Page 22 of Claimed By the Psychos
The silver-haired one appears from behind his cover, moving with that carefulness I noticed earlier. His hands are steady, his breathing controlled. This one's dangerous in a different way than the mountain. Where the big one is raw power, this one is measured violence.
He fires twice. The first bullet catches me in the right thigh, a white-hot line of agony that sends me stumbling. The second punches through my left arm, spinning me around as muscle and bone protest in languages I don't want to understand.
Fuck.
Blood runs down my leg, soaks through my expensive suit jacket. The arm's still functional, but it's going to be a problem. I can already feel the weakness creeping in, the way injured muscle tries to protect itself by shutting down.
Can't afford weakness. Not with Juniper depending on me.
I return fire, three quick shots that force the silver-haired alpha back into cover. The brown-haired one tries to flank me again, but I catch him with a wild swing that connects with his temple. He staggers, shakes his head like he's trying to clear it.
That's when Juniper comes through the door like an avenging angel in pink silk.
The brown-haired alpha turns toward the sound, and she's on him before he can react. The syringe appears in her hand like magic, slides into his neck with ease. He has just enough time to look surprised before his eyes roll back and he hits the floor like a sack of expensive meat.
Alphas always underestimate her. And usually, it costs them their lives.
"Miss me?" she asks, grinning at me over his unconscious form.
Two down, two to go.
The big alpha and the silver-haired one exchange a look, some kind of silent communication that speaks to years ofpartnership. They're regrouping, reassessing. Means they're taking us seriously now, which is dangerous.
"You shouldn't be involved in this," the silver-haired one says, his voice calm despite the blood running from a cut on his cheek. He's talking to Juniper, trying to play the hero without moving his aim away from me. "Any alpha who'd let his omega fight for him isn't worth protecting."
She rolls her eyes so hardmyhead hurts.
"Rescue yourself, knothead," Juniper replies sweetly, producing one of her ceramic knives from somewhere in that skimpy little dress. The blade gleams in the dim light, sharp enough to split an atom.
The big alpha raises his hands, like he's trying to calm a spooked animal. "We're here to help you," he growls before shooting a withering glare at me. "We know what he is, what he does to people like you."
People like her. If only he knew.
Juniper laughs, the sound bright and terrible. "Mister, you've got no idea what I am."
She lunges at him with that chaotic intensity that makes her so hard to predict. The knife flicks out, opens a line across his forearm that blooms red against his shirt. He jerks back, clearly not expecting her to actually attack him let alone with such skill.
While Juniper has the other alpha occupied and utterly bewildered, the silver-haired alpha and I circle each other like predators, each looking for an opening. He's favoring his left side since one of my shots clipped him on the right, but his gun hand is steady. Professional to the core.
"Who hired you?" he asks, voice conversational despite the circumstances. "It's clear you're not really who you say you are."
"Finally figured it out, Sherlock?" I taunt.
He smirks, striking out at me with a wide kick that almost lands. Martial arts training and marksmanship. A well-rounded bunch. "That doesn't answer my question."
I dodge a swing, land a blow to his ribs that makes him grunt. "Isn't it obvious?" I ask smoothly, following the strike up with an uppercut aimed at his jaw. People who are willing to pay an absurd amount of money to have you dead."
He scoffs, blocks my next attack with his forearm. "That narrows it down to about half the criminal underworld."
"Popularity's a bitch."
Behind us, Juniper has somehow gotten herself onto the chandelier, hanging from the crystal fixture like a demented gymnast. The big alpha stares up at her in bewilderment, clearly not sure how to handle an omega who fights like a feral cat.
"Who are you?" the silver-haired alpha asks, landing a punch to my injured shoulder that sends lightning down my arm.
I consider the question as we grapple, as Juniper swipes at the big alpha from above, hanging upside down from the chandelier with her knees draped around one of the lamp arms. These aren't random targets. They work together too well, trust each other too much. They're a team. Professionals with a cause.
"Operators," I say finally, breaking his hold and stepping back. "Just like you, minus the savior complex."
