Page 111 of My Unhinged Alphas
Neither of them looks away.
“I’m done here,” the Shepherd says. He leaves us with that, already walking back toward the club floor like the conversation is over because he decided it is. “I don’t have the information you want,” he says without turning around.
Then he’s gone, swallowed by bass and flashing light and the blur of bodies moving around the bar.
I watch after him for a second longer than I should.
He didn’t look rattled. Not exactly. Men like him don’t rattle easy. But he was hiding something. I know it. I felt it in every pause, every answer that wasn’t one, every time his face went flat a second too late.
“He knows who Lena is,” I say.
Beside me, Havoc lets out a quiet breath. “You think?”
I glance at him. He’s leaning against the concrete wall like none of this matters, but I know him better than that. His eyes are sharp. Annoyed. Interested.
I nod once. “There was recognition on his face.”
Havoc says nothing.
“We didn’t give him more than her first name,” I go on. “Not a last name. Not a detail. Nothing he should’ve been able to use.” I look toward the open door, toward the slice of red light cutting into the hallway. “And still he reacted.”
Havoc’s jaw shifts slightly. “Yeah.”
“The name means something to him.”
I start to say more, but my phone buzzes in my pocket. The sound cuts through the leftover noise from the club. I pull it out, already irritated, then see Knox’s name on the screen.
Havoc watches me answer.
I put the phone to my ear. “What?”
Knox doesn’t waste time. His voice is clipped, tight in a way that makes my spine straighten before he’s even finished speaking.
By the time the call ends, the hallway feels smaller.
Havoc pushes off the wall. “What happened?”
I slide the phone into my pocket and look once toward the club floor, toward the bar where the Shepherd disappeared.
“We’ll deal with him later,” I say. “We have to go.”
* * *
Knox is waiting outside the motel room when we pull in. Leaning against the railing on the second-floor walkway, arms folded, face unreadable.
The motel itself looks worse up close. Faded paint. Cigarette burns on the metal rail. One flickering yellow light near the ice machine. The whole place smells like old rain, bleach, and cheap carpet that never really dries.
Havoc gets out first and slams the car door. “How did you even get her here?” he asks as we head up the stairs.
“Yeah,” I say, my tone dry. “You were supposed to stay back and do research.”
Knox doesn’t move from the railing. Doesn’t answer either. He just looks at both of us like we’re already wasting his time. “Are you done?” he says.
That shuts it down for a second. Not because either of us is actually done, but because Knox has that look on his face. Flat. Controlled. Tired in a way that usually means he’s one sentence away from getting mean.
He pushes off the railing and walks to the door, unlocking it without another word.
We follow him in.
