Page 107 of My Unhinged Alphas
And then it’s over.
He barely catches his breath before he’s reaching for his phone on the nightstand.
I’m still warm, still shaky, still half sprawled across the motel sheets, watching him sit up with that same hard, closed-off look settling back over his face like it was never gone. He checks the screen, mutters, “Should’ve handled business first,” and just like that, whatever was between us a minute ago gets shoved aside.
My chest tightens.
He’s already swinging his legs off the bed, already dialing, already somewhere else in his head.
I pull the sheet over myself and say nothing while he starts talking in a low voice, all clipped words and control, like he didn’t just have his mouth on me, like he didn’t just fuck me into the mattress hard enough to leave me trembling. He walks a few steps away as he talks, pacing toward the window, giving me his back.
That part stings more than it should.
Not because I expected softness from Knox. Not because I thought he’d suddenly turn into someone else. But because for a few stupid seconds, lying under him, I forgot. I forgot what kind of man he is. What comes first for him. What always will.
Business. The job. Whatever mess is waiting outside this motel room.
Not me.
I watch the broad line of his back, the tension in his shoulders, the way his voice stays calm and steady for whoever’s on the other end of the call. No trace of what just happened. No trace of me. And the whole thing lands wrong inside me, flat and hollow and a little humiliating.
The room feels colder now. Cheap again. Real again.
I turn my face toward the wall and stare at the stained wallpaper, suddenly aware of the ache between my thighs, the sweat cooling on my skin, the silence where something should have been. Maybe a glance. A hand. Something.
Instead, I get the sound of Knox talking quietly into his phone while I lie there feeling ridiculous for wanting more than what he was ever offering.
By the time he turns back, I’ve already started putting the distance back where it belongs.
Chapter 17
Vale
The club is built underground,all black walls and low ceilings, the bass punching through the floor like a second heartbeat. Red light bleeds over everything, turning skin slick and strange, making people look meaner or prettier depending on where they stand. The air smells like liquor, sweat, and something chemical under it all, sharp enough to sit at the back of my throat. Bodies move everywhere, packed tight near the dance floor, looser around the edges where the real business happens, where people talk too close and exchange things with their palms half-hidden.
We spot him behind the bar.
He’s not hard to find once you know what you’re looking for. Tall. Lean. Dark shirt rolled to the elbows. Hands too steady for a man working a Saturday-night crowd this deep into the hour. He moves fast, but never rushed. Never sloppy. Pouring, collecting cash, sliding glasses down polished black wood, and all the while his eyes keep lifting, scanning the room in pieces. Entrance. Back corridor. VIP stairs. Exit by the bathrooms. Me. Havoc.
His mouth flattens when he sees us. He’s definitely not happy we’re here.
His name is Gabriel Voss now, or that’s what he’s using. I doubt it’s the name he was born with. In the Brotherhood, names are just coats. You wear one until it gets dirty enough to throw away. Havoc is the oldest of the three of us, and Voss older than him by maybe ten years. Quiet reputation. Never rose high because men like him don’t need rank to be feared. Everybody knows what he is anyway.
In the Brotherhood, Shepherds clean up what everyone else leaves behind. Bodies. Witnesses. Mistakes. They make messes disappear. They make people disappear too. They’re the ones called when something goes wrong and nobody wants to hear about it again.
I knew him before I knew what he was.
Not well. Not personally. But enough.
I saw him twice when I was younger, back when my father was still alive and our house still had people coming and going at all hours. He was never there long. Never sat. Never drank. Always standing near a doorway like he was already on his way to the next mess. Once, when I was maybe fifteen, I came downstairs for water and saw blood on his cuff. He noticed me looking and covered it with his other hand.
A blonde in silver cuts in front of us before we reach the bar, smiling right at Havoc. “Buy me a drink?”
Normally that would be all it takes. Havoc has never been hard to distract with a pretty face and an open invitation. He smiles at her, warm and easy, then steps around her without touching her. “Maybe later.”
She looks annoyed. I look at him.
Another girl catches his arm two seconds later, pressing in close like she already knows what kind of man he is. He gives her the same smile, peels her hand off, keeps walking.
