Page 44 of All In

It’s a mess my brain has been working on since she and Tanner drove away.

Sighing heavily, I begin to unclip my holsters and pile my weapons on the table.

A hot shower is calling my name.

Chapter Twelve

Ranger

I’ve killed enough people that I’ve had to resign myself to the fact I’m a liability for anyone to get close to. Not that I crave human contact often. It’s a rare and inconvenient occurrence when it rears its ugly head, but those moments pass quickly.

Which is good because I’ve got more enemies than I can count.

Until now, I’ve successfully ensured I’m able to get them before they get me, but it’s a statistical probability that, at some point, my luck will run out.

Or my skills will fail me, and anyone close to me could pay the price.

That’s not a risk I can take, which means I’m on the countdown to feral.

It’s fine.

All of our time clocks are ticking away toward death from the moment we take our first breath.

Betas and omegas might be waiting for death, but alphas have the additional challenge of racing the clock toward the day our system decides to go off the deep end.

Alphas who don’t have contact with an omega regularly are at a much higher risk of going feral. They lean into the hyper-aggressive stereotype that defines our designation. They’re more prone to violent outbursts and eventually lose all rational sense.

Bonding an omega would prevent that outcome, but it would put said omega directly in the line of sight for all the enemies I’ve amassed over the years.

As such, I’m in a stalemate with my own mind. If I were to go feral—thus, allowing my particular skill set to go rogue—the risk to humanity would be too high.

It’s a conundrum I’ve pondered at great length over the years, but at the first signs of mental decay, I would do the honorable thing and put myself down.

Squashing the life from the eyes of those who deserve it comes easy, but I won’t be a risk to those who are innocent.

I toss my towel over the shower curtain rod and tug on a pair of thin sweatpants. The material is closer to a cotton blend than the heavy material a winter pair of sweats would be made out of, but I tend to run hot.

No one wants to sweat while they’re attempting to rest.

Clicking off the bathroom light, I quietly aim for the bed I’ve slept in the last few nights.

Laken still rests tangled up with Tanner, and I haven’t a single clue why it annoys me so much. She seemed unafraid of me the last time I saw her, but rather than sleeping in my bed, surrounded by my scent, she’s wrapped up with the idiot.

Sparrow was obviously correct in her assumptions of Laken’s instincts being off.

I have off-the-charts eidetic memory recall abilities.

My brain seems especially fascinated with the way she clung to my chest while looking to me for protection.

If we weren’t essentially done with the slaughter when Maverick and Gunner finally located her, I would have asked her to walk me through finding each individual who touched her, spoke to her crassly, or even gazed at her wrong.

She looked at me like I was her savior…after seeing me brutally execute three men.

No one looks at me like I’m a hero.

It means something.

I just don’t know what.

---