Page 101 of My Unhinged Alphas
“In the shoulder.”
“I shot him!”
“Yes,” he says, like we’re calmly reviewing a test result instead of standing in a dark alley with men trying to kill us. “Very good shoulder placement, actually.”
I stare at him. “Are you insane?”
“Frequently.”
Behind us, more voices. More footsteps.
Knox steps in, takes the gun from my hands with quick, careful fingers, and for one second his hand closes over mine. “Run,” he says.
We don’t stop running until we hit the street.
By then my lungs are on fire, my legs feel half-numb, and the whole world still seems too bright and too fast, like the shot is echoing inside my bones. Knox yanks open the passenger-side door of a dark car parked under a dead streetlamp and practically shoves me in.
“Seat belt.”
I stare at him. “That’s your priority?”
“Yes.”
I fumble for it with shaking hands while he gets in, starts the engine, and pulls away hard enough to throw me back against the seat. He doesn’t speed in the obvious way, not weaving or peeling out like in a movie. He drives like someone who knows exactly how not to look panicked while absolutely being panicked.
Or maybe not panicked. Focused.
Which, somehow, is scarier.
I sit there trying to breathe normally and failing. My whole body feels wrong. Too light. Too alive. My hands still remember the weight of the gun.
“I shot someone,” I say.
Knox glances at me, then back at the road. “You did.”
“I really shot someone.”
“You did.”
“That’s your whole response?”
He turns a corner, checks the mirror, then another mirror, then the dark road behind us. “Do you want a certificate?”
Despite everything, a laugh bursts out of me. It sounds a little unhinged.
He looks at me again. “Good. Stay loud. Means you’re not in shock yet.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Not trying to reassure you.”
He drives for a long time without seeming to drive anywhere. Left turns, right turns, doubling back, slowing at lights, taking side roads that get progressively emptier and uglier. I start to realize what he’s doing.
“You’re checking if we’re being followed.”
“Yes.”
“That means this happens to you enough that you have a routine.”
