Page 45 of Unhinged

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

brYDGETT

I didn’t stab him.

But gods, I wanted to.

I heard Judge grunt—he sounded scared. Or maybe not.

Maybe it was just the breath in his throat.

Maybe it was just my over-fucked nervous system firing off again because I thought I saw something.

That’s all it takes with me. A sound. A flash.

A wrong angle. And suddenly I’m pulling my blade and ready to slide it into someone I trust.

Gears.

Fuck.

I'm a loose fucking cannon.

I can't have alphas. I can’t have a pack. One wrong move, one flicker of panic, and I'm there. Murder in my veins. Knife in my hand. And no questions asked.

“But did you?” a gravelly voice says from behind me, and I jump so hard I nearly throw the blade still clipped inside my waistband.

I spin and blink, realizing I don’t even know where I am.

Basement.

Of course, it’s the fucking basement.

Why did I autopilot down here? The place where all this shit started. Where I was chained up like a rabid dog, and still somehow let go.

Stupid fucking Brydgett.

Acid’s leaning against the far wall, smoke curling from the cigarette tucked between two of his fingers. Casual. Calm. The same way he always looks. He flicks his lighter open and shut, the soft metallic click repeating like background noise.

“Those’ll kill you, y’know?” I say, gesturing to the cigarette.

He takes a slow drag, exhales like he owns the air. “So could you. But I’m still here.”

Slick. Immediately.

I roll my eyes. “Ha ha.”

“So tell me,” he says, a little too amused, “did you stab Gears? Did he like it?”

“It’s not funny,” I snap. “And how do you even know I?—”

“You were talking out loud, babe.”

Shit.

“Well, I didn’t,” I mutter. “I held the knife to his side… but I let him go.”

Now I just look like an unhinged psychopath.

“Did he deserve it?”

I pause.

“Yes… no… fuck—I don’t know. He was teaching Judge some self-defense moves, and I walked in and just—went on high alert. It was instinct.”

Acid shrugs, like it's nothing. “You’re his mom. You should be ready to go to war for him anytime.”

“What do you know about it?” I snap.

“I know I had shit parents. Super shit mom. Would’ve killed to have her stand up for me—even once.”

I blink. That hits somewhere deep and ugly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” I lie.

“Doesn’t matter. Bettie’s my mom. Always has been.”

He flicks ash onto the floor. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Gears’ll be fine.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t feel fine. I feel like a fucking idiot.”

“Maybe I can help.”

I snort. “You?”

He nods once. “You are, after all, in my domain.” He motions around to the basement like it’s his twisted throne room.

“How?”

He pushes off the wall, walks over, and drops into a chair. That chair. The one they had me tied to.

“There’s rope, handcuffs, whatever you want in that cabinet over there,” he says, jerking his chin toward it. “Pick your poison. Tie me to the chair.”

My brow furrows. “What the fuck?”

“You’re pissed off. Upset. Ready to kill something. You need to work it out. You and me, we’re the same. Now, go grab something and tie me up.” He flicks his cigarette off to the side somewhere.

I hesitate. He’s the one who hit me down here. The one who tested me, tried to break me, but I proved I wasn’t weak. And I forgave him. Sorta. Even if he doesn’t know it.

And the worst part? The idea doesn’t sound bad.

I walk over to the cabinet. Grab a set of cuffs and a coil of rope. My hands shake, just a little. From what? I’m not even sure.

I come back and kneel. Wrap the rope tight around his ankles, binding them to the legs of the chair. Loop it. Knot it good and hard. The chair doesn’t have armrests, so I pull his arms behind his back and cuff his wrists. Just to be safe.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Now what?” I ask.

“Hit me,” he says.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, Acid.”

He lifts his chin. “I hit you. Hit me back. Eye for an eye. Come on, Alpha Slayer. Fucking hit me. Or are you too pussy?”

My blood spikes. I see red— again .

I rear back and slam my fist into his jaw. His head jerks, but he laughs.

“Good girl.”

My perfume floods the air before I can stop it, twisted with frustration, fire, want.

He groans low in his throat, hips shifting. “Again.”

I hit him again, harder. Right across the bridge of his nose. Something cracks, and blood drips from one nostril. My scent kicks up again before I even realize it—too much jasmine, too much heat. Too much me .

He licks his upper lip, collecting it slowly. Fucking enjoying it.

And then I see it.

The bulge in his jeans. Hard. Pressing against the zipper like it’s trying to escape. His scent hits me, that deeper, darker black currant. It’s thick. He’s turned on. Like, really turned on. And it slams into me so fast I don’t even have time to brace for it.

“Like what you see, baby?” He grins, blood on his teeth.

“Fuck you,” I hiss.

“Come over here and you can.” He jerks his wrists in the cuffs. “Take what you want, Brydgett. I’m strapped to this chair. You wanna hate-fuck me? Do it. You wanna feel good? Use me.”

“It’s not right. You’re restrained.”

He rolls his eyes. “I'm giving you fucking consent, woman. Take your fucking clothes off and get off. Fucking is like fighting. Believe me. Now, you hit me, I liked it, but you're still worked up.”

He lowers his voice.

“Shut off that pretty little mind of yours… and come ride my dick like a good little omega.”

ACID

She looks like she might run.

Eyes wild and unsure, hands twitching like she doesn’t know if she wants to touch me or stab me. Honestly, it could go either way. I don’t move. I just wait.

If she bails, fine. I’ll sit here cuffed to this chair like a dumbass until someone finds me. Probably Gears. He’ll never let me live it down. Arrow might pretend to be cool about it, but he’ll be dying inside.

But I don’t think she’s gonna run. She needs this too bad. She's wound so tight it’s a miracle she hasn’t gone off already. That’s why I said it. That’s why I’m here. Not to be a dick. Not to fuck around.

She needs control.

She needs to take something back.

“So what’s it gonna be, Omega?” I ask, keeping my voice low. My scent’s already thick in the air—lemon, black currant, bergamot. I can feel the wet spot in my boxers. It’s sticky and cold now. Kinda uncomfortable. But worth it.

She hesitates.

“While you’re restrained in the chair?” she asks.

“Yup.”

“You don’t wanna touch me?”

I laugh once, short. “I want to touch you so fucking bad.

But you need this more than I do. You nearly sliced Gears open—but you held back—like a good little slayer.

That energy's still sitting inside you like a bomb. You need to let it out. You need to be the one in charge. So come on, Gidge. Get naked.”

She shivers at the nickname. Her scent shifts and every inhale tastes like fresh-squeezed OJ. Gods. I could live off it.

“I like when Arrow calls me that,” she says, quietly. “I like it even more when the Enforcer of the Renegade says it.”

Fuck. I bite back a groan.

“Trust me, omega.”

“I don’t?—”

“You don’t need to,” I say fast. “You don’t need to think. Just do what feels right. Your instincts are already screaming at you. Let ‘em talk.”

She moves.

She pulls her shirt over her head and throws it. It lands on the floor and she doesn’t even look at it. Her bra’s black satin and tight across her chest and my mouth goes dry. I shift in the chair, but with my wrists cuffed behind me, it just pulls at my shoulders, all tight and aching now.

She unbuttons her jeans next, slides them down, slow. Black thong. White ankle socks. Fuck me sideways, I almost come from that alone.

She steps between my knees and stands there like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. Maybe she does.

“You like what you see?” she asks, all breathy and dangerous.

“My dick’s already leaking, and you haven’t even touched me,” I mutter. “That’s what you do to me, omega.”

She straddles my lap. Doesn’t sit, yet. Just close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off her.

The scent of her slick curls into the air—bright orange and soft jasmine, sweet and heady and completely fucking wrecking me.

I want to lick it right off her thighs, but I can’t move.

Can’t touch. Just have to sit here and take it.

Then she takes her bra off, and my head falls back against the chair. She’s perfect. All curves and skin and power.

“Fuck, Brydgett,” I breathe. “You could kill me right now, and I’d thank you for it.”

She lowers herself slowly until her pussy is pressed right against the bulge in my jeans. Her heat. Her scent. Her weight.

It’s too much.

My hips jerk without thinking. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back off.

“I’m not gonna kill you,” she says, voice low.

“No?” I rasp, licking my lips. “Then what are you gonna do, little Omega?”

She just grinds on me.

Slow. Intentional.

And I swear to God?—

If she does that again, I’m gonna come in my fucking jeans like some desperate teenage alpha.

She rolls her hips again, and I swear I forget how to breathe. Her slick soaks through my jeans. Every move she makes drags against my cock like she knows I’m seconds from losing it.

She leans forward and I realize—fuck, she’s at the perfect height. Her tits are right in my face. Full. Bouncing with every shift of her hips. I don’t even think. I lean in and catch a nipple in my mouth, sucking it deep and rough. Her skin tastes like heat and sweat and something sweet—like her.

She gasps, loud. Her body twitches. I wrap my tongue around her and drag it slow before I bite, just enough to make her whine.

But it turns into a moan.

“More,” she breathes, barely there.

Yeah. Fuck yeah.

I shift just enough in the chair to turn my head, dragging my mouth across her chest. I take the other breast, biting at the soft swell first, kissing and mouthing every inch I can get at. I leave marks—I want them there. I want her to see them after. Want her to remember.

She’s panting now. Still grinding. Still dripping.