Page 99 of Claimed By the Psychos
I scoff, but there's something about his straightforward approach that I appreciate. No manipulation, no guilt trips, just acknowledgment of reality.
"She loves you," he says quietly. "Not just as a friend or partner. She's in love with you."
"I know." The admission tastes like glass. "That's why I have to go. She deserves better than being tied to someone like me."
"Someone like you?" he asks, frowning.
"Someone whose soul died years ago," I answer. "Someone who doesn't know how to live for anything but revenge."
He sighs. "Even if that's true, she deserves to make that choice herself."
Before I can respond, there's commotion near the bar. Some alpha, thick-necked and drunk, has his hands on one of the dancers despite her obvious attempts to pull away. She's young, probably barely twenty, with the kind of exhausted eyes that say this isn't her first time dealing with this shit.
"That sounds like our guy," Bane mutters, already standing.
The gangster—because that's obviously what he is, battered leather jacket and plentiful tattoos compensating for a complete lack of actual power—doesn't notice us approaching until Bane's hand lands on his shoulder.
"Think the lady said no," Bane says conversationally.
The guy spins, ready to start something, then freezes when he realizes he's looking up at a mountain. "This ain't your business, asshole."
"I'm making it my business." Bane's smile is all teeth. "You want to discuss it outside?"
The gangster's too drunk and too stupid to recognize death when it's grinning at him. He swings, a sloppy haymaker that Bane dodges easily before driving a fist into his solar plexus. The guy doubles over, gasping, and Bane grabs him by the collar, dragging him toward the back exit.
I follow, adrenaline singing in my veins. The alley behind the bar is perfect, a dark, narrow, already stinking of violence. Bane throws the guy against the wall hard enough to rattle teeth.
"You know what I hate?" Bane asks conversationally, landing a punch that splits the guy's lip. "Alphas who think their designation gives them the right to take whatever they want."
The douchebag tries to fight back, pulling a knife that Bane disarms with embarrassing ease. I watch him work with what I tell myself is professional interest, observing his technique, the way his huge shoulders roll with each punch.
When the guy manages to get his hands back on his knife and lunges at Bane with it, I step in then, three quick strikes to pressure points that drop him to his knees.
"Please," he gasps, "I got money, I got?—"
"We don't want your money," I tell him, and there's something liberating about not pretending to be anything other than what I am—a killer who's found someone who deserves killing.
I grab his throat, squeezing just enough to make him panic. All the frustration, all the rage I've been carrying, focuses down to this single point. This piece of shit who hurts omegas, who takes advantage of the vulnerable, who's probably done worse things than we've even discovered.
My fist connects with his face once, twice, three times. Blood spatters the alley wall, and each impact feels like releasing pressure from a valve that's been cranked too tight. He's begging now, blubbering through broken teeth, but I'm not really hearing him. I'm hearing every omega who's ever been cornered, ever been drugged, ever been treated like property instead of a person.
"Felix."
Bane's voice cuts through the haze, and I realize I've pulled my knife. The gangster's barely conscious, blood bubbling from his nose with each wheeze.
"Seriously?" I snap, thinking he's about to give me some speech about justice or mercy or whatever bullshit alphas tell themselves to feel superior.
But instead, he says, "Zip up your jacket. You'll get blood on your shirt."
I blink at him, then actually laugh. Dark, sharp, but genuine. "You're a practical man."
"I try to be."
I zip the jacket, then turn back to the gangster. One quick motion, the blade sliding between ribs to find his heart. He dies with a gurgle, eyes going wide then empty, and something in my chest that's been wound too tight finally loosens.
"Feel better?" Bane asks, already pulling out a burner phone to text someone. Probably a cleanup crew, because of course they have one.
I consider the question seriously. The body cooling at my feet, the blood on my hands, the simple satisfaction of removing one more piece of shit from the world who won't be spiking anyone's drink tonight. "Yeah. I kind of do."
