Page 92 of Unhinged

“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? Apropervisit. 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.