Page 118 of Unhinged
Arrow rolls his eyes. “Did you smell her? Her perfume’s strong as hell. And the way she flipped—one second she’s all smiles, next second she’s crushing skulls. Something’s not right.”
“Or maybe,” I say, crossing my arms, “she’s just getting comfortable. Maybe she officially and publicly claimed us.”
“Or,” Arrow cuts in, “maybe her heat’s coming.”
That makes the air shift.
“I noticed my recliner blanket’s missing today,” he adds.
“She came into my room earlier,” Acid says. “Acting weird. Real… soft. Real twitchy.”
My gut twists.
“How much you wanna bet you’re both missing something?” Arrow asks. “And it’s all inherroom. She’s nesting.”
Fuck.
“She can’t ride out her heat in the clubhouse,” I snap.
“She doesn’t have to,” Arrow says. “We’ve got the shed out back. We always said we’d fix it up for our omega. Now’s the time.”
“Bat can do it.” I pull out my phone and dial.
He answers on the first ring. “Prez?”
“You and Centaur. Shed out back. I want it clean. And I don’t mean broom-swept—I mean if I can’t lick the fucking floors or windows, it’s still dirty. You feel me?”
“Yes, prez.” He hangs up before I can say more.
“Done,” I say to the guys. “Tomorrow, we order her some shit. Move it all out there.”
“She’s gonna be pissed we didn’t tell her,” Arrow says, but he’s smiling.
“We’ll add it to the list,” Acid mutters, blowing out a breath, suddenly avoiding eye contact.
Arrow clocks it immediately. “What’d you do?”
Acid rubs the back of his neck. “You’ll see.”
I narrow my eyes. “Acid.”
“I’ll tell her later,” he says quickly. “After she’s had a few more cocktails. Might lessen the rage.”
Arrow groans. “What did you do?”
Acid smirks, looking every bit like a man already planning his own funeral. “Let’s just say... I made an executive decision. And she’s gonnahateit.”
CHAPTER FORTY
ACID
The whole damn clubhouse feels like it’s holding its breath. All eyes locked on that dartboard, on the three standing in front of it. Brydgett, Suave, and Nitro.
Last round. Last dart.
Nitro's sitting at twenty-eight. Suave's clinging to forty-one. Gidge? Our girl is sitting pretty at sixty. She just needs to hit the triple twenty—that tiny red bastard in the middle ring—to wipe the floor with these fools.
I lean back against the bar, arms folded, heart beating like a damn war drum in my ears. She's all laser focus, tongue peeking out between her teeth like she doesn't even notice the whole damn club watching. She throws. Smooth as sin. The dart sails through the air and—thunk—buries dead center in that triple twenty.
