Page 33 of Unhinged

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

brYDGETT

The crisp air buzzes with laughter and the lingering scent of trampoline park popcorn.

Judge's small hand is warm in mine as we walk down the sidewalk, his giggles still tumbling out from our day of flips and jumps.

I squeeze his fingers, savoring this perfect moment, when the low growl of an engine catches my ear.

A black SUV screeches to a stop beside us, the tires biting into the pavement. My stomach drops. The doors fly open.

"Mom?" Judge's voice is small, confused.

Masked men spill out, their movements sharp and purposeful. My body reacts before my mind can catch up. I push Judge behind me, instinct locking me into place.

"Run, baby," I manage, but the words barely slip past my lips before one of them lunges.

I swing, my fist colliding with a chest, but he hardly flinches. Another grabs my arm. I twist, kicking wildly, my pulse hammering.

"Let go!" My voice is hoarse, edged with panic. Judge cries out, but I can't see him.

I claw at the masked man's face, nails scraping against the fabric. The stench of sweat and stale breath fills my nose. My feet slip against the sidewalk, my frantic breaths tearing through my chest.

"Judge!" I scream, twisting free for a split second. I glimpse him—his wide eyes, his trembling hands.

Then another set of arms grabs him.

"No!" The word rips from me. I surge forward, twisting out of their grip, but a body slams into mine, sending me sprawling.

The pavement bites into my hands and knees.

I scramble, nails scraping the ground, but they're faster.

One of the brutes pins me down. My heart pounds so violently I can taste my fear.

Judge kicks and thrashes, his voice a frantic wail that shatters something inside me. The masked man hauls him toward the SUV. I fight, screaming his name, but my voice is swallowed by the chaos around me.

But it doesn't end there.

The passenger door swings open, and another man steps out.

Unlike the others, his mask only covers the upper half of his face.

A second later, the scent hits me—sharp, acrid, unmistakable.

Earl. His cruel smirk is a contrast to the fabric of the mask.

He strides toward me, and I try to crawl back, but the henchmen’s grip holds me firm.

"Thanks for the gift, omega," he sneers.

The words drip with malice, each syllable a dagger to my chest.

I shake my head, tears blurring my vision. "No..."

He crouches, his face so close I can feel his rancid breath. Then his boot drives into my ribs. Pain explodes through me, sharp and unforgiving. I gasp, curling tighter against the cold ground.

Darkness swallows me whole.

I jerk awake with a scream, drenched in sweat. My chest heaves as my hands claw at the sheets, the phantom ache of Earl's kick lingering in my side. The room is dark, shadows twisting along the walls. I gasp for air, my throat raw.

Judge.

My trembling hands fly to my face, hot tears streaming down my cheeks. The nightmare clings to me; every image seared into my mind. My baby. Taken.

I reach out blindly in the dimness, fingers grasping for something solid and real to convince myself I’m awake.

My body feels detached, weightless, like it’s suspended between layers of heat and cold.

The sheets tangled around my legs are slick with sweat, holding me down.

I struggle against them, against the tight panic coiling around my breath.

"No," I gasp, the word fractured, disbelieving. "No, no." My voice sounds distant, as if it belongs to someone else. I clamp my hands over my ears, but the echoes still hiss at me—Judge’s cries, my own helpless screams. And underneath it all, a sound that doesn’t belong. Metal on metal. The screech of impact. My breath catches. The dream is bleeding into memories of the crash, tangling them together until I can’t tell what’s real.

The edges of the room flicker in and out, threatening to dissolve.

My skin prickles with terror, muscles taut with the expectation of another onslaught.

Everything seems both too close and too far, too loud and too quiet.

I’m caught in between, uncertain whether I’m still dreaming, unsure whether I’ll ever wake.

The mattress dips beneath a sudden weight, and the scent of plums and apples wrap around me.

Arrow. Warm, steady hands find me in the dark, pulling me close.

I collapse into the solid warmth of his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing grounding me.

His words rumble against my ear, low and certain.

"Judge is safe," he purrs. "You’re both safe, Brydgett. "

His words filter through the haze, but the panic still clings.

I jerk in his hold, my hands pushing weakly against his chest. "No," I whisper, trembling. I can’t make sense of what’s real.

The dream lingers like smoke, curling around my mind.

Arrow doesn’t let go. His grip tightens, anchoring me to the here and now.

"You’re at the clubhouse. Judge is with my mom and sister. "

The sound of his voice is a lifeline. My ragged breathing slows, though the tremors beneath my skin remain. Arrow’s hand moves to the back of my head, fingers threading through my damp hair. "It’s okay," he repeats, the words a steady beat against the storm inside me.

I don’t know how long I stay like that, folded into him. My cheek presses against his chest, the warmth of him chasing away the lingering cold.

“He’s fine, Gidge. I promise." The nickname pulls at something deep in my chest, loosening the last of the nightmare’s grip. My eyes flutter open, the dimness sharpening into focus. A bed. A single chair. An empty dresser. Not the street with masked men. It was just a dream.

"I—" My voice breaks. The words scatter. My throat aches from the force of my screams, real or imagined. I don’t know which. Arrow shifts just enough to brush his lips against my forehead.

"You’re safe," he says again. "I’ve got you."

I shiver with the remnants of panic as I let myself touch his shoulder, half expecting the world to collapse around me as I do. When it doesn’t, I sink against him, eyes closed. I need him more than I’m willing to admit.

I press closer, barely allowing myself the solace of his touch.

His apple scent fills my lungs, soothing my nerves.

My breath, still ragged, comes slower as his hands trace my back and shoulders.

They find their way to the pulse of tension at the base of my neck, easing it with quiet deliberation.

I curl into him, the worst of the panic ebbing away, letting him hold me.

My fingers clutch his shirt with the same desperation that I gripped the sheets only moments ago.

My hand creeps from his shoulder to his neck, a slow path as if each inch is uncertain— too much and not enough all at once.

I feel the hum of his muscles against my fingertips, feel the easy way he breathes even as I grow less steady, more urgent.

A whine escapes my lips, a sound of longing I barely recognize, a sound Arrow doesn’t seem to mind as he responds with his own ragged purr.

His fingers twine through my hair, gliding across my jawline. I let myself arch against him, let myself want it. The panic is still there, a nervous tremor under the surface, but the warmth of his body holds it in check.

His scent wraps around me—apple and plum, soft and ripe, grounded by that steady trace of sandalwood. It’s warm, familiar, too comforting for my own good.

I open my eyes, meeting his for the first time since I woke him with my nightmare. It’s all there, everything I don’t want to need, everything I try to convince myself I don’t feel. Arrow gives a half-smile, barely more than a breath.

His hands trace down my sides, skimming over my ribs, pulling a deep shiver from my skin.

I dig my fingers into his back, the last remnants of my reluctance and disbelief melting away as his mouth finds mine.

His lips brush mine softly at first, then deepen with intent, the taste of him lingering like a promise.

My perfume fills the room, strong and needy,and Arrow groans.

Shit! I haven’t even thought about my blockers since I’ve been here.

I had them at Ike’s, but I doubt they gave them to me when I was unconscious.

I haven’t taken them since I was injured.

Fuck! The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, but even as it does, I can’t find it in me to care.

Not with Arrow’s touch pushing me deeper into ecstasy.

I want this. I want him. His taste, like apples and plums, a sweetness I could get lost in, only amplifies the need, the connection that’s been absent for so long.

It’s been years since I’ve felt this way, and aside from that night, the one that gave me Judge, I’ve never been with a man.

I don't stop him the way I thought I would. The way I should. I’ve pushed him away before, found reasons to keep the distance between us.

Not this time. The past few days have torn down all the space between us, and I’m not ready—not willing—to build it back.

His scent, rich and commanding, lingers in the air, tangling with mine.

Arrow’s touch is firm, steady, as he shifts me on the bed.

He pulls at the hem of my t-shirt, peeling it over my head, tossing it aside.

His gaze is dark, focused on me as he slips my sleep pants down my legs, leaving only my panties.

There’s a hesitation, a beat where I feel exposed, but I lift my hips to help him slide them off, leaving me bare before him.

I let him. The world narrows down to this.

To now. To him. The bond hums faintly beneath my skin.

My omega stirs, restless and yearning, answering the pull of his alpha.