Page 25 of Unhinged
Is she right? Is that what we’re dealing with? An omega who’s been pushed so far that she’s capable of murder? The thought sends a chill down my spine. But if she’s telling the truth, if she really has killed ten alphas, then we’re not just dealing with a runaway omega. We’re dealing with a killer. Our killer omega.
“How’s that a fucking lead then?” I spit through gritted teeth. I don’t have the patience to deal with this runaround right now.
“I looked up the plate number for her GTO. It came back to Ike Hale.” Acid smirks.
“Is there an address for this Ike?” I ask finally, breaking the silence. “We need to know where she’s been staying. If we don’t find her there, we’ll at least know more than we do now.”
Acid and Arrow both nod in agreement, standing from their chairs.
“Yeah, some shitty ass apartment building on the edge of town.” Arrows shuts the laptop and waits for my response.
“Let’s go check it out.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BRYDGETT
“Mom, where are we going?” Judge asks as we walk the block to our apartment. I had Dillon drop us off a few blocks away from home, so nothing would directly lead back to us. My identity here isn’t airtight—just enough to get by. I didn’t plan on needing anything more secure. But I know with a little digging, they’ll link that GTO back to Ike and, inevitably, to this apartment.
Which is fine. By the time they figure it out, we’ll be long gone. Ike’s house isn’t even in his name. It’s in his wife’s—a wife who, to anyone else, doesn’t exist. They’re married in name only; some backyard ceremony in Belize, where they dedicated themselves to each other in front of a few drunks. But nothing official. And it’s good that it’s that way, because while Ike thinks he’s clever, his real name is Irving—a detail he doesn’t know I’m aware of.
“We’re going home to grab a few things and then heading to Ike’s,” I answer, keeping my cool for Judge’s sake.
He furrows his little brow and looks up at me, his eyes wide. “Okay. But… won’t it hurt you to be far away from your Kismets?”
The mention of them makes my stomach twist, but I keep my face neutral. “No, baby. It would if we were bonded, but we’re not.”
He’s too young to know about things like that. Too young to carry that kind of worry. But Judge has always been wiser than his years—watching, listening, piecing things together long before he should.
My heart clenches a little. I don’t let him see it, but Judge can tell I’m not telling him the whole truth. I feel his small hand tighten in mine, seeking some kind of reassurance. I want to give it to him, but I can’t afford to slip, not now.
We reach our building, but instead of going inside, I steer Judge down the alley beside it. We’re looking for Marcus. He doesn’t stray far from here, so he should be close.
“Marcus?” I call softly as we move further into the alley.
A figure steps out from the shadows between the buildings, his face lighting up when he sees Judge. “What’s up, Brydge?” Marcus asks, friendly but curious.
“I need a favor,” I say without hesitation. “But you can’t ask any questions.”
His face hardens for a second, his smile fading into a look of concern. “Anything. Just name it.”
“I need you to go up to Georgia’s and tell her the pretzels are burning. She’ll know what it means. And Marcus… don’t stop for anyone. Don’t talk to anyone. And you didn’t see us. Got it?”
His eyes narrow, and I can tell he’s about to ask something, but he catches himself and nods. “Yeah, okay. I got you.”
Without another word, Marcus jogs off, disappearing around the corner.
Judge and I tuck ourselves into the far end of the alley, hidden from view. I press my back against the cool brick wall, my heartbeat steady but rising. It’s quiet, except for the faint rustling of garbage nearby. I hold Judge’s hand tighter and run my thumb over his knuckles.
Minutes pass, but it feels like hours. My nerves are buzzing, but I keep it all contained. I glance down at Judge. He’s watching me closely, his eyes reflecting the tension I’m trying to hide.
Just as I start to consider going inside to check on Marcus, he emerges from the shadows again, a duffel bag and a backpack slung over his shoulders. Relief washes over me for a brief second, but then the unmistakable roar of motorcycles shatters the silence.
My stomach flips. They found me.
I pull Judge close, my pulse racing. My body betrays me as heat pools low in my belly at the sound of the engines. Even now, even after everything, the pull of my Kismets sends a jolt of desire through me. My traitorous body wants them, craves them.
But I shove the feeling down.
