Page 31 of Unhinged

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

ARROW

Yesterday, we watched as Brydgett told Acid to murder someone, and today I wake up in my room at the clubhouse to the smell of coffee and bacon.

The sheets are tangled around my legs, and the mattress still holds the warmth from the cocoon I wrapped myself in.

The faint sound of laughter drifts from down the hall, mingling with the hum of conversation.

I stretch, rubbing the sleep from my eyes before pushing myself up.

Sunlight seeps through the cracks in the blackout curtains, casting a dull glow across the room.

Grabbing a shirt from the chair, I tug it over my head and make my way toward the door, my bare feet padding against the hardwood floor.

The hallway’s lined with old club photos and worn patches, a history I know like the back of my hand. My fingers brush over a frame or two as I pass, but my focus is ahead—toward the smell of breakfast and whatever sarcastic remark Brydgett has locked and loaded for me this morning.

Rounding the corner into the kitchen, I find her lounging at the table, one leg tucked under her, coffee in hand.

She's wearing one of my old shirts, practically swallowed by it, with her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. Keg’s at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping bacon like it’s a damn art form.

A plate stacked with pancakes sits beside him, and the coffee pot looks half-drained already.

"Look who finally decided to join the land of the living," Brydgett drawls, her lips curling into a grin.

"Morning to you too," I say, grabbing a mug and pouring myself some coffee. It’s strong and bitter—just how I like it.

Keg turns around and smirks. "Hope you’re hungry. Judge already cleared half the pancakes."

"Kid’s got an appetite," I reply, taking a sip. The warmth spreads through me, a comfort I didn’t realize I needed. “Keg, how did you end up cooking breakfast?”

Brydgett snorts. "I started cooking, but then he came in and said something about no Ol’ Lady of the Prez, VP, and Enforcer should cook her own breakfast. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would ya? Last I checked, I’m no one's Ol’ Lady."

I shrug. "Just doing what’s right. You’ve been through enough. Let us take care of you."

Brydgett rolls her eyes, but there’s a softness in the way she sips her coffee. She won’t admit it, but she doesn’t hate the gesture.

"So, what’s the plan today?" I ask, settling into the chair across from her. The wood creaks beneath me, worn from years of use.

"Surviving." The corners of her mouth twitch like she’s fighting a smirk. "Maybe see if I can get through a meal without one of you guys hovering like I’m made of glass."

“Good luck with that," Keg chimes in. "Arrow’s got that mother hen routine down pat."

"It’s not a routine," I shoot back, though I don’t deny it. "It’s just making sure you’re good."

"I’m good," she says, holding my gaze. "But thanks."

The conversation shifts as Keg finishes up breakfast, piling plates high with pancakes, eggs, and crispy bacon. Judge wanders back through the kitchen, eyeing the fresh batch of pancakes like he’s considering round two.

Keg’s movements are a little too careful. His usual bravado dimmed as he makes a plate and sets it in front of me. I catch the way his gaze flickers toward her, like he’s trying to size her up—or maybe shake off whatever image of her is stuck in his head.

He didn’t see what we saw yesterday. He wasn’t there when she turned ice-cold, giving Acid the order like it was just another task to check off. But he cleaned up the aftermath. Scrubbed away the blood. Hauled out what was left. And that kind of thing sticks with you.

I get it.

The Alpha Slayer.

We all knew the stories, the rumors. But seeing what she’s capable of?

Knowing she gave the word without a second thought?

It hits differently. And now Keg’s looking at her like he knows something is up.

He saw the aftermath, but he doesn’t know the half of it.

Not that she’s the Alpha Slayer. Not that a man begged for his life, and she didn’t flinch.

And I’m not sure telling him would make him sleep any easier.

Still, there’s no fear in Brydgett’s eyes. If she notices the tension, she doesn’t let it show. She just takes another sip, her gaze steady, like she’s daring us to say something.

We eat together, laughter weaving through the conversation. It’s easy. Normal. Almost like the chaos of yesterday never happened.

"We were thinking of making a supply run later. Get you and the kid some essentials."

"Don’t bother," she snaps, plopping a piece of bacon into her mouth. "I’ve got what I need."

I don’t argue. Not now, at least. Instead, I just eat. I’ll get what she needs whether she likes it or not. Hell, if she’s still wearing my clothes tomorrow, I’ll consider it a win.

A couple of days roll by in the same rhythm.

Judge settles in like he’s been here forever, running around the clubhouse like it’s his personal amusement park.

Brydgett still acts like every favor is a personal insult, but the sharpness behind her words softens bit by bit. She knows we aren't pushing.

Today, I swing by their old apartment while she's busy keeping Judge entertained. I gather up a few bags of clothes, stuffed animals, and whatever else looks like it belongs to the kid.

The door groans when I push it shut, and the metallic clank of the deadbolt echoes down the corridor.

Maybe it’s the noise that draws her out, or maybe she’s just been waiting, watching.

Either way, the door across the hall cracks open within seconds—just enough for a pair of sharp eyes to study me from the shadows.

"How’s she doing?" she demands without preamble.

I take a second to really look at her—lips pressed into a thin line, shoulders squared like she’s bracing for a fight. The dim hallway light casts deep shadows across her face, making her look older, wearier.

"How do you know she’s with us?" I ask.

Her lips curl slightly, but there’s no amusement in it. Just something knowing. Unshakable. Like she’s had this conversation before, just with different people in different places.

"Let’s just say I know the signs," she finally mutters. "I wasn’t born yesterday, boy."

The door doesn’t open any wider, but she doesn’t shut it either. It hangs there, a silent challenge, waiting to see what I do next.

I chuckle, trying to play it off. "You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about."

She doesn’t flinch. "I know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve got that look. The one you wear when you think no one notices. But I’ve seen it before, believe me. You can’t fool me."

She steps back, crossing her arms, waiting for me to say something more. But I know she’s already got me pegged.

"She’s alright. Judge too. Safe." I give her a quick look.

"Good," she huffs, narrowing her eyes like she’s daring me to say otherwise.

The words hang heavy, but then she sticks her hand out like she’s been waiting for the right moment. “I’m Georgia, by the way.”

There’s a lot of edge in her tone, and I can feel the weight of her words, but it’s not the threat I’m worried about. It’s the way she’s looking at me, like she knows more than she should. More than I want her to know.

I take her hand with a slow shake. “Arrow.”

“Tell her I miss her and hope she comes home soon.”

I smirk, trying to brush it off, but I can feel the tension creeping up my spine. "How about I do you one better? Come see them yourself."

Back at the clubhouse, Brydgett’s shock is evident the second she sees Georgia trailing behind me. Her expression tightens, and her hands fly straight to her hips, like she’s bracing herself for some kind of storm. The words spill out of her mouth before she can think better of it.

“How the hell did you know about her?” Brydgett’s eyes flicker with that sharp, protective edge I know so well. She’s already ready to go to war if she has to. It’s almost funny to see her this worked up when she knows I’ve got her back.

I take my sweet time setting Judge’s bags down by the door, letting her stew in the tension for a moment. “Went by your apartment. She demanded an update. Figured I’d give her more than that.”

Georgia beams like she’s won a prize, already pulling Brydgett into a tight hug before she can protest. I watch as Brydgett flinches, her entire body tensing at the unexpected contact. There’s a visible wince on her face like she’s bracing for pain.

Georgia, ever the perceptive one, quickly releases her, stepping back just enough to give Brydgett space. But before Brydgett can gather herself, Georgia grabs at her shirt, pulling it up without warning to reveal the healing wound still wrapped in bandages.

“What the hell happened?” Georgia demands.

Brydgett flinches again but doesn’t pull away. “I got shot,” she mutters.

Georgia whirls around to me, eyes wide and full of accusation.

I immediately throw my hands up in surrender, the image of Georgia’s fury almost comical. “Not us. We saved her and brought her here,” I reply, trying to calm the storm brewing in her gaze.

Georgia doesn’t even seem to hear me, her attention snapping back to Brydgett, who’s standing a little too still, her posture a little too stiff. “Girl…” Georgia starts, but her voice softens when she sees Brydgett’s quiet determination to downplay it.

“I’m fine,” Brydgett says quickly. “Ike fixed me up. It’ll heal.”

Georgia watches her for a moment, her brow furrowed, before she nods slowly, seeming to accept Brydgett’s reassurance, even if she’s not entirely convinced. “Alright,” she mutters, though it’s clear the concern still lingers in her eyes. “But you’re gonna need to rest and take it easy.”