Page 136 of Unhinged
I brought Marcus and Franko right into the clubhouse like a goddamn ticking bomb.
Marcus, whatever.
But Franko? Aknownenemy.
I'm a fucking wildcard.
Too broken. Too much. Way too much.
I squeeze my eyes shut. And worst of all… Tonight... Itouchedtwo strange alphas. Right in front of them. Didn't even think. Didn't even stop myself.
Fucking idiot.
Tears sting the back of my eyes, but I bite them down. I won't cry. Crying won't get me out of here. But still the ugly thoughts worm in.
Too damaged. Too much baggage. No alpha wants a broken omega who can't keep her damn hands to herself.
Maybe they'll decide I ain't worth it after all.
Maybe they'd leave me here.
Maybe they'd think it was easier.
My throat tightens so bad I can't breathe for a second.
God. Please. I don't care what happens to me. Just keep my boy safe. Please keep Judge safe. Please.
If they leave me, fine. If they never want me again, fine. I can rot here for all I care. But if they don't save my son?—
If Earl eventhinksabout touching him?—
I yank hard against the chains, ignoring the way the metal bites into my wrists. The rafter creaks but doesn’t budge. I kick out with my feet, trying to find leverage, but I barely even tap the ground. I snarl low in my throat.
My instincts flare up sharp and furious inside me.
I'm supposed to be protected. I'm supposed to be treasured. That's what they said.
That's what my alphas promised me. But right now, all I feel is alone.
A noise jerks me out of my head. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Getting closer.
I freeze. My body stiffens, every muscle locking up tight. A shadow moves between the broken crates. He steps into the light. And smiles.
Earl.
His hair is still too perfect in that fake, greasy way, combed over like he's trying to hold on to some stupid idea of being young. That smile; it used to look friendly once. Now it's cracked. Wrong.
His eyes are the worst part. Still beady. Still glittering under heavy lids. A sick, hungry gleam there, like he’s already imagining all the ways he can rip me apart again.
He's wearing a faded red polo shirt that clings weird to his body. His jeans are old, worn at the knees, dirt caked into thecuffs. But it’s not the clothes or the years that make my stomach twist. It’s the way he stands there like he’s already won.
Like I’m still that scared little girl.
Like he still owns me.
He steps closer. The stink of cheap aftershave hits me first—an overpowering attempt to mask the greasy mix of grass and old cooking oil that still clings to him.
It doesn’t work.
