Page 116 of Unhinged
This ismyclubhouse.Mylittle brother.Myomega.Myclub’s whore.
But I don’t lift a damn finger.
Something about seeing Brydgett come unhinged overus… overhim… has me frozen. Fascinated. Turned on in a way I don’t even want to unpack right now.
She closes the distance fast. Her boots slam against the floor. Her body is all tense fury and zero hesitation.
Arrow doesn’t even flinch—he knows better.
Stacy turns just a little too late.
Brydgett grabs a fistful of that dyed blonde hair andyanks.
Hard.
Stacy screams, a high-pitched squawk like a bird getting skinned alive, and stumbles back, heels sliding on the concrete floor.
“Get your fucking hands off my alpha,” Brydgett spits, dragging the other woman away from Arrow like she weighsnothing. “You think batting your fake-ass lashes and shaking those sorry tits makes you something?”
Stacy tries to shove her. Tries to swing.
Brydgettlaughs.
That’s when I know she’s gone. The switch flipped. The smile she gives is wide and cracked, almost playful—like she’s enjoying this.
Like this is a game she’s been dying to play.
“You wanna touch something, Stacy?” Brydgett sneers. “Touch this.”
And then sheslamsher fist into the girl’s face.
I hear the crunch.
The brothers gasp. No one moves.
Stacy stumbles back, blood already trickling from her nose, but Brydgett doesn’t stop. She’s on her. Fists flying. Elbows. A knee to the ribs. She moves fast—toofast. That’s muscle memory. That’s experience. That's someone who's done this shit before andliked it.
Stacy’s screaming, but no one steps in.
Brydgett grabs her again—hair, shirt, doesn’t matter—and slams her back against the wall so hard a picture frame crashes to the floor beside them.
“You think this is how you get chosen?” she growls, one hand fisting in Stacy’s top while the other draws back again. “You think just ‘cause you’re easy you deserve a man like Arrow?”
“Stop—fuck—please!” Stacy’s sobbing now, hands up, trying to shield her face.
Brydgett doesn’t stop. She lands another punch. Another. Blood spatters her cheek, her lip.
And she smiles again.
Thatsmile.
The one that says she's not sorry. That shelikesthe way her knuckles split. That there's something inside her that only feels alive when she's making someone else bleed.
I take a step forward now, not because I want to stop it, but because if I don’t, I might let her go too far.
“Brydge,” I say low.
She doesn’t look at me.
