Page 57 of Unhinged

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

brYDGETT

My head fucking pounds. I groan, trying to blink the blurry edges of the world into focus. It's not dark like before. Not like when the guys took me that first time. This is different.

Dim yellow light buzzes somewhere above me from a single flickering bulb.

I tilt my head back and look around, everything moving slow and sticky like syrup.

I'm in some abandoned warehouse or factory.

I can tell by the way the crates are spilled across the floor, machines left to rot.

Rust everywhere. Dust so thick it coats everything like snow. The place smells like metal and mildew.

Where am I?

How long have I been here? How long have I been gone?

Panic scratches under my skin. My arms ache. I try to move, and that's when I realize…I’m chained. My arms pulled up above my head, wrists cuffed tight and raw to a rafter beam. My toes barely skim the ground.

The sockets of my shoulders scream, a deep, grinding pain from hanging limp for who knows how long. My arms are on fire. Every little shift feels like something might tear.

I still got my leather pants and shirt on. No shoes, though. My coat's missing too. Probably ripped off when they dragged me in here. Good. At least I'm not naked. At least they haven't?—

I shove the thought out of my head. My heart kicks against my ribs, wild and hard.

I hope they noticed I'm gone.

I swallow hard.

I hope they come looking.

But doubt creeps in. Heavy. Ugly. Mean.

Arrow. Acid. Gears. They said they wanted me. Claimed me. Took me in. But I've been nothing but a headache since the second they found me. An extra mess on top of the shit they already had to deal with. And then tonight...

God.

I brought Marcus and Franko right into the clubhouse like a goddamn ticking bomb.

Marcus, whatever.

But Franko? A known enemy .

I'm a fucking wildcard.

Too broken. Too much. Way too much.

I squeeze my eyes shut. And worst of all… Tonight... I touched two strange alphas. Right in front of them. Didn't even think. Didn't even stop myself.

Fucking idiot.

Tears sting the back of my eyes, but I bite them down. I won't cry. Crying won't get me out of here. But still the ugly thoughts worm in.

Too damaged. Too much baggage. No alpha wants a broken omega who can't keep her damn hands to herself.

Maybe they'll decide I ain't worth it after all.

Maybe they'd leave me here.

Maybe they'd think it was easier.

My throat tightens so bad I can't breathe for a second.

God. Please. I don't care what happens to me. Just keep my boy safe. Please keep Judge safe. Please.

If they leave me, fine. If they never want me again, fine. I can rot here for all I care. But if they don't save my son?—

If Earl even thinks about touching him?—

I yank hard against the chains, ignoring the way the metal bites into my wrists. The rafter creaks but doesn’t budge. I kick out with my feet, trying to find leverage, but I barely even tap the ground. I snarl low in my throat.

My instincts flare up sharp and furious inside me.

I'm supposed to be protected. I'm supposed to be treasured. That's what they said.

That's what my alphas promised me. But right now, all I feel is alone.

A noise jerks me out of my head. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Getting closer.

I freeze. My body stiffens, every muscle locking up tight. A shadow moves between the broken crates. He steps into the light. And smiles.

Earl.

His hair is still too perfect in that fake, greasy way, combed over like he's trying to hold on to some stupid idea of being young. That smile; it used to look friendly once. Now it's cracked. Wrong.

His eyes are the worst part. Still beady. Still glittering under heavy lids. A sick, hungry gleam there, like he’s already imagining all the ways he can rip me apart again.

He's wearing a faded red polo shirt that clings weird to his body. His jeans are old, worn at the knees, dirt caked into the cuffs. But it’s not the clothes or the years that make my stomach twist. It’s the way he stands there like he’s already won.

Like I’m still that scared little girl.

Like he still owns me.

He steps closer. The stink of cheap aftershave hits me first—an overpowering attempt to mask the greasy mix of grass and old cooking oil that still clings to him.

It doesn’t work.

“Well, isn’t this a sight,” Earl says, chuckling low in his throat. “My little girl. All grown up. All chained up.”

I don't answer. I just glare at him, teeth grinding so hard my jaw hurts.

"You always were a handful," he says, walking slow circles around me, like he’s admiring his prize. "Always thinking you were better than me. Better than the home we gave you."

I spit at his feet. It barely misses his boot.

For a second, he just stares at me. Then his hand flies.

Crack.

The slap snaps my head sideways so hard I see stars. Pain blooms sharp across my cheek. I bite down on the cry trying to rip out of my throat. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

"You got a mouth on you, still," he says, sounding almost amused. "Tina said we shoulda broke you younger. Shoulda started when you were fresh." He smiles, all teeth, no soul.

"Guess I’ll just have to finish the job now."

I thrash against the chains, my shoulders screaming, but it’s no use.

"You know," he says, stepping closer, voice dropping like he’s telling me some secret, "if you would have just behaved back then, none of this would have been necessary. We could have been a happy family."

Crack.

Another slap. Harder this time. My lip splits, hot blood filling my mouth. I don't look away. I stare him down with all the hate I got left in me. I want him to know I remember everything. Every touch. Every lie. Every goddamn minute he stole from me.

"Still so full of fire," he muses, shaking his head like I'm some naughty puppy. "You’ll burn yourself out eventually. And then you’ll thank me for bringing you home.”

Home. The word curdles in my gut.

He steps back finally, wiping his hands on his jeans like touching me dirtied him.

"I’ll leave you to think about your behavior," he says, walking toward the door. "We’ll have a little... talk later. After you cool off."

The door creaks and bangs shut behind him. The lock clicks. I sag against the chains, gasping for breath, my head pounding worse than before. My cheek throbs. My lip stings.

I don't know how long I hang there before I hear it. Another set of footsteps. Lighter. Quicker. I lift my head. The door opens again. And she steps through.

Tina.

Long blonde hair hanging straight and shiny down her back.

Wearing a tight, green satin dress that hugs every curve like she’s going to a goddamn cocktail party instead of sneaking into a torture chamber.

She’s older, her face lined with age, but she’s still pretty in that fake way women buy at the salon.

Her lips are painted pink and stretched into a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

She carries a little metal bowl and a rag.

I snarl. My whole body tries to twist away, even though the chains bite deeper into my wrists.

"Easy now, baby," she croons like she’s talking to a stray dog. "Let’s get you cleaned up. You don't want Earl to see you like this, do you?"

"Stay the fuck away from me," I growl, yanking hard enough that the rafter groans overhead.

She clucks her tongue. "Still wild. Still ungrateful."

She dips the rag into the bowl and steps closer. I kick at her, thrash like a feral thing, but it’s useless. I can't reach her. All I do is make the chains rattle and rub my skin even more raw.

Tina—always calm, always in control, a goddamn Beta—grabs my chin in one sharp hand. Her nails dig in. I try to jerk away, but she holds me tight, forces the wet rag to my mouth, wiping the blood off like she’s doing me some kind of favor.

"There now," she whispers. "No use fightin', sweet girl. No use at all."

I flinch, the sting of the cloth against the raw wound sending a jolt of pain through me. I probably reek of fear. I can smell it, sharp and sour, worse than the blood. Omegas aren’t supposed to smell like this. Not supposed to smell like prey.

"Why?" I manage to whisper.

Tina pauses, her eyes narrowing as she considers me. A slow, almost pitying smile spreads across her face. "I can't give him what he needs... what he wants," she says softly. "So we picked you."

My stomach twists up so bad I think I’m gonna puke. Picked me. Like picking out a new car. Or a pet.

“You'd think you'd have been more grateful for the life we gave you.”

Grateful. Grateful for this. Grateful for all the shit they did to me.

Good omegas are supposed to be grateful. Good omegas are supposed to stay quiet and sweet and thankful for the attention. But I’m not good. I never was.

"You're sick," I spit, the words barely audible.

Tina leans in real close, and her hair brushes my cheek and her breath is all sweet and gross in my face.

"Maybe if you’d been better," she whispers like it's some big secret, "he wouldn’t have had to be so rough."

That’s when I strike.

I hook my legs around her waist, yank her in with everything I’ve got. She gasps, stumbles forward—and I go for her. Sink my teeth into her scalp, but all I get is a mouthful of hair.

She screeches, thrashing, tearing away from me. I let her go. Gladly. Because I’ve already tucked the prize into my cheek. She staggers back, wide-eyed and panting, one hand clutching her head.

“You’ll pay for that,” she snaps, voice shaking.

Then she drops the rag in the bowl, like she’s done, and just walks out. The door slams shut behind her. The lock clicks. And I’m still here. Bleeding. Chained up like an animal.

No alphas. No pack. No one to scent-mark me safe. Nothing but the smell of blood, fear, and rot thick in my nose.

Nothing but the sound of my own heart pounding way too loud in my ears.

I hang from the chains, my body aching, my mind racing. I think of Acid's fierce protectiveness, Arrow's steady presence, Gears' unwavering support. I cling to the hope that they're out there, searching for me. I have to believe they are.

The silence of the warehouse is deafening, but I refuse to let it break me. I won't give them the satisfaction. I am not theirs. I am not broken.

I have to think of something else.

Acid’s voice in my ear, low and pissed, but never at me. That stupid lighter he clicks open and shut when he’s gonna smoke. The way he watches me like he can see right through all the bullshit I hide behind.

Arrow’s hands. Big. Strong. The way they hold me, touch me like I’m something he’s scared he might break if he’s not careful. I can almost feel his scent too, crisp the way it usually wraps around me and makes everything safe.

Gears laughing under his breath when he thinks nobody’s watching. Calling me trouble, but the good kind. Making me feel like I belong somewhere for once. Making me feel wanted. Needed. Like a real omega should be.

I shift just slightly, tongue pressing the prize against my molars. I don’t spit it out. Not yet.

I need to be smart.

Tina definitely ran to tell Earl what I did. And he’ll come storming in here, puffed up and pissed off, like he always does. I need to be ready. I need to make sure he’s not coming right back in here before I use what I took.

This has to count.