Page 6 of Claimed By the Psychos
"Where are we going next?" Her breath is warm against my neck. "Somewhere with a beach? I miss the ocean."
"Back to the safehouse." I calculate the drive time in my head. Six hours if we push it. Seven if we stop for food. "Your heat's coming."
She pulls back to stare at me. "Really?"
"Three days, maybe four." I've been tracking her cycles for years now. Down to a science. "You're already running warmer than usual."
"That's so creepy." She grins. "And romantic. You're like a really fucked up calendar with abs."
I roll my eyes, but don't argue. It's not just romance, it's necessity. I can't knot her properly, can't give her what her biology demands. So I compensate. Track her cycles. Stock supplies. Plan ahead.
The elevator descends, and I catalog what we'll need. Toys. Medications. Food she'll actually eat when she's deep in heat. The safehouse is already stocked, but I'll need to check expiration dates. Nothing I can't replace with a quick trip around the corner.
"Hey." Juniper's finger runs down my chest. "You okay? You've got your thinking face on."
"I'm calculating logistics."
"Sexy." She stretches up to press a kiss to my jaw. "I love when you go all murder-robot on me."
I'm not a robot. That's too generous. Robots probably have a wider emotional range than I do, minus the bottomless pit of rage that only one person in this world ever seems to quell. Robots don't wake up in cold sweats thinking about all the ways the world could take her from me.
I'm not sure I'd call it love. I don’t think I'm capable of that, so I guess that's one way the comparison is appropriate. But obsession and codependency are decent substitutes, or so I tell myself.
The elevator dings, and we step out into the parking garage. Our car waits in the shadows, anonymous and forgettable like all the best getaway vehicles. I do a visual sweep of the space. No cameras, no witnesses, no problems.
"Dibs on the radio," Juniper calls, already heading for the passenger side.
"No death metal before sunrise," I tell her. "That's the rule."
"You're no fun." But she's smiling as she says it, that real smile that crinkles her eyes and makes her look so innocent.
And she is, in a sense. That's the one thing the demon we both escaped couldn't take from her. Not completely. Me? I never had it to begin with. The closest thing I have is the all-consuming need to protect what's left of hers at all costs.
I slide behind the wheel and start the engine. In three days, she'll be burning up with need, begging for things I can't give her. But I'll try anyway. I always do.
Because that's what you do for the person who makes your dead heart remember how to beat.
Even if it's just necessity.
Even if it's not love.
Even if I'm lying to myself with every breath thinking it could ever be enough.
Chapter
Three
ARCHER
The Blackhawk's rotors slice through mountain air so thin it makes my lungs work for every breath. My hands move over the controls with muscle memory earned through too many missions in too many shitholes, but this bird handles different than the military issue ones. Smoother. Quieter. Amazing what money can buy when you're not bound by government contracts and bureaucratic bullshit.
"Five minutes to drop," I announce through the comms, banking left to follow the ridge line. The moon's just a sliver tonight, perfect for what we're about to do. Below us, the compound squats like a cancer in the valley—concrete walls, razor wire, and enough armed guards to make it clear they're not running a fucking summer camp down there.
My jaw clenches as I think about what's happening behind those walls. What's been happening for God knows how long while the world looked the other way. The familiar burn of rage ignites in my chest, but I breathe through it. Can't afford to lose control. Not when there are innocents counting on us.
"Copy that, Viper." Bane's voice crackles through my headset, using my callsign like we're still playing soldier. Old habits die hard, I guess. "Team's prepped and ready."
I glance back at my cargo. Three alphas who've become the closest thing to family I've got left, each one a weapon in their own right. They're checking gear, faces still uncovered for these last few minutes before we become ghosts.
