Page 81 of Unhinged
We head out. I get back on Arrow’s bike, and this time, instead of holding on, I stretch my arms out wide like I’m flying. Like in the damnTitanic.
Just for a moment, I let myself feel free.
Tomorrow, it's mommy and son day. Just me and Judge. No deals. No blades. No blood. Just my boy. Because ever since I woke up, it feels like he’s been with Dillon and Bettie—and yeah, I’m jealous. I miss him.
I miss us.
The world can burn down around me. But tomorrow? Tomorrow, I’m just his mom.
And no one gets between me and my boy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
BRYDGETT
I tug the zipper up on my hoodie and pause in front of the mirror. It’s the only clean one I could find that doesn’t smell like black currant, patchouli, and sandalwood—that distinct blend of all three of the alphas. Not that I mind their scents—they're familiar, grounding even—but not when I’m trying to feel like my own person and not the omega on probation with three growly alphas.
I swipe on some lip balm, mostly for show. No one's gonna be kissing me today.
Well.
Maybe Judge.
I grin at my reflection, tug my hair into a messy ponytail, and call, "Judge! Let’s roll, baby!"
The sound of feet slapping against the old wooden floor makes me smile. He comes barreling around the corner with a sock halfway on and his hair still wet from his rushed shower.
"Can I bring my sketchpad for the ride there?" he pants.
"Sure. But only in the car."
"Cool," he says, and disappears to grab it anyway.
My phone buzzes. Acid. Just a single word:Outside.
I take a deep breath and grab my purse. I’m not sure how I feel about him being here. We argued half the night. Or maybe just… debated in that low, clipped tone alphas use when they’re trying not to scare you but still want you to know they’re serious business.
Whatever it was, I lost. He’s coming. He said Gears didn’t trust me not to throw myself into another dangerous barter situation, and Arrow muttered something about “omega instincts not being excuses for idiocy.” Fair.
Still. This was supposed to be a me and Judge day. Mommy and son. I clutch the strap of my purse a little tighter.
"Ready!" Judge yells, popping up beside me like a little kangaroo in his hoodie and Converse.
We step out into the morning light and there he is—Acid—leaning on the hood of a rebuilt Nova like he owns the world and just lets us live in it. Ink crawls down his forearms like flames. Aviators. Black tee stretched over a chest that should not be allowed in daylight.
I feel the flutter in my chest and immediately want to swat it away.
"Hey, kid," Acid says, ruffling Judge’s hair.
"Hi, Mr. Acid."
He chuckles. "Still with the ‘Mr.’ huh?"
"It’s respectful." Judge shrugs, hopping into the backseat.
I was on blockers for so long I sometimes forget I’m not immune to the whole… alpha thing anymore. But my skin buzzes when his fingers brush the gear shift, and my scent flares on instinct—too fast, too raw. I haven’t had a blocker since the wreck, and my body’s still relearning how to behave without them.
Down, girl.
