Page 94 of Unhinged
I nod, moving for the door again, heart pounding with a cocktail of guilt, hope, and caffeine.
Where the fuckishe?
GEARS
The iron bar in my hands digs into my palms, slick with sweat. It’s not heavy enough to do damage, just enough to get that burn going. The kind that makes everything else fade out. Makes me focus.
The Bluetooth speaker in the corner is on its last leg—crackling through some half-dead metal playlist Acid queued up last week. It skips, cuts out, comes back in. Annoying as hell, but it’s noise, and noise is better than silence.
I rack the bar and reach for the dumbbells when the door creaks open.
A sigh comes first. Long. Dramatic.
Then little footsteps.
I glance over just in time to see Judge storm into the room and throw himself down on the bench like someone just told him summer break got canceled.
“You alright, little man?” I ask, wiping my hands on a rag.
“No. I’mbored,” he groans. “I wanna go back to school and Mom is being weird about it. I’m gonna have to redo third grade if I don’t go back soon.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I doubt that. She said she was calling today to talk to them. I’m sure they’ll get your work together and we’ll send Keg or Bat to pick it up.”
He kicks his feet, telling me that answer doesn’t satisfy him. “I don’t wanna just do work. I wanna goback.And not sit around all day. No offense, but you guys are kinda boring.”
I smirk. “None taken.”
“Your mom’s just trying to make sure it’s safe,” I tell him, setting the dumbbell down.
“I can protect myself,” he says, like he means it.
I almost laugh—but I hold it in. He’s eight. Could be an omega, for all we know. Or not. But with a mom like Brydgett, labels probably don’t mean shit. She’s raised him to be a little fighter, and it shows.
“She teach you how to defend yourself?”
He shrugs. “No. But I’ve seen fights. I’d be okay.”
“Okay, tough guy. But what if it’s a grown adult? What if someone comes up behind you and tries to snatch you?”
He lifts his head and looks right at me. “You mean likeyou guysdid?”
That hits me in the gut harder than the weights.
“Yeah,” I say. “Like that.”
He looks away. Shoulders tense. “No,” he mumbles.
I pause. Let it sit. Then?—
“Wanna learn?”
His head snaps back up. “Yes.”
“Good. Come on.” I motion toward the mat we keep in the corner for sparring.
The mat’s already worn to hell from me and Arrow throwing each other around like feral dogs, but it works. Judge steps up like he’s about to take on the damn world, shoulders squared like he's not eight with a Minecraft Band-Aid still on his elbow.
“Alright,” I say, crouching down to his level, “first thing you need to learn—how to get out of a rear grab. It’s how most adults’ll come at a kid. Quick. From behind. Arms pinned.”
