Page 17 of My Unhinged Alphas
I try to sit up straighter. “Yes,” I say, except it comes out slower than I mean it to.
The lights above us stretch faintly. The candle flame wavers. My limbs feel distant.
This isn’t wine. This is something else.
I push my chair back, meaning to stand. It takes more effort than it should.
“What did you—” I try again, but the words smear.
His hand comes around the back of my chair, steadying it. “Easy,” he murmurs.
The word sounds like reassurance, but it isn’t.
My phone slips from my fingers and lands somewhere near my feet. I try to reach for it, but my arm doesn’t respond properly.
The harbor lights blur completely.
The last thing I register is Ethan leaning closer, his voice near my ear. “You really should not have trusted me.”
Then everything goes dark.
Chapter 2
Havoc
The guy spitsa tooth onto the concrete. It skids across the floor and lands near my boot.
I grin. “That one looked expensive,” I tell him.
He tries to lunge at me again, which I respect. It’s stupid, but I respect it. His right eye is already swelling shut. Blood runs from his nose in a steady drip that matches the rhythm of the music thumping through the warehouse speakers.
This isn’t the mission. This is warm-up.
He swings. I step inside it and drive my fist into his ribs. Something cracks. He wheezes. I like that sound. It means I hit correctly.
Around us, a loose circle of men watch. Some laugh. Some place bets. A few look bored.
I’m not bored.
“You done?” I ask pleasantly.
He spits blood at me. I take that as a no.
I grab him by the collar and slam him against a stack of wooden pallets. The impact echoes. He slides down halfway before I catch him and haul him back up again.
“You talk too much,” he slurs.
“I haven’t even started,” I say.
I hit him again. Controlled. Precise. Not trying to kill him. Just reminding him that I could.
His knees buckle, and I let him drop this time. He lands hard and curls inward like that might help.
I step back and roll my shoulders, feeling the stretch of old scars under my shirt. My knuckles sting. I flex them once.
“Still breathing,” someone calls out from the side.
“See?” I say, flexing my hand as the man coughs blood onto the concrete. “I show restraint.”
