Page 158 of My Unhinged Alphas
Light bursts across my vision. My grip loosens. The box drops from my arm and papers spill across the pavement. I hit the ground hard, knee first, then shoulder, and before I can get my bearings another blow lands.
Boots move around me. More than one person.
I try to push up and get kicked in the ribs so hard my breath disappears. Another strike to the back of my head. My hands slide on the pavement. My body won’t answer fast enough.
I can’t get a clear look at anyone. Just dark shapes moving in and out of the weak morning light. Legs. Coats. Motion. The taste of blood filling my mouth.
Someone says something above me, but the ringing in my ears swallows most of it.
Then that voice again, closer this time. Familiar enough to hollow me out.
I try to lift my head, but a hand catches my jaw and drives it back into the ground. Pain tears through me as another hit follows, and then another.
I stop trying to count.
The world shrinks to impact, concrete, blood, and the ugly realization that I should have anticipated this.
The papers are everywhere now, skidding over the pavement, gathering at the curb. One photograph lands face-up in a shallow puddle. Blonde hair. A child’s face.
I reach for it.
A boot comes down on my wrist.
Something gives.
The sound barely reaches me. My sight is going at the edges now, the morning dimming into blur. I hear the duffel being pulled away. Footsteps shifting. The rush of blood in my ears getting louder. I try once more to get up.
The last blow catches me high and hard. Everything drops away.
Then nothing.
Chapter 25
Knox
I drive.
Mostly because I don’t trust Havoc to keep his mouth shut and his speed reasonable at the same time, and because Vale is gone and I don’t want Lena in the passenger seat while I’m trying to think around that.
The city is sliding toward evening now, all gray light and damp roads and people heading home to lives that still make sense. Havoc is in the front beside me, one elbow on the window ledge, too loose for my liking. Lena is in the back seat.
I can feel her there even when I’m not looking at the mirror. Too quiet at first. Then not quiet enough.
She says, “So is this what it’s going to be?”
I keep my eyes on the road. “What?”
“Me sitting in the back of a car with two men who keep half answering everything.”
Havoc grins. “That depends. You planning to be difficult?”
“I think I’ve earned difficult.”
The silence after that isn’t bad. Just strained. The kind that still has room for questions.
“You called yourself Saints, so I’m assuming that means that you’re the hitmen.”
“I don’t like that word,” Havoc says.
