.
The image of him crawling, begging for mercy, flashes in my mind. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of stopping. No, I’ll pull every organ from his fucking body, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left, but a broken shell begging me to stop.
I’ll take my time with him. Every second I make him suffer, I’ll savor. But the best part? One of those organs will be the one he can’t live without. When that happens, I’ll make him understand what real pain feels like. And only then will I put him out of his misery.
But first, I need to make sure Brydgett is breathing. I need her to stay with me. And once she’s stronger, I’ll hunt down the fucker who tried to take her from me.
For now, I keep my focus on her. My woman. My omega.
“Step the fuck back, Acid,” Ike growls. “You ain't helping her standing there like a dumbass.”
My fists clench, the urge to argue rising in my chest, but I swallow it.
He’s right. I take a step back as I try to keep my composure.
But it's hard, seeing her like this, seeing the blood soaking her side, and knowing I played a part in her pain. I ball my fists and bite my tongue, watching Ike move with the calm confidence of someone who’s seen too much.
Ike pulls open the red box with quick hands, grabbing IV bags. "She’s lost a lot of blood. We’ll get her on a drip and give her some blood just in case."
He sets up the IV, inserting the needle with precision. "Gears, Arrow, get her positioned," Ike orders, and they immediately move to hold her steady while Ike hooks up the IV drip. The faint beep of the IV machine is the only sound that fills the room.
"Now," Ike mutters under his breath, "let’s keep her from going into shock. We dig that bullet out after we get some fluids in her. We’re not risking any more damage."
I watch Ike’s every movement, knowing that time is against us. He grabs alcohol, swabbing the area around the bullet wound as the IV begins to drip. "Stay with me, kid," Ike mutters as he works, his hands steady as he preps for the incision.
I glance over at him, curiosity and worry flooding my words. "How do you have blood on hand that matches her type?"
Ike looks up at me, eyebrows raised, a mix of frustration and disbelief in his expression.
"It's her fucking blood," he says, his tone hard as stone. "I thought you three knew she was the Alpha Slayer? Don’t you think a woman in her field might run into trouble here and there? I have her blood stored if needed. It’s called autologous blood donation. She donates every few months. Blood doesn’t last forever, so we rotate it out. I keep it in the medical-grade refrigerator down here—properly stored, properly labeled. In her line of work, it’s just common sense.
Something every goddamn professional should know about. "
The words hit me like a splash of ice water. It makes sense, but I hadn’t even considered it. The woman we’re fighting beside? She’s prepared for this kind of thing. The way Ike talks, it sounds like she’s been through hell and back and knows exactly how to handle herself in situations like this.
"Alright, let’s get this bullet out of you," he says coldly, focusing on the task at hand.
Ike grabs a set of surgical tools, his movements quick and deliberate. "Arrow, get me that morphine.”
Arrow rushes to the cabinet and grabs the morphine, his hands shaking as he hands it over to Ike.
"We’re digging that bullet out, and if any of you fuckers can’t handle it, I’ll throw you out."
Ike works quickly, moving like he’s done this a thousand times. He cuts through the fabric of her shirt with surgical precision, the sound of the scissors snipping echoing through the room. He’s already got the tools laid out, and his eyes flick between them and Brydgett as he prepares.
“Alright, you idiots, focus,” Ike barks again. “The quicker we do this, the better. Acid, go grab me that alcohol. And someone get me fresh gauze.”
I’m shaking as I move to get the supplies, but I don’t argue. I grab the alcohol with the gauze and hand it over, swallowing down the bile in my throat.
"What's her deal, Ike?" Gears asks, confusion and concern tightening his features as he watches Ike work.
Ike doesn't look up, his hands moving with practiced ease as he secures the sterile supplies, his focus on the task at hand. The alcohol’s already been applied, and the IV is flowing steady, so now it’s all about the incision.
"Not my story," Ike replies flatly, his eyes narrowing as he focuses on the wound. "It's hers. If she thinks you’re worthy of knowing it, she’ll tell you.”
There’s a brief silence, then the sharp sound of Ike's scalpel as it cuts a small, precise incision around the bullet wound. I flinch, but don’t look away. The tension in the room is palpable, every one of us holding our breath as Ike begins to dig in.
“Jesus Christ,” Gears mutters. “I’ve seen bullets get removed hundreds of times. Seen torture that would make anyone else pass out. But this… knowing this is our Kismet… this is brutal.”
“Quit fucking whining,” Ike snaps. “She’s the one who’s got the bullet in her. Focus.”
The wound is deep with the bullet lodged under her skin, and Ike works methodically, using the forceps to search for the bullet. His hands are steady despite the blood pooling beneath her, his focus absolute.
With practiced hands, he digs carefully, his brow furrowed as he works the forceps around the bullet where it's lodged. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Ike pulls the bullet free, the metal slick with blood.
“Got it,” Ike mutters, tossing the bullet aside, as he reaches for a needle and thread.
He wipes the area clean and then starts stitching the wound closed with quick, practiced movements. His hands move seamlessly, pulling her skin back together with precision. Once the stitches are in place, he wraps the wound with sterile gauze, securing it firmly.
“Alright, you three,” Ike says, looking over at us. “Help me lift her. We’re getting her upstairs.”
As we move to lift her, Acid, clearly concerned, glances at Ike. "Ike, do you need a catheter for all the fluids she’s getting with the IV?"
Ike slaps a hand to his forehead, exasperated. "Are you three stupid or just ignorant? Do you know anything about omegas except how to fuck ‘em?"
Arrow’s eyes flash with defensiveness. "We've never fucked an omega. We were waiting for her. Our Kismet."
Ike shoots a sharp look at him, then shakes his head.
"Well, either way. An omega's body just knows what it needs in times like this. You don’t see an omega taking a piss all those days in heat, do ya? No. Same here. Brydgett's body will just store or absorb the liquid. I don't really know the science behind it, since I’m with a beta, but she won’t need a catheter. In fact, her body would reject it, and I’m sure as hell not going near her lady bits to put one in, and neither the fuck are you. "
"Yes, sir," Acid nods, the tension easing from his posture.
We move solemnly, lifting Brydgett with careful hands. She’s limp in our arms, her body pale and still, but there’s something about her—the way she’s holding on to life—that makes my chest tighten.
We carry her up the stairs, the house eerily quiet except for our footsteps. Once we’re inside her room, Ike directs us to place her gently on the bed. He hooks her up to another IV, the drip steady and slow, before stepping back to assess her.
We all stand around the bed, watching as Brydgett’s shallow breaths rise and fall beneath the thin blanket. Gears and Arrow stand close, their bodies tense, but neither of them says a word.
Suddenly, the door creaks open, and little Judge walks in, looking up at us with wide eyes. He doesn’t say anything at first, but when he sees his mom lying there, his face crumples, and he climbs up onto the bed without a word. He curls up beside her, pressing his small body close to hers.
“I love you, Mom,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he snuggles against her side.
The room goes quiet for a long moment, the weight of the silence settling over us all. There’s nothing more we can do now except wait. Hope. And pray that she pulls through.