Page 62 of Altius
The ugly, violent streak I tried so hard to keep hidden threatened to boil over. Every choice had its appeal.
Did I ease into my rampage with the hockey stick, or should I grab the sledgehammer and go out in a blaze of glory?
“I don’t know where to start,” I said, looking at Joaquin.
He stood in the corner, wearing the same protective gear, but had no intention of participating, other than supplying a bass-heavy playlist full of sinuous guitar riffs and pounding drums.
“Go with your gut.”
Destruction. Irreparable harm. Smithereens. That’s what I wanted.
The crowbar felt amazing as it swung through the air, destroying three dinner plates on a plinth. Another swing and a pair of ugly purple water goblets exploded.
I turned to Joaquin, smiling despite myself, shoulders trembling as I tried not to betray the bloodthirsty euphoria welling inside me.
“How’s it feel?” he asked, dark eyes gleaming behind his face mask.
A laugh burst out. “Spectacular.”
“Then keep going.”
I nodded—and unleashed hell.
One strike for stupidly approaching Owen.
Another for worrying Alijah.
For distracting Cal while his grandfather was in critical condition.
Causing Wyatt to be unstable in the middle of a workday.
Making Joaquin skip out on ballet business to cater to my temper.
Another swing for my aching head, another for my sore back, for the shitty sleep I’d gotten the night before, my spotty memory, and my ruined dreams…
Shards of glass filled the air.
Switching to the sledgehammer, I smashed the screen of a boxy old television. That was for letting my omega take control and getting my hopes up.
A second swing caved in the TV’s left side. That was for losing sight of what was most important.
The right side had to pay for my sins, too. For viewing my heat as anything other than a means to an end.
One more swing cratered the top of the case.
A painful reminder that no matter how compatible our scents might be, I still couldn’t smell any of the men I’d invited to my heat.
I didn’t know Pack Redmond that well. Couldn’t fully trust them. Or myself, I realized as I watched Joaquin carry a second crate of breakable objects into the room.
Because standing there—chest heaving, holding a sledgehammer, drenched in the sweat of satisfaction—all I wanted was to sink my fingers into his beard and kiss the smirk off his face.
Fifteen
Joaquin
“How did you find this place?” Morgan asked, cheeks flushed and smiling softly, all but floating back to the truck, more relaxed than I’d ever seen her.
“Been coming here for years. I used to carpool with theatre friends during hell week, but now it’s just me.”
