Page 43 of Unhinged

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

brYDGETT

I hang up the phone and drop it beside me onto the bed like it personally offended me. Coffee’s still warm between my hands, bitter and sweet, but it does jack shit to calm the buzz crawling beneath my skin.

The school was no help. Bunch of clipboard-carrying cowards hiding behind policies that don’t protect shit. I sip, inhale, exhale slowly through my nose. Don’t growl. Don’t throw the mug.

I grab the phone and hit call on Ike.

“Brydge,” he answers on the second ring.

“You heard or seen anything? Earl?”

“No. Been a damn ghost town.” A chair creaks in the background. Probably his favorite ugly-ass kitchen stool he refuses to replace. “Couple guys at the gym asked about Eric, though.”

My spine goes rigid. “What’d you tell them?”

“That he met a girl and ran off to chase her. Which ain’t a total lie.”

My laugh is dry. “He chased something, alright.”

“How are things there?”

“Fine.”

“And your Kismets?”

I roll my eyes so hard I swear I see stars. “Annoying. Protective. Assholes.”

“So everything you need and what you wanted.”

“Not funny, Ike.”

He chuckles, like I’m nineteen again and bitching about my first black eye.

“I don’t know how to be an omega in a pack,” I mutter. “I don’t do frilly and easy and ‘let me cook you dinner and rub your back, Alpha.’ That shit’s not me.”

“Maybe they don’t want that, kid,” he says. “They run an MC, not a goddamn bake sale. Maybe you’re perfect just how you are.”

My eyes drop to the coffee cup, thumb brushing the edge. “They’re… growing on me.”

“Oh?”

“Judge likes them. I got closer with Arrow.”

He hums. “The soft one.”

“He’s not soft,” I snap. “He just… understands more.”

“Defensive of not-your-alphas, huh?”

“Fuck off, Ike.”

His laugh is loud. “Love ya, kid. I want you to come visit when it’s safe, you hear me? A proper visit. Not no running shit.”

“Yes, sir.”

We hang up. I stare at my phone a beat longer before I toss it back on the bed and head to the bathroom. Time to get dressed.

The hall is quiet when I step out, coffee in one hand, boots laced, hair pulled back in a messy knot that says I don’t give a shit. Even though I totally do.

I head toward the kitchen. The second I walk in, my senses sharpen. The space is thick with alpha: Arrow’s grounding plum and sandalwood mix with Acid’s sharp-citrus signature—lemon and bergamot, spiked with that sour black currant edge that always makes the back of my tongue ache.

They’re mid-conversation until they spot me.

“Hey,” I say, not bothering with a smile. “Where’s Judge?”

Arrow tilts his head. “He was just in here. Ate a Toaster Strudel and dipped.”

Acid shrugs. “Didn’t say where he was goin’. Just vanished.”

My brow twitches. “What’s up with that kid thinking he’s a damn ninja lately?”

“Wonder where he gets it,” Acid says under his breath with a smirk.

I roll my eyes and sip. “I called the school.”

Both of them pause, attention zeroing in.

“I just need to talk to him about it,” I finish quietly.

I lean in, press a kiss to Arrow’s cheek. “Thanks again for the coffee.”

He smiles, eyes soft. His scent increases just slightly—sweetened plum warming with the contact. It’s subtle. Easy to miss. But I don’t.

I snatch a warm Toaster Strudel from Acid’s hand. He glares, but it’s fake.

I take a dramatic bite and grin around the flaky crust. “Thanks, Acid.”

He grunts. I pat his cheek, and his scent flickers. The bergamot goes smoky, like charred leaves.

“Catch you two later. Gonna go find my kid.”

He’s probably with Bettie and Dillon. Something about the way Dillon talks to him like he’s older than eight makes him feel big and capable. Not coddled. Just… seen.

Bettie’s place smells like peppermint and yesterday’s toast. I knock once, don’t wait. She’s already at the kitchen table, flipping through one of those glossy magazines with outdated hairstyles and bullshit horoscopes. Coffee steams in front of her. She glances up, no surprise in her eyes.

“Hey, Brydgett. What’s up?”

“Looking for Judge.” I lean against the doorway. “I woke up and he was gone. I called his old school… need to talk to him about it.”

She sets the magazine down. “Everything okay?”

I drop into the chair across from her. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.

” I cross my arms. “He wants to go back to school. But the public school’s useless.

They’ve got this whole 'only approved pickup people' policy, but then added they don’t have enough eyes to watch everyone at dismissal. Yet they refuse to let him wait inside the office for me. I can’t send him back, not like that. ”

She watches me. I keep going.

“I called the private school across town. They’d keep him with a security guard. They have access codes and check-ins. But I need twenty percent down to even get the ball rolling. I don’t have that.” I exhale like I’ve been holding the words in all morning. “So I’m gonna have to go back to work.”

“Take a breath, babe,” Bettie says, lifting her mug. “I thought you were about to pass out.”

I laugh. It sounds fake. “Sorry. I’m just so damn frustrated. I want him in school. He wants to be in school. But I’m not gonna risk his safety for it.”

She leans back in her chair, studying me. “Have you talked to my boys about it?”

I blink. “Why would I?”

She smiles, slow and sly. “Because they’re your mates. Your alphas.”

“Judge is mine!” I practically growl, the words flying out before I can stop them.

I suck in a deep breath, forcing my tone to soften. “Sorry. I’m just… protective.”

“As you should be. But maybe you should put a little more faith in my boys. They’re good men, Brydgett. Rough around the edges, sure. But so are you. They’re not perfect, but they’re perfect for you , if you’d let yourself see it. They’d love that boy like their own.”

I scoff, eyes flicking to the table. “How do you know that?”

“I raised them.”

“That doesn’t mean they’d be okay with someone else’s kid.”

She grabs my hand. “Let me tell you a story.”

I let her.

“Back before they were Gears, Arrow, and Acid… they were Raiden, Orion, and Titus. Raiden and Orion were born in the club. My old man was president, which is how Raiden got it now, and Orion his VP. But Titus? He came at eight years old. His parents were addicts. His dad OD’d and his mom brought him here when she decided being a club whore was easier than rehab. ”

I stare at the table while she talks, tracing the edge of a coffee ring with my thumb. The story shouldn’t matter—it’s not my business, not my life—but it hits something deep and sore in me.

“He hung with my boys. Played, ate, laughed. And when he was fifteen and his mom stole from the club and got kicked out, my old man made sure Titus didn’t leave with her.

We kept him. Raised him. Loved him. That boy became my third son.

No blood, but no one questions it. You see them now, and they’re brothers.

Thick as thieves. If the club burned tomorrow, they’d still ride together. ”

I stare at her. My throat feels full. That kind of loyalty, that kind of staying power… I’ve only had that with Ike. No one else.

“So yeah, honey,” she says softly, “I think I know they’d love that boy like their own.”

“I didn’t know,” I whisper.

“Most don’t.” She lets go of my hand and sips her coffee again like she didn’t just dig under my ribs and plant something there.

I wipe at my eye quickly. “I also didn’t know their legal names.”

She laughs. “Don’t you dare tell them I told you.”

“I won’t. I’ll just… pretend I figured it out. I’m crafty like that.”

“Savvy gal.” She nods with a smirk. “Now, go find your boy.”

I nod, moving for the door again, heart pounding with a cocktail of guilt, hope, and caffeine.

Where the fuck is he?

GEARS

The iron bar in my hands digs into my palms, slick with sweat. It’s not heavy enough to do damage, just enough to get that burn going. The kind that makes everything else fade out. Makes me focus.

The Bluetooth speaker in the corner is on its last leg—crackling through some half-dead metal playlist Acid queued up last week. It skips, cuts out, comes back in. Annoying as hell, but it’s noise, and noise is better than silence.

I rack the bar and reach for the dumbbells when the door creaks open.

A sigh comes first. Long. Dramatic.

Then little footsteps.

I glance over just in time to see Judge storm into the room and throw himself down on the bench like someone just told him summer break got canceled.

“You alright, little man?” I ask, wiping my hands on a rag.

“No. I’m bored, ” he groans. “I wanna go back to school and Mom is being weird about it. I’m gonna have to redo third grade if I don’t go back soon.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I doubt that. She said she was calling today to talk to them. I’m sure they’ll get your work together and we’ll send Keg or Bat to pick it up.”

He kicks his feet, telling me that answer doesn’t satisfy him. “I don’t wanna just do work. I wanna go back. And not sit around all day. No offense, but you guys are kinda boring.”

I smirk. “None taken.”

“Your mom’s just trying to make sure it’s safe,” I tell him, setting the dumbbell down.

“I can protect myself,” he says, like he means it.

I almost laugh—but I hold it in. He’s eight. Could be an omega, for all we know. Or not. But with a mom like Brydgett, labels probably don’t mean shit. She’s raised him to be a little fighter, and it shows.

“She teach you how to defend yourself?”

He shrugs. “No. But I’ve seen fights. I’d be okay.”

“Okay, tough guy. But what if it’s a grown adult? What if someone comes up behind you and tries to snatch you?”

He lifts his head and looks right at me. “You mean like you guys did?”

That hits me in the gut harder than the weights.

“Yeah,” I say. “Like that.”

He looks away. Shoulders tense. “No,” he mumbles.

I pause. Let it sit. Then?—

“Wanna learn?”

His head snaps back up. “Yes.”

“Good. Come on.” I motion toward the mat we keep in the corner for sparring.