Page 50 of Shaken Knot Stirred

Gravity would win.

The bottle tipped over the edge. Between one heartbeat and the next, alpha speed had me catching the vial a foot from the floor.

My thundering heart was muted slightly by being so close to Moxie. Her aura alone could bring me down. Willing my fingers not to shake, I placed the bottle back where it belonged. I wanted to step back, keep holding up the wall, but every protective nerve in my body wouldn’t let me move. Gritting my teeth like it hurt, I backed up. That bottle was worth tens of thousands, maybe more, with what Beg had planned for it. If that bottle had smashed and Beg lost this contest of wills, I honestly didn’t know if any of us would make it out of this room alive.

I’d seen death come for Moxie once already. I couldn’t do that again.

I wait behind the dumpster. I won’t be seen here. My eyes are glued to the door. It’s too fucking dark to see my watch. She should’ve been out by now. They’re holed up in the clinic for supposed emergencies—ones her mom dreams up and Moxie has to save the day or the money stops rolling in.

She’d left the signal. I check every day to see if she put fake flowers in the window. That’s our cue. She sneaks out back, and we steal moments together, devouring chocolate like it’s our lifeline. She’s always hungry, always needing more. We passthe time with lock-picking lessons or cards or just lying back and looking at the stars—anything to stay together.

Voices carry from the front. I take a risk, hugging the wall as I circle the building. Peering around the corner, I squint. There’s two people in the car. Is that her mom with the big hair? A strange scent stings my nose. The car starts, doors slam shut. It reverses, idling, waiting. A sharp crack, followed by a deafening crash, then a roar like a lion. Tires screech as the car speeds off with its two passengers.

Smoke stings my eyes as I try the door—it’s locked tight. I rattle it fiercely. It takes me a minute, too fucking long, to pick the lock. My new alpha strength betraying me, breaking the pick in the process. Finally, the pins align, and the lock yields with a click. Black smoke billows out as I crouch low, entering the clinic.

Two bodies lie on the floor, but neither is Moxie, nor her fucking parents. An angry orange blaze blocks one hallway. I fumble my way down the other, checking the treatment rooms. In the last one, she’s sprawled on the ground, motionless, looking dead. Fuck.

She’s warm in my arms. I’m coughing, choking, eyes stinging. I stumble outside, gasping for clean air, shaking her. Moxie! I hack up black sludge. Still, she doesn’t stir. I rub her chest, desperate, as sirens draw nearer. The fire’s heat scorches my cheeks. I don’t want to move her. I press my knuckles into her chest like they do on TV. She groans, swatting my hand away. Tears blur my vision, red and blue lights flickering in the distance. If they catch me here, it won’t be juvie this time. I lay Moxie on her side, pressing a kiss to her lips, then dart into the woods as the fire truck arrives.

“Star?”

The name snapped me back to reality. I shook my head, swallowing back panic, trying to make sense of why I wasn’t trapped by flames.

“Well, you can’t have two narcissist dickhead short kings in one family now, can you?”

Beg launched himself across the room at Moxie. She toppled out of the chair and scrambled back. Beg reached for her throat. Three kidney punches got his attention. He roared, swung at me. I ducked and sidestepped to get him out of range of Moxie. He connected with my jaw. My vision exploded into sparkles.

“Stop!” Moxie pushed between us, her hand out like a brick wall. She pressed her back into me. She was warm as heaven. I held back a whimper of wanting to melt into her.

Beg cocked his arm back and snarled. “We don’t have no rules about not hitting girls in this pack.”

“You want this to be your money-maker, get your little Star project done. How’s that going to look with a broken face?” Moxie read Beg. He had little empathy, but money could stay his hand.

“Get the fuck out of here. Find your own way into Paramour.”

Beg grabbed her by the hair and pushed her out of the door. She hit the wall and gathered herself to storm back in.

Beg slammed the door and leaned against it. I was caught in another room full of death.

At least I could defend myself if I chose to. I rarely made that choice. When I did, when I stood up to Beg in any way, he’d take it out on Lana. He destroyed her art, insisted she wear his lingerie, made her “entertain” people. He lived to put her in compromised situations just to have me watch.

Fear made me cold. Moxie was pushing him to a limit, and I honestly didn’t know what he’d do.

“We need two more fights. And they better be good ones,” he said, snapping instantly back to business.

It gave us both space to come back down. Beg’s scent was so thick it coated my tongue. You were supposed to find comfort in your pack leader’s scent. He wouldn’t even give us that much.

“Get JP to sign,” he snarled

Fight nights, especially during the Dinghy Races, were standout events. We’d be packed, but we’d only make real money if the fight lineup was good.

Fights were not only tradition, they were a necessary evil. Fighting or fucking were the only ways to burn out rut without drugs. I went the drug route once. Never again. The rut visions were way too vivid.

“It doesn’t matter how much Muay Thai JP has been doing, you put a beta in a ring with rutting alphas, he’s going to die.”

“Like I said, the fights have to be good.”

JP Kayla was trash. He hosted this hate-filled beta pride podcast. Rumor had it he had connections to that terrorist group that drove a truck through a crowd a few weeks back. But he was still just a beta. He would die. Especially with the drugs Beg was playing around with.

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