Page 61 of Unhinged
“Church. Now!” I shout, commanding attention.
Without a word of complaint, everyone starts moving, heading toward the meeting room like soldiers called to attention. No one dares to show dissatisfaction—not unless they want to risk us docking their dues.
I take my seat at the head table, Arrow and Acid on either side of me, watching as the brothers file in. I bang the gavel on the tabletop—hard enough to make the room fall silent.
“I called church to share some information,” I say, standing up and addressing the room. “The new woman you’re gonna see around here is Brydgett. She’s ours.” I motion to Arrow, Acid, and myself. “Our Ol’ Lady. She doesn’t know it yet, but she will be. She’s our Kismet, and we expect you to act accordingly. Do you understand?”
A chorus of "Yes, Prez," echoes through the room.
“Now,” I continue, “Acid is gonna send a picture of a man to all of you. His name is Earl. He is not to be anywhere near Brydgett or the kid. Not even welcome in our town. I want to know if you see him. Do not interact. Follow and report back to me. Heard?”
“Heard,” they reply in unison.
We move on to other business—drug shipments, dealers, the usual. But then Suave pipes up.
“Have we found anything out on the Alpha Slayer?”
The question hangs in the air like a weight. I hate lying to my brothers, but I can’t tell them the truth—not yet.
“We have a lead,” I say, keeping my tone calm. “We’re close.”
A round of nods passes through the room, and then I adjourn church.
I head straight to my room, my thoughts racing faster than I can process them. The moment I step under the hot water in the shower, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I scrub my skin like I can wash away the feel of the basement, the sickening truth of what my omega has been through.
No wonder she’s hesitant to have alphas around her. No wonder she ran.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ARROW
Yesterday, we watched as Brydgett told Acid to murder someone, and today I wake up in my room at the clubhouse to the smell of coffee and bacon. The sheets are tangled around my legs, and the mattress still holds the warmth from the cocoon I wrapped myself in. The faint sound of laughter drifts from down the hall, mingling with the hum of conversation.
I stretch, rubbing the sleep from my eyes before pushing myself up. Sunlight seeps through the cracks in the blackout curtains, casting a dull glow across the room. Grabbing a shirt from the chair, I tug it over my head and make my way toward the door, my bare feet padding against the hardwood floor.
The hallway’s lined with old club photos and worn patches, a history I know like the back of my hand. My fingers brush over a frame or two as I pass, but my focus is ahead—toward the smell of breakfast and whatever sarcastic remark Brydgett has locked and loaded for me this morning.
Rounding the corner into the kitchen, I find her lounging at the table, one leg tucked under her, coffee in hand. She's wearingone of my old shirts, practically swallowed by it, with her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. Keg’s at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping bacon like it’s a damn art form. A plate stacked with pancakes sits beside him, and the coffee pot looks half-drained already.
"Look who finally decided to join the land of the living," Brydgett drawls, her lips curling into a grin.
"Morning to you too," I say, grabbing a mug and pouring myself some coffee. It’s strong and bitter—just how I like it.
Keg turns around and smirks. "Hope you’re hungry. Judge already cleared half the pancakes."
"Kid’s got an appetite," I reply, taking a sip. The warmth spreads through me, a comfort I didn’t realize I needed. “Keg, how did you end up cooking breakfast?”
Brydgett snorts. "I started cooking, but then he came in and said something about no Ol’ Lady of the Prez, VP, and Enforcer should cook her own breakfast. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would ya? Last I checked, I’m no one's Ol’ Lady."
I shrug. "Just doing what’s right. You’ve been through enough. Let us take care of you."
Brydgett rolls her eyes, but there’s a softness in the way she sips her coffee. She won’t admit it, but she doesn’t hate the gesture.
"So, what’s the plan today?" I ask, settling into the chair across from her. The wood creaks beneath me, worn from years of use.
"Surviving." The corners of her mouth twitch like she’s fighting a smirk. "Maybe see if I can get through a meal without one of you guys hovering like I’m made of glass."
“Good luck with that," Keg chimes in. "Arrow’s got that mother hen routine down pat."
